ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are 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. Back in the golden age of radio, there was a program similar to the Outer Limits or the Twilight Zone. It was called Quiet, Please, and a weirdo listener asked if I would ever consider narrating one of the stories from that radio show. The actual episodes are extremely difficult to listen to nowadays due to the poor quality of the old recordings, but I was able to find a few short stories that were adapted from episodes of the series. Tonight I'll be sharing a story from Quiet, Please called The Room Where the Stars Live. Later a story from the Creepypasta.com website. One of their readers, J.M. Sonamo, submitted a story that got some great ratings, so I've decided to share it with you. It's called Simply The Trunk. Another weirdo family member suggested a story for this episode, a great short story by Ray Nelson called Eight O'Clock in the Morning. It's actually the story that the movie They Live starring Roddy Piper directed by John Carpenter is based upon, a cult favorite. And you know the original books and stories are almost always better than the movies, right? But first, it's a short novella from Riley Vanderlip titled Wonderland. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise to visit sponsors you hear about during the show, sign up for my newsletter and our contests. Connect with me on social media. Listen to my other podcasts like Retro Radio, Old Time Radio in the Dark, Church of the Undead and a classic 1950s sci-fi style podcast called Auditory Anthology. Listen to free audiobooks I've narrated. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, dark thoughts or addiction. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com.  Out in the dives lies a place that does not exist, at least not all of the time. It is a place with promises of euphoria and hedonistic pleasures, capable of allowing you to live through your wildest dreams and fantasies, free from the mundane and depressing constraints of reality. They call this place the Wonderland.  At the time of writing this, I'm 60 years old, and since my time as an adventurous teenager, I've managed to put an ocean between me and Rose Creek, and I plan on living the rest of my life out in peaceful seclusion. I will likely die alone. Things weren't always like this. I had high aspirations as a young kid, and never would have imagined I'd purposefully be living alone until the end of my days. But something happened to me when I was 18 years old that changed my life forever. In 1973, I visited the Wonderland, and I want to tell you my story. Perhaps when I'm gone, this story can be viewed as a sort of apology letter to my loved ones. Maybe some sort of justification for why I did the things I did. I know it won't be enough, but it's the full truth and nothing but the truth. It began when my grandfather, Gabriel Dubois, passed away, aged somewhere in his 90s. He was found alone in his home, and I remember much of my family didn't care.  I'd only really see him at family gatherings, and even then he'd make his visits brief, my mother never being hesitant to show him out the door. I remember often asking my mother why we couldn't see grandpa more often, to which she always gave me the same answer. He's not part of the family. As I grew older, I understood more. I realized that he was a pretty bad father to my mother, almost non-existent in her life. I could understand why my mother would have held it against him. Growing up without a parental figure would be tough.  Nothing less, nothing more. When I was fourteen, my mother died, giving birth to my brother Maxwell, and my father was left to care for the both of us. I remember Dubois didn't even show up to our funeral. However, when I did spend time with the man, I remember the stories he'd tell me. And no matter how distant and invisible he was in our life, he was so interesting to me. His stories ranged from recollections from his past to outright fantastical stories that he tried passing off as the truth. But there was always one story that he told more than once, one that lied somewhere in between reality and fantasy, the story of the Wonderland. He would tell me of a carnival that was hidden somewhere out deep in the forests of the dives, a place that only very few people had visited, a place so dangerous only few made it out alive to tell tales of it. He claimed to be one of them. I still remember how he described it to me, a place to fulfill your greatest desires, but indulge too long and risk disappearing forever. I never really knew what he meant, and as I grew older and more distant with Dubois, the memories of the stories he told me faded along with him. The thought of the Wonderland never crossed my mind again until 1973, the year my grandfather died. When Dubois died, he left very little behind. He didn't even write a will. He only had one request when he went to the grave, and I remember how surprised I was to find out it involved me. My grandfather wanted to entrust me with his old alarm clock. That was it. It was an ancient alarm clock too, barely even worked. It scratched and dented to hell and back, and the numbers on the clock were faded and hard to read. My father was convinced Dubois was just confused in his later years, and him entrusting me to his old alarm clock was some side effect of his dementia. But I remember feeling as if it meant more than that, and that entrusting me with this alarm clock was an elaborate and purposeful action made by my grandfather. I would later find out that I was right. The family was scheduled to meet at his house some weeks after his burial to clean the place out so it could be sold. While the rest of my family members scavenged around the lower floors, stuffing things into their pockets and throwing anything else in the trash, I decided to venture up to the third floor of the house where Dubois's bedroom was. I think I wanted to get to it before any of my family members ripped it apart to look for valuables. I poked around for a few minutes, slightly underwhelmed by my findings, until I accidentally knocked a painting off the wall. Behind it was a dark hole. Amused by this little secret hidey hole, I stuck my hand inside and felt the touch of something leathery. I pulled it out to find it was a book. Upon investigating inside of it, I discovered it was Dubois's journal and quickly closed it afterwards as it felt wrong to be snooping in my grandfather's personal life without his permission. I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom and I quickly slipped the journal into my pocket just in time to hide it from my father who had walked into the room. What are you doing up here, sport? He asked. Nothing, I mumbled, just cleaning the place out like everyone else. He seemed to quickly notice the hole in the wall, walking over to it and sticking his hand inside to suppress his curiosity to which he found nothing. There s nothing in there, I said. Already checked. Doesn t surprise me. It s just like that crazy old man to have random holes in his walls. If it were any bigger, I d assume he hid bodies in there. He joked. The truth is, I continued to read the journal after that day, despite feeling guilty about it. Days passed and I often cured my boredom by reading into my grandfather s life. The journal dated way back to when he was around my age, 18. It was so interesting reading about his untold past, seeing how he thought and acted on a day-to-day basis. He was like having a time machine. One thing I noticed was how different he was as a young adult. He seemed so much more sociable. He was nothing like the outcast he seemed to be as an old man. At least, the journal seemed to be pretty standard until I came across an entry called Wonderland. The memories instantly flooded back to me of Du Bois talking to me about this fabled place. I kept the journal. I still have it to this day, and translating from French, the entries went as follows. November 8, 1901 I ve heard those rumors of this Wonderland again. They say it appears as a carnival, emerging from seemingly nowhere, somewhere out in the dives. If the rituals performed correctly, that is. It s said to make your fantasies come true. Sounds insane, but I m intrigued. I ll follow up on this later if I can find more information. Initially scoffing as I read through the entries, I continued to turn the pages of Du Bois s journal with a sort of morbid curiosity, as the Wonderland seemed to take up his entire life. It was all he talked about for entry upon entry, never mentioning anything else but his determination to learn more about the rumored carnival. Some entries would talk about how he found more information about the Wonderland. Some would rant about how he felt stumped. Either way, I found this pure determination to chase some fairy tale fascinating. During the entire time, I never believed a word of it, but one of his entries stuck out, which intrigued me more than the others. April 17, 1902 I ve done it. After months of searching, I ve discovered how to find the Wonderland, although I feel as if it found me rather than the contrary. I don t know how to explain it, but all that matters now is that I m almost certain I ve uncovered the ritual. I ve contacted my two good friends to come with me to the Wonderland tonight. I believe they are just coming along to humor me, but they ll see. Surprisingly, that was Du Bois s last entry about the Wonderland. I turned the page in anticipation, expecting him to be recounting on what he found the next day, or to admit that the entire thing was just a rumor, but he didn t. His next entry wasn t even related to the Wonderland, just a recap of his day. I was confused, and I was extremely disappointed as Du Bois seemed to forget about the Wonderland altogether, leaving me on some wild cliffhanger by acting like nothing had ever happened. I d be lying if I said I wasn t slightly annoyed. I continued flipping through the pages, this time at a much faster pace and saw nothing but non-related entries, and as I read on, the entries got weirder. He would talk about how he doesn t get out much anymore, that he prefers the cold, and other weird phrases like that. Eventually, the entries got to a point where they didn t make any sense anymore.  It was like Du Bois s mind had completely melted by the end of the journal. He literally recounted his own mental decline, and it all seemed to stem from that entry on April 17, the day he claimed to have visited the Wonderland. Feeling completely cheated out of learning the conclusion of my grandfather s Wonderland tales, I put the journal down for a while, and didn t return to it for a few months. Little did I know that if I d only flipped a few more pages to make it to the end, I would have found the ritual instructions earlier. One day I picked the journal back up again for no particular reason, and casually flipped through the rest of it. Many of the pages near the end of the journal were blank, and I had assumed Du Bois just never finished the journal. But on the very last page, I found one last entry. I kicked myself for not finding it earlier, and it was that day I found my curiosity in the Wonderland reignited. The final entry read as follows. I never wanted to write these instructions down out of fear someone would find this journal someday. But I must confess, I m addicted to the Wonderland. Every time I vow to never return, I always seem to find myself back at its doors. I can t risk forgetting the ritual. I can t risk losing it. If you have somehow found my journal, do yourself a favor and close it here. Out in the dives lies a place that does not exist. Those foolish enough like myself to chase it need only to follow these instructions. In the forest, behind the abandoned gravel pit waits the Wonderland. Five minutes before midnight approaches, kneel down on the small hill that overlooks the rest of the forest. The next part is quite simple. Close your eyes and imagine three things. Something you re missing, something you desire, and something you wish to rid yourself of. With these fresh in your mind, recite the following phrase. Bring me home, for I am a wanderer, invisible and lost. Bring me bliss, bring me pleasure, bring me wonder. Wonderland, bring me home. If the ritual is done perfectly, you will be in Wonderland. Our story Wonderland by Riley Vanderlip continues when Weird Darkness returns. Remember staying up late on a Friday or Saturday night, either at home or at a friend s house, and watching your local TV stations' horror host presenting a terrible B movie with aliens, monsters, ghosts, alien monster ghosts, vampires, werewolves and all other kinds of crazy creepy characters. Those were fun nights, weren t they? That s what the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com has to offer. All day, every day. Thanks to our friends at the Monster Channel, you can visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Watch Party right after listening to this episode and immediately be entertained by a horror host and horrible movie, or should I say horrorable movie. And not only can you watch the B movies and horror hosts streaming there 24-7, but once a month, we all gather together to watch a movie and talk about it in the chat room on that same page. Get your frights and funnies on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com. I couldn t believe my eyes. Du Bois writing about the Wonderland like it was objectively real. Either he was very dedicated to telling this story, or he believed it 100%, and at that time I had a strong inclination to believe it was the latter. I d be lying if I said upon reading the final entry I wasn t just the slightest bit intrigued and that I also wasn t considering trying the ritual for myself. I was very intrigued and no matter how much I doubted the story, my grandfather had clearly put so much effort into telling this story I thought it would have been a disservice if I didn t at least try to find the Wonderland for myself. In the forest, behind the abandoned gravel pit, I knew exactly where that was. The dives wasn t very big and I practically knew where everything was. There was an abandoned gravel pit not 20 minutes from my grandfather s house. I was certain this was the one he was talking about. However, before closing the journal and rushing to try out the ritual, I turned the last page over to find one last message, a warning written in bold at the very end of the book. The Wonderland appears only for the briefest of moments. If the ritual is done correctly, it will appear at exactly midnight. It will stay in our world for only 6 hours until it closes up and disappears the following morning. Those caught inside the Wonderland past 6 o'clock will be swallowed up with it. It s what happened to my friends when I first went. Do not underestimate the Wonderland. It takes control of your mind and you will find it very difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality and very difficult to keep track of time. If you choose to forego my warnings and visit the Wonderland, I offer one piece of advice to you. Bring a personal item with you, something deeply important to you, and do not let go of it. It must be something important enough that will remind you of the real world when you can no longer trust your own senses. It s the only reason I ve been able to make it out alive so many times. Good luck. That warning marked the end of Dubois s journal. That was all he wrote, ending off what at first glance appeared to be a normal journal of his past with a grave warning to anyone who attempted to recreate what he did. I carefully closed the book and put it back into my drawer and simply lied in my bed to take everything in. I could have easily left that journal in my drawer that day, never returning to it and forgetting about the Wonderland. I truly wish I did. My life would have been a lot different if I had. But my curiosity forced me to do otherwise that day. I made a decision that day, that I now regard as the biggest mistake of my life. As I glanced over at the alarm clock my grandfather left for me, I finally realized why he had left it. That night I was going to visit the Wonderland, follow the ritual to a T and bring my grandfather s alarm clock with me as my personal item. I sometimes wonder why I went to all the trouble of attempting a ritual if I didn t believe in the Wonderland at the time. Perhaps I wanted to do it for my grandfather who spent so much time writing about the place. Maybe I was just bored or maybe I was just beginning to believe in it myself. I wasn t going to attempt contacting the Wonderland myself, however I had decided I d bring my two best friends with me, Rachel Abigail and Scott Meyer. I d known Rachel since we were in preschool and I have to admit I always had a soft side for her. To me Rachel was the most beautiful girl I d ever known, not just in her looks but her personality attracted me as well. I d always wanted to ask her out but never had the confidence as I knew she was leagues above me and I knew I was cursed to stay in the friend zone forever. Scott, on the other hand, was someone I had met just recently back then. He was the new kid that moved to Rose Creek in our high school years. He was always a fun guy to hang around but I always found myself slightly jealous around him. He was an attractive and athletic guy and Rachel was head over heels for him. She just wouldn t admit it. It wouldn t be any fun to venture out into a forest in the middle of the night on my own and when I approached the two about my plan later that day they agreed to come with me. Rachel took a little more convincing than Scott did, to no surprise, but once she found out Scott was coming it wasn t hard to get her to say yes. She didn t find walking into a bush in the middle of the night very appealing nor safe. As for Scott he jumped at the idea to go. He was a skeptic of the paranormal himself but whether or not he believed in the wonderland was beside the point. He just wanted the thrill of it all. He was always out doing something, keeping himself busy with things that often involved getting him into trouble. You can never really blame the kid though. There s only so much you can do in the diets before you turned to the more eccentric and not always legal hobbies to amuse yourself. Perhaps this is what I was doing myself by trying to find the wonderland. We had planned to meet outside of my house at around 11 o'clock giving us plenty of time to get to the forest. I would drive everyone from there which should only take half an hour at the latest. I told them to bring a personal item each but I wasn t sure how seriously they d take that. I sat in the driver s seat and waited for everyone. I had brought a backpack which only contained two things in it, my grandfather s journal so I wouldn t forget the ritual steps and his old alarm clock, my personal item. Scott was the first to show up as he practically sprinted at my car and launched himself into the passenger seat. SEP, he said, out of breath. Not much. You bring your personal item? Oh yeah, he said, waving some baseball around before tossing it behind him into the back seat. Is it important to you? I don t know. It s just an item that I personally own. That s what the instructions said, right? Yeah, but I stopped myself, shrugged and dismissed the topic. My grandfather s instructions had stated to bring something of importance, not just some random item. But at the same time, I wasn t going to let myself take this whole thing too seriously. In my mind at the time, if I had made a big deal about what item Scott brought and the wonderland ended up being bogus, I d look pretty dumb. Scott and I waited for a few more minutes, not really talking too much, until Rachel finally showed up a few minutes late. She opened the backseat door and sat behind me. Hey, Scott! She squealed with a wide smile, before addressing me in a much more collected tone. Oh, hey Jacob, how have you been? I tried answering her question before Scott cut me off and began to talk about something else with her, like I wasn t even there. As I groaned to myself and pulled out of my driveway, Scott and Rachel talked about everything under the sun together, easily keeping themselves company during the entire ride, without ever bringing me into the conversation. It would be an understatement to say that I wasn t jealous. I gripped the wheel tighter as my knuckles turned white and gritted my teeth as Scott and Rachel fawned over each other. I don t know how I managed to keep my groans of disgust to myself for the entire drive. It might as well have been making out. It was so apparent that they had things for each other, they probably saw it tonight as a date night and I was nothing more than their chaperone. I forced myself to stop thinking about the two of them and to focus on what was important. After a drive that felt like an eternity, I pulled off the main road and let the car come to a slow stop along a dirt path that faced the gravel pit. I put the car into park and took a moment to collect myself. Dubois Journal, check. Alarm clock, check. I opened my door and stepped onto the dirt path underneath me and I remember the instant my foot touched the ground, I felt a wave of anxiety pass over me like a cold gust of wind. I hadn t felt anxious like this in a long time. Chills shot up my spine and I shuddered. In retrospect, that anxiety was a very strong gut feeling telling me to get lost. It was telling me to get back into the car and to never return but I pushed onwards toward the gravel pit as Scott and Rachel followed close behind me. Getting across the gravel pit was easy. I led on and made sure we didn t all fall down a hill and to the bottom of the pits, but the forest was an entirely different story. The forest was dense. The branches almost stretched out like they were forming a wall like they didn t want anyone going inside.  The darkness of the night didn t help my navigation either. The moonlight was dim tonight, barely a crescent was visible. The small hill that overlooks the rest of the forest, I repeated in my head while occasionally checking the alarm clock to ensure we were on time. There were 15 minutes left to find the hill and to get the ritual right. Don t you think it would have been easier to just bring a watch? Scott snickered behind me. I made my blood boil. No, this is my personal item, I said, with clenched teeth and forced smile.  It was just as my grandfather had described it. There was a small clearing which had a hill in the middle of it. Not too big, but big enough to elevate you above most of the trees. I sped up and made it out of the clusters of branches, stumbling out onto the clearing and climbing up the hill. Scott and Rachel were always close behind. Once we were all on top of the hill, I knelt down and took one last look at my alarm clock. Ten minutes until midnight, we were making good time. It was then, while both Scott and Rachel were distracted talking with each other, that I did something that I believe saved my life. I brought the alarm clock for a reason, and I believe that my grandfather gave me this alarm clock for a very specific reason. I set it to ring at five o'clock, around five hours from now, and exactly one hour before the wonderland was supposed to close. All right, everyone, I began placing down the alarm clock and pulling my grandfather's journal out of my bag. These instructions are very strict. We have to do it exactly right or it won't work. Of course, wouldn't want to break the magic spell! Scott sarcastically waved his hands around, as if he were a wizard. I rolled my eyes. We only get one chance at this, or we have to try again tomorrow. Let's run through the instructions. I opened my grandfather's journal and flipped to the page with the ritual. Okay, everyone kneeled down. After being the first one to do it, Scott and Rachel hesitantly followed.  We had already come all this way. All right, now, it says here to think of three things. Something you're missing, something you desire, and something you wish to rid yourself of. Everyone have that in their heads? I'm certainly missing my dignity, Scott trailed on, as Rachel giggled.  Take this seriously or don't bother doing it at all. Next step. Keep these three things in your mind and recite the phrase, follow after me, bring me home for I am a wanderer, invisible and lost.  Then what? Rachel asked. I don't know, that's all the instructions say. All it says after that is that if we get it right, we'll know. You're not actually expecting anything to happen, are you? Scott asked. I didn't answer that. Instead, avoiding the question and reiterating the instructions, ensuring that everyone knew exactly what they were doing. I didn't want to mess this up. Once I was sure that Scott and Rachel understood the instructions, we began the ritual for real. My heart was pounding the entire time. I really didn't want to mess things up.  I closed my eyes and imagined the three things. Something I was missing, something I desired, and something I wished to rid myself of. Then I recited the phrase. Scott and Rachel clumsily repeated after me. We kept on repeating the phrase until midnight. I opened my eyes and looked down at the ground to see my alarm clock. The minute hand had passed 12. That was it. I sighed and stuffed the clock into my backpack, standing up and looking around to no avail. Come on, Jake, you couldn't have actually expected it to work. Scott stood up and brushed the dirt off his knees. Maybe we did it wrong. You probably fooled around too much and broke the ritual. Oh, relax.   I said, walking towards Scott until Rachel jumped in between us. Would you two stop?  Let's just go back home and watch a movie or something. I tried to argue some more, but was cut off by a powerful gust of wind from behind us, so cold and forceful that we all stumbled a few steps forward before shivering. We all abruptly stopped arguing, staying quiet and looking around the forest in confusion. That wind had come out of nowhere and certainly didn't feel natural. After a few seconds of silence, I began to hear faint sounds of bells jingling in the distance. Initially, I wasn't sure if I could trust my own senses, but Scott and Rachel had clearly heard it as well, as their eyes grew wide with confusion. The jingling seemed to grow louder and louder, the once faint jingles now sounding a hell of a lot closer. Eventually, other noises began to accompany the bells. Some music followed along. The type of rhythmic jingling you'd hear in a carousel or a merry-go-round. Sounds of clown horns honking, and finally was sounded an awful lot like children's laughter echoed into the night sky. At first I was speechless. My mind was trying to process what was happening. I was questioning if what I was hearing was even real. Sure, I wanted to believe in the Wonderland, but now that the ritual seemed to have done something, I didn't know how to react. You guys hear that, right? Scott asked. I'm not going crazy. Yeah, I hear it, I responded. We then looked over at Rachel, who had stayed pretty quiet throughout the entire thing. Looked like she hadn't heard us, or like she wasn't paying any attention at all. She seemed to just stare forward over the tree line, still as a statue. Hey, Rachel? Scott asked once again. Oh, my God, she said. Speaking to seemingly thin air, you're back. How did you find me here? What are you talking about? I asked. Without answering, Rachel started walking forward, never once looking at us and keeping her eyes glued ahead of her. She quickly disappeared into the darkness as she descended down the hill and into the jungle of branches. What do we do? Scott asked. Well, we have to follow her. We can't leave her. I don't think Scott liked the idea of delving further into the forest, but we didn't have much of a choice. With the sounds of the carnival starting to become overbearing, I knelt down and stuffed my grandfather's journal into my backpack and slung it around my shoulder. I ran down the hill and chased after Rachel with Scott hesitantly following after me. I was expecting to walk through the forest to be just as bad as it was before, with the overabundance of branches gating me from entry. But this time it was different. The trees almost seemed welcoming this time. The branches had cleared a path as they no longer stuck out in front of me, but instead pointed ahead. After what seemed to be at least a few minutes of walking through the forest, there was still no sign of Rachel. It was so overwhelmingly dark that my own vision seemed useless, and instead I let the forest itself guide me. I didn't stop to see where Scott was, but at some point I must have lost him as I no longer heard his footsteps behind me. I stopped in my tracks and frantically turned around in circles yet to no avail. I had gotten lost in the forest. Hello! I called out as my voice echoed over the trees above me, yet my cries for help seemed to get drowned out by the sounds of the carnival. I must have been turning in circles for quite some time until I got dizzy and had to stop kneeling down and covering my ears to try blocking out the never-ending bells, horns, and laughter. It was then that I looked up and noticed a faint orange glow in the distance, only about a hundred feet in front of me. I slowly stood up and followed the light. It looked as if they were calling out to me, leading me out of the forest by chance. My face felt warmer as the light got larger and brighter. I felt myself getting anxious but not how I felt earlier. Rather this time the anxiousness felt more like eagerness, excitement, and wonder. As I pushed through the last bits of foliage hanging in front of me, I stumbled out of the forest and found myself standing in a completely different place. A carnival. Speechless all I could do was take in my surroundings with an ostrich and gaze. The sounds of jingles, horns, and laughter was all around me now, and I felt as if it were welcoming me. At that moment I knew I had found it. I had found the Wonderland, and it was beautiful. A giant archway stood in front of me with a massive light-up sign above it which simply said, Welcome to Wonderland. I pushed forward through the gate and took in the sights. A carousel to my right lit up with bright orange as the horse rides almost appeared lifelike. On my left I saw foot stands and the sweet smell of treats carried through the air and surrounded me like a mystical aroma. A mirror maze further down the road. Racks of prizes. A stage for performers. This place had everything. Yet as I walked down the path, I noticed something was quite off. Despite hearing the sounds of horns, honking, and children laughing, I never once saw anyone else there. Now that I was inside the Wonderland, the sounds seemed as if they were coming from thin air. No matter where I turned, they always sounded as if they were all around me. I always could have sworn I felt like someone was watching me. That feeling you get on the back of your neck when you know someone is glaring at you. That feeling persisted the entire time. As I continued to walk down the path, I watched as the carnival in front of me seemed to morph. Shape shift into something entirely different. Buildings in front of me rose up and turned into walls. The ground beneath me shook as a hard wood floor rose from the dirt below. The sounds of the carnival subsided and I realized I was now standing in my own home. At first I was alone, standing in my kitchen in the middle of the night. The room was dark for a little while until a light down the hallway flickered on. I heard footsteps approaching and watched as my mother, my mother who had been dead for a few years now, walked out to greet me.  There was no way anyone could have predicted she would die in childbirth. We seemed to stare at each other for a while. I wasn't sure how to react at first, but when she smiled, it made me feel a lot more comfortable. All feelings of uncertainty seemed to gracefully leave my body. That gracefulness continued when she spoke. Jake, she said in a soft tone, is everything all right? What are you doing up so late? I couldn't respond. Tears filled up in my eyes and all I could do was run towards her and give her a hug, something I'd wanted to do for so long. She held me in her arms and hugged me tightly. Her warm embrace felt so real, I didn't want to let go. It's okay, I'm here now, she spoke softly. The warmness of her embrace didn't last long, unfortunately. It got slightly colder and colder until I looked up to see she was no longer there, and I had been hugging the air. Who knows how long. I looked around to see that I'd been transported back into the Wonderland. With the vision of my home subsided, the sounds of the Carnival grew louder once again, and I continued my walk through its grounds in search of whatever was next. That moment with my mother only lasted a moment, and although it wasn't real, it felt so genuine. I think it was that moment the Wonderland had hooked me. It did exactly what it was trying to do. It dug into my mind and found something it knew I was missing. And now, I didn't want to leave. What other beautiful things could I find in here I remember thinking to myself? I continued walking through the Wonderland, searching for my mother, but instead I found something else. Jacob? I heard someone call out behind me. I turned quickly to see Rachel standing only a few steps behind me. I remember wondering how she got that close without me noticing. Rachel, I said, I was looking for you. Where did you go? She came in closer to me, taking several steps and getting almost uncomfortably close as she wrapped her arms around my waist. Don't worry, she smiled. I'm just glad we finally got some alone time. What do you mean? What do you think? I've always had a thing for you, Jake. Couldn't you tell? No. I stumbled over my words. I thought you were always soft for Scott. She snorted and began laughing, moving in even closer to me until she finally kissed me on the lips. I wasn't sure if it was real or not, but it felt amazing. It was something I'd always wanted. Was Rachel really into me this entire time? She sure was good at hiding it if that was the case. I put my hands around her waist and kissed her back, and for the slightest of moments I truly felt like I was in heaven. And just as quickly as she started, Rachel pulled back from my embrace, taking a few steps back and leading me confused. What's wrong? I asked. We can't do this. We can't do this. Sure we can. Why not? Not with him still around. Scott, she said. Not with Scott still around. I know he has a crush on me. He's never going to stand by and allow us to be together. You've seen it, haven't you? The way he talks to me will never be together with him in the picture. Not unless you do something about it. Do what? I asked. Rachel then stared me directly in the eyes, all emotion leaving her face and she gave me a stone cold gaze. It didn't look natural. Then with a demanding tone that didn't sound like her, she ordered, kill Scott. The conclusion to the story Wonderland by Riley Vanderlip when Weird Darkness returns. No matter the time of day or season, sometimes you need to find a way to rig 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 water 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. Kill Scott. At first I was taken aback. I took a few steps backward to distance myself from Rachel. I looked down at my hand to find myself holding a knife, something I swore I didn't have before. How did it get in my hand? Yet, despite the confusion, I couldn't help but find myself clutching the knife tightly, almost like I didn't want to get rid of it. I looked down at the knife very carefully, studying it. I wouldn't handle in a long serrated blade with a pointed tip, something you would use in the kitchen. Did I bring a knife with me tonight? I didn't think I did, but at that point my mind was all over the place. I wasn't sure what to believe. Kill Scott?  I looked back up to find Rachel was gone. There wasn't a trace of her in sight. Where had she gone so quickly?  I knew what I needed to do in that moment. My mind wanted to tell me to ditch the knife and search for my mother again, but my tight grasp wouldn't seem to loosen as my legs carried me through the wonderland. I was looking for Scott. He didn't take long to find him. As I turned the corner of a prize booth, I saw him. His back turned to me as he looked up at the ferris wheel. I hid my hand behind my back and crept toward him. I didn't think he could hear me coming until he spoke. Thought I lost you back in the forest, he said. Back still turned to me. I stopped walking and stood as still as a statue, trying to think of how I could act natural. Yeah, I replied. Same here. What happened back there? We got separated. Coincidence or by choice? Well, what do you mean? I asked. I've always trembling. Oh, come on. Who do you take me for? Fool. I know how you look at Rachel. I don't know what you're talking about, Scott. Are you feeling all right? This doesn't sound like you. Oh, I'm great. Never been better, actually. This place is beautiful. To be honest, I thought you were full of it when you took us out here. A magical wonderland, you scoffed. I thought you were taking us out into the wilderness to murder us. You do seem to type after all. I guess your weird dead grandpa was right. That was the moment I snapped. I wasn't sure if it was because Rachel told me to do it or because he insulted me and my grandfather, but I saw red for the briefest of moments. The voices in my head got louder and louder until I couldn't think of anything else but to kill Scott. I quickly lunged at him, brought my knife out from behind my back and stuck him in the back with it. He collapsed to the ground and I fell down with him as I held on to the knife. He wheezed in pain for a few moments, seeming as if he were trying to gasp for air. His breaths quick and short. Blood soaked the knife in my right hand as I pulled the knife from his back and stabbed him once again, then again and again until he stopped breathing. I stood up, pulled the knife from his back and took a few steps backward and looked down at Scott, who lied face down on the ground, a pool of blood underneath him. Never once did I see his face when I stabbed him. Never once did I look him in the eyes. What I expected was for overwhelming feelings of grief and dread to hit me like a truck, but instead another feeling came. I was filled with relief and joy. I had done what Rachel asked me to do and I had gotten rid of the only person standing in between our love. I turned around to see her standing close once again, appearing suddenly behind me just as she did last time. I was overjoyed to tell her what I had done.  Although this time she didn't hug me back, she just stood there silently, not muttering a word. I slightly pulled away and looked down at her face to see it was painted with white. Not an emotion in sight, she seemed to be staring off into a void detached from reality. I felt angry that she wasn't showing me the same love she had previously shown just a few minutes ago. I had just killed one of my friends for her and this was the thanks I got. It was then that I began to have my doubts about even her too. Rachel? Don't you love me? I asked. Yes, I do, she responded, but she sounded ingenuine. I went in for another hug and once again I felt nothing back, no reciprocation. I started to get worried. Thoughts raced through my mind and I hugged her tighter. Jake, she stated, still without emotion. You're squeezing, I can't breathe. I clutched the knife tighter and didn't let go of her. The voices in my head began again.  Jake, she wheezed one more time before I plunged the knife into her back. I held onto her tightly and continued stabbing her in the back. I'm not sure if anything rational at all was going through my head at that point. I felt like a robot. I was given commands and I seemed to follow them effortlessly. In that moment I truly felt like what I was doing was the right thing. If Rachel didn't want me, then I wasn't going to allow her to have anybody else. I understood her best, I told myself in that moment. This was what needed to happen. As I let Rachel's lifeless body fall to the ground, I regained my footing and took in my surroundings and realized in that moment that I was truly all alone in the Wonderland. Both Rachel and Scott's bodies lied on each side of me and I held the knife that killed them proudly in my hand, never letting go of it. After coming to the realization of what I had done, I couldn't help but feel so relieved. I once again smiled from cheek to cheek, admiring what I had always wanted to do. Those two had always disgusted me. Scott was nothing more than a fool with the fortunate luck of being born good-looking. Rachel was nothing more than some dipsy bimbo who couldn't see a good man if it was standing right in front of her. I had done them both a favor. With blood-soaked clothes and a smile that didn't seem to fade, I wandered off to explore more of the Wonderland, eager to see what other fantasies I would finally be able to fulfill and it didn't take long to find it. What would come next would be the final fantasy the Wonderland would fulfill for me and the one that has stuck with me the longest. As I turned to the corner from around the prize booth and found myself on the main pathway again, I noticed something had changed. At the end of the pathway at the very back of the Wonderland sat my house once again. The Wonderland around me faded as I found myself back in my neighborhood, just as it had always looked. The vision was so surreal it's impossible to explain. Headlights broke through the darkness of the night and I watched as a car pulled up right beside me and into my driveway. My father stepped out of the driver's seat and Maxwell, my little brother, got out of the back seat. They paid no attention to me, it was like I was a ghost. They laughed and joked with each other and walked toward the house, up the porch steps and through the front door, closing it behind them. The sounds of Maxwell's laughter persisted from inside the house, seemingly echoing through the neighborhood.  I can't explain why such an innocent noise of a little boy laughing angered me so much. Once again the voices inside my head spoke up and seemed to express exactly how I was feeling in that moment. How can they be so happy? They hissed, so content and arrogant in the house that he was just born into.   He stole one thing you loved most and he doesn't feel a lick of sadness for it. Once again the voices inside my head spoke up and seemed to express exactly how I was feeling in that moment. How can he be so happy? They hissed, so content and arrogant in the house that he was just born into. Born into this world at the expense of your mother, someone who actually deserved life.  He stole the one thing you loved most and he doesn't feel a lick of sadness for it.  Did he not even love his own wife? My lip quivered and my knees shook. I clenched my fist with anger and I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my beat red face. I looked down in my right hand to find a single lit match, the fire sputtering weakly in the wind. I was careful not to let it blow out. The knife from before was nowhere to be seen. The voices were right. Throughout my entire life I had always felt some sort of resentment towards Maxwell, but I could never figure out why. It was so difficult to put into words, but the Wonderland had just done it so seamlessly. It understood exactly how I was feeling. I then looked down to my feet to see a trail of gasoline that led from the front lawn up the porch and all the way inside of the house. It was difficult to hold my smile back when I gave in to the Wonderland's demands and dropped the match onto the gasoline trail. The fire traveled from the match to the trail and quickly grew as it chased after the trail of gasoline and made its way inside of the house.   The house was quickly engulfed in flames and I just stood and watched. It was at that point that I had begun laughing. The image brought me much joy. I didn't try to understand it, I just took it all in joyously. I did it, mother. I told myself in between cackles, I got them back. Then it happened. As I watched, my house slowly burnt to the ground. I heard a ringing that derailed my focus.  It was like it had completely blinked out of existence, not leaving a single trace behind. The ringing persisted and when I turned around to figure out what it was, I saw a single backpack lying on the pathway just a few feet in front of me. It sounded like it was coming from there. I rushed over and knelt down, unzipping the backpack and pulling out a single alarm clock. My grandfather's. It was five o'clock, only one hour until the wonderland closes. It was at that moment that my mind abruptly exited its euphoric dream-like trance and back to reality.  I remember how confused I was that time had passed so quickly. It felt like just a minute ago I was on the hill doing a ritual with Scott and Rachel. I looked around the wonderland and noticed that it had changed and something was seriously wrong. The wind had picked up tremendously. Prize and food stands shook violently and the carousel got faster and faster as the jingle grew more distorted and unnatural sounding. I looked up to see the ferris wheel, noticing that it was also spinning unnervingly fast like the carousel and what was originally the sounds of children laughing turned to blood-curdling screams of terror all around me. I stopped the alarm clock from ringing and tossed it back into the backpack, slinging it around my shoulder and sprinting towards the exit. All around me I watched as the wonderland fell apart. Buildings seemed to collapse in on themselves and sink into the ground as the pathway in front of me cracked and separated. Jack in the boxes randomly began malfunctioning and sprung out at every prize booth they sat at.  It was like the wonderland was collapsing in on me, and it also seemed like it was trying to prevent me from leaving. I made the mistake of looking behind me and I saw the bloody bodies of Scott and Rachel and the burned body of Maxwell all standing at the end of the pathway waving goodbye to me. I screamed in terror running faster and making it to the exit. I looked up to see the archway that greeted me before, but on the side facing me it simply read, We'll see you soon. I sprinted under the archway as it quickly collapsed behind me. Stumbling back into the forest I ran through the thickness of the trees and never looked back. The further I got away from the wonderland, the less I heard the screaming and the less I smelled the rotten meat. I eventually stopped running when I had made it back onto the hill overlooking the forest. The noises and smells had stopped by that point and I collapsed onto all fours, panting and struggling for air. I finally found the strength to stand back up and take everything in. I looked around the forest to find myself in a reassuring emptiness. The sun peeking over the horizon and filling the morning sky with that familiar glow. No signs of the carnival in sight and the forest was dead silent with the exception of birds chirping. I sighed in relief. I also noticed that there was no blood on me, the blood of Scott and Rachel entirely gone and replaced with dirt and grass stains. Yet despite this, Scott and Rachel disappeared forever that day, never to be seen or heard from again. Authorities found Scott's baseball weeks later, lying in the middle of the forest with no other trace left of him. Rumor around town was that Scott and Rachel ran off together as lovers and nobody ever questioned me. I never brought up what happened that night to anybody and allowed myself to become invisible, like I had always been and always will be. That leads to where I am today, distanced from my family and living a life of seclusion just like my grandfather did. After I had visited the Wonderland, I learned some disturbing things about myself, some things that I do not think I was ever supposed to know. After I had found myself finding joy in the killing of my friends and family, I could not stomach to be around them. Every time I would see Maxwell laughing or my dad smiling, it would make me feel awful about myself. I did not trust myself to be around them anymore and as a result, I left Rose Creek only a few years later, never looking back. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't fantasize about going back to the Wonderland from time to time. I was lucky to have made it out alive that day. If it weren't for my grandfather's alarm clock, I think I would have disappeared, alongside Scott and Rachel that night. Dubois must have known that there was a possibility I would visit the Wonderland some day. I was the only person in the family that ever seemed to pay his stories any attention. And perhaps he thought he would look over me just in case. However, whenever I think of returning to the Wonderland, I always stop and tell myself that mind is a very fragile and dark place. It's not meant to be explored completely. We cannot and should not ever expect to completely understand our own minds. We should instead fear it. Sometimes there are things about ourselves that we should simply leave alone. Things to leave buried, deep in our subconsciousness, never to be tapped into. Although, however many times I tell myself this, it'll always be that nagging feeling deep inside of me. While I've gotten better at suppressing it over the years, once in a while it flaps its wings, rears its head and tells me to go and free my mind one last time. Coming up next, it's a story by Ray Nelson called Eight O'Clock in the Morning, which the cult favorite film They Live, starring Roddy Piper and directed by John Carpenter is based upon. That story is up next. When Salem Roanoke took a job near his family's new home as a hired hand in the Texas Hill Country, he anticipated learning the rancher's trade, but a series of strange events, shocking murders and unholy revelations divert him down another path. This terrifying trajectory puts him directly into the middle of a struggle between monsters, magic and men. Armed and backed by a militia of ranchers, Salem attempts to combat the creeping tide of evil that threatens to engulf his new home and destroy the people most important to him. Will Salem manage to save his home or have his actions condemn everyone he hopes to save? The Witch Trials, a summer of wolves and season of the witch by SR Roanoke, available in paperback, Kindle and audiobook versions. Look for The Witch Trials by SR Roanoke on Amazon, or find it on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash audiobooks. At the end of the show, the hypnotist told his subjects, awake, and something unusual happened. One of the subjects awoke, all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nata, and he blinked out of the sea of faces in the theater at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey. He left the theater, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, Got a light, buddy? George gave him a light and moved on. At intervals along the street, George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the fascinators' multiple eyes and various commands printed under them such as, Work eight hours, slept eight hours. And a TV set in the window of a store caught George's eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn't look at the fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command. Stay tuned. George lived alone in a sleeping room, and as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms, he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time, the voices were human. But now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. Obey the government, said one croak. We are the government, said another. We are your friends. You'd do anything for a friend, wouldn't you? Obey. Work. Suddenly the phone rang. George picked it up. It was one of the fascinators. It squawked. I am an old man, said George. Tomorrow morning, at eight o'clock, my heart will stop. The control hung up. No, it won't, whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him. Notice that he didn't respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they'd be sure. No use waiting here for the end, he thought. He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, but he still felt strongly tempted to obey to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him. Move on. Grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George. George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment, the reptilian had dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course, the drunk would be lovable.  For a moment, the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face, and the lizard fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment, it was dead. George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. It was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils. I can't possibly escape, thought George. Why fight them? But maybe, maybe he could. What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try. He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girlfriend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe. I want you to wake up, he said. I'm awake, she said. Come on in. He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off. No, he said.  She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, Wake up, the master's command that you wake up.  She asked suspiciously. You sure are acting funny. He slapped her face. Cut that out, she cried.  Nothing, said George, defeated. I was just kidding around. Slapping my face wasn't just kidding around, she cried. It was a knock at the door. George opened it. It was one of the aliens. Can't you keep the noise down to a dull roar? It said. The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little, and George saw the flickering image of a fat, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves. It was still a man when George slashed his throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. What do you see there? He asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor. Mr. Coney, she whispered, her eyes wide with horror.  Don't scream, warned George, advancing on her. I won't, George. I swear. I won't. Only please for the love of God. Put down that knife. She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall. George saw that it was no use. I'm going to tie you up, said George. First, tell me which room Mr. Coney lived in. The first door on your left as you go toward the stairs, she said. George, don't torture me. If you're going to kill me, do it clean. Please, George, please. He tied her up with bed sheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the fascinator. It was another one of the little radios that talked to foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else. George went next door. When he knocked, one of the snake things answered. Who is it? Brandon, Mr. Coney, I want to see him, said George. He went out for a second, but he'll be right back. The door opened to crack and four yellow eyes peeped out. You want to come in and wait? Okay, said George, not looking at the eyes. Are you alone here? He asked as it closed the door, and it's back to George. Yeah, why? He slid its throat from behind, then searched the apartment. He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand. He found tanks with huge, fast slugs floating in them. The children, he thought, and killed them all. There were guns, too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts. He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could, and went back to Lil's place. When she saw him, she arrived in helpless terror. Relax, honey, he said, opening her purse. I just want to borrow your car keys. He took the keys and went downstairs to the street. Her car was still parked in the same general area in which she had always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking, desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was nothing but news, and it was all about him, George Neda, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do? George was surprised when he saw the roadblock, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself. They had just discovered what he had done back at Lil's place, so they would probably be looking for Lil's car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night. When one finally did get on, George got off. He went up to the street and went into a bar.  Why? What could one man do against all of them? George ordered a beer. Then it suddenly struck him that the fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, it has to believe it can master me in order to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost. They flashed George's picture on the TV screen, and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the chief of police. All. Robinson, he asked. This is George Neda. I figured out how to wake people up. Robinson sounded almost hysterical. He hung up and paid and left the bar. It would probably trace his call. He caught another subway and went downtown. It was dawn when he entered the building, housing the biggest of the city's TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. Why, you're Neda, he gasped. George didn't like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to. He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the TV camera saying, We are your friends. We are your friends. And didn't see George come in. When George shot him with a needle gun, he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there dead. George stood near him and said, imitating the alien croak. Wake up, wake up, see us as we are, and kill us. It was George's voice the city heard that morning, but it was the fascinator's image and the city did awake. But the very first time the war began, George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o'clock. When Weird Darkness Returns, it's a story from the old quiet pleas radio program. It's a story called The Room Where The Stars Live. Up next. You can hear audiobooks I'm narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You also receive bonus audio of other projects I'm working on outside of Weird Darkness. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Weird Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com The Room Where The Stars Live By Quiet, Please. Do you remember the little house on the edge of Mount Wilson, the house that had nothing inside it? Do you remember the astronomer Van Dyke? Do you remember the music, the message to the other side of the stars? We thought it was all over. Aliens were going to land on Earth. They were going to absorb the people of the Earth as they'd absorbed Dorothea and that would be that. It'd be like a neat little science fiction story, a cautionary tale to the next species that might think itself master of the Earth. That was 68 years ago. Nothing happened. At least we thought nothing happened. Now I know better. Soon so will you.  Still there? Okay. You asked for it. I'll tell you. Listen. On that fateful day in 1949, when the beings from Alpha Centauri were due to land on our Earth, I was with Steve. You remember Dorothea's brother, Steve? We went up to the top of Mount Wilson together after dark that evening because somehow it seemed like the appropriate spot to meet our fates. We were greeted there by Van Dyke as if he'd been expecting us. Van Dyke guided us to the 100-inch telescope. Steve was looking through the lens when the thing happened. The stars, he exclaimed, they're all gone. The real shock came when we both looked up at the sky directly. There were no stars anywhere in the sky on what had been a perfectly clear night a moment earlier. Can you explain that? Nobody can, no human anyway. A minute later, the whole sky just blinked back into existence and everybody went on as if they hadn't noticed. At least everybody except us three. What happens now? I asked Van Dyke, my voice quivering. Van Dyke smiled at me. Nothing, he replied. The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. After that day, Steve and I went our separate ways. I moved to a marketing job for a chemical plant and van eyes. I don't know what happened to Steve. I do know what happened to Van Dyke. It wasn't until 1967 that the next thing happened. I was retired by then and I had thought to come back to the observatory one night just to banish once and for all the uneasiness that had been keeping me awake all those years. I drove up the long windy road, got out and stopped a moment to admire the city lights a mile below. Something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. A little house made of corrugated iron sheets with a high peaked roof hanging on the edge of the mountain. It was the house with nothing in it. Somehow I was drawn to the house despite my fear. I walked over and pressed my hand against a cold iron door, reassuring myself that it was real, not just a figment of my imagination all these years. It was locked, of course. Almost a jump ten feet in the air when I felt the hand on my shoulder. It was Van Dyke. You're back, he said coldly. You, I stammered, you're still here after all these years. Thought I must be dead by now? I can assure you I'm not.  You want to see inside? I'll show you. Van Dyke fished a key out of one of his pockets, deposited it in the rusty old lock and the door swung silently open. It was nothing, the absence of everything, no sight or sound or smell. It made my hair stand on end. Go on in, the old astronomer motioned to me. Go on in. I don't want to, I objected. I only wanted to get away from that place as fast as I could, yet I stood still as if entranced. Go on in, Van Dyke commanded, and with that, he gave me a shove that I wouldn't have thought possible for a man his age. I fell forward and then suddenly there was no forward or backward anymore, just nothing all around. Even my own body seemed to have disappeared. I remember trying desperately to flail about in my panic, but there was nothing to flail with or in. A while later, it's hard to say how long since time starts to lose meaning here, I began to hear a faint music. At once I recognized it as the music from the other side of the stars, the music Dorothy first heard at the bottom of the old well with the Spanish soldier. Slowly the music grew until it enveloped me, and finally I felt it emanating from my own mind and felt myself slip away until there was nothing but the music. That's right, I was absorbed. No, I didn't disappear into a little gray-green ball like Dorothy had. They're just as capable of inhabiting our bodies as they are of absorbing our bodies into theirs, and apparently they've found my body convenient for some purpose. No, I'm not an alien now. I was one for nearly 50 years, but I'm not now. They can grow old and die, you see. They usually live a thousand years or more, but I got lucky. The one who absorbed me died last year. When the music finally faded out after all those years, I was able to reassert myself. It was like time travel for me. One moment I was in 1967, the next moment I woke up in 2016. I looked perhaps five years older than I did in 1967. Seems our bodies age much slower while absorbed. It's taken me some time to piece things together, to work out some of what I, or rather the alien in my body, was doing all those years. The clues led me right back to Mount Wilson. I've worked out they've been building something there all these years, something from nothing behind the door of the odd old building. Finally, last night I got it in my head to figure this thing out once and for all. I waited for the crew to arrive, waited for them to unlock the door and go inside. I waited another five minutes, then walked up and stood by the door for a moment, afraid to open it. I wasn't surprised at all to see Van Dyke stroll up, looking not a day over 80, 50 years after we'd last met. My lack of visible surprise saved me there, because he assumed I was still absorbed. He simply nodded at me, opened the door, and walked through into the building. After another moment's pause to collect my wits, I reopened the door to follow him. It wasn't just nothing anymore. Imagine a small room with nothing around the edges, but with the structure in the middle somehow dwarfing the room itself. The structure is perhaps 30 feet tall and 10 feet wide, smooth and white. It has no exact base or top, it just kind of fades around the edges. In the middle of it is a circular portal through which I could see a strange blinding landscape. Van Dyke floated toward the portal, then into it. From all around came the soft music, the voices of a conclave of beings from another world. There's not much more to tell. I would have run away, but more workmen had come up behind me. It was clear they expected me to go in, and I couldn't risk them discovering I wasn't absorbed, so I pushed off toward the portal and floated through to the other side. I'm writing this to you from an alien world, a blisteringly hot world set afire by binary suns. I don't know if I'll be able to make it back, undiscovered. Perhaps my story can make it without me. This is what I've learned. The invasion happened that day in 1949 without any of us noticing. The visitors from the other side of the stars didn't choose to conquer cities like the aliens of science fiction stories because they consider us an inferior form of intelligence and have no use for our cities. They rarely absorb people. Most of them prefer to retain their natural state. They could live anywhere, but they mostly choose to live in hot deserts like the Sahara, where the climate is closest to their home planet. Relieved? Not so fast. Very patient people. Very methodical.  Climate where a scorching Sahara summer is the norm planet-wide. They've decided to achieve this not by taking any great action of their own, but simply by manipulating the human population into starting a runaway greenhouse effect. Have you heard the reports about the disappearing Arctic sea ice or about Antarctic ice shelves thousands of years old breaking apart in a matter of weeks? Do you read about the recent winter heat wave up in Canada? Global warming, they say. Listen carefully on a hot day this summer. You may hear a faint unearthly music on the wind. I have one more story to share on this Thriller Thursday episode. Up next, it's a tale written by J. M. Sinomo. It's called The Trunk. Nothing goes better with chocolate than vanilla. And nothing goes better with the darkness than vampires. So we've combined all of them into a new blend of weird dark roast coffee called Very Vampilla.  So good, you'll want to sink your fangs into the fresh roasted bag itself. Weird dark roast Very Vampilla, the only thing at steak, sorry, not sorry, bad pun, is your dissatisfaction with your old coffee. Sip it while the sun is down if you're one of the undead. Or when the sun is up if you just feel dead and need a bit of a boost. Get your Weird Dark Roast Very Vampilla at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. The Trunk by J. M. Sinomo. Moving Day. A chance to start fresh in a new place. New opportunities. New community. New home. Home. Not just a house. To Eric Sherman, this was a place he could finally call home. No ex-wives to hound him for alimony. No disapproving parents to question his absence of faith and atheist lifestyle. No bitchy neighbors threatening to call the authorities about his over-the-top Halloween displays. No, this house was different. For one, it was in a more rural and secluded county. It was no HOA to worry about. His nearest neighbor was almost half a mile away. Before Eric had moved in, he made it a point to go and meet him and ask some questions about the community. So how long have you lived around here, Mr. Holt? Eric asked. Ah, hell. The old man began. Call me Henry. Everyone else around these parts does. Henry took a long drag from his cigarette. But to answer your question, we've been here my whole life. I inherited the house and little farm from my pa after he passed in seven to five. Henry extinguished what was left of his cigarette in a small glass ashtray before slipping another one out of its wrinkled pack. You grow anything on the farm? Eric asked. Henry gestured over his shoulder, swirling smoke through the air with his newly lit cigarette. Just some squash in the lake. In the fall, I grow pumpkins and let the city folk come and pick them for Halloween. You like Halloween, son?  Ever since he was a boy, Halloween had been his favorite holiday. He enjoyed being scared and using his extensive collection of decorations and props to scare others. Yes, sir, I do.  Sometimes we'd even make a little haunted walk through in our yard. Some of the neighbors said our displays were too intense and made too much noise. Henry chuckled and took another long drag. Well, Henry began, you don't have to worry about that around here. I'm your closest neighbor and I love all that spooky stuff. Noise won't be your problem, neither. My hearing's been going these past few years, so if you want to rile up the folk to come out this way for pumpkins and trick-or-treating, I say have at it. The two men chatted for a few more hours. Eric told Henry about some of his more gruesome Halloween displays, and Henry told Eric about which shops were closest and had the best prices. Well, Henry, Eric said as he shook the old man's hand, I look forward to living up the road from you. Same here, son! Henry replied, treat that old house good, like all old things, handle her with care, and she'll treat you right. A week later, Eric was finishing unloading the boxes from the moving truck and into the old country house. He wiped a sweat from his forehead, gazed up at his new home, and let out a satisfied home. The farmhouse was huge, much bigger than Eric's last house, and more than enough for a bachelor and his dog, a border collie named Searsie. Eric wasn't bothered by the extra space. More room to store props and decorate with macabre knickknacks. Horror and grotesquities were not reserved solely for Halloween. Eric enjoyed adorning his shelves, mantles, and countertops with skulls, bones, old crumbling books, and other bizarre curios he acquired over the years. As he was carrying the last of the Halloween boxes up to the attic, Eric stumbled, sending the box crashing to the floor. He frantically pulled open the cardboard flaps and sighed with relief. Nothing had broken. He then turned to see what had caused him to lose his footing. There, at the base of the attic steps, was a noticeably loose floorboard. Eric grabbed a hammer, nails, and flashlight from his toolbox and made his way to the attic doorway. He clicked the flashlight on to find the best place to hammer the board down, when he noticed something tucked away just under the loose board. Using the claw end of the hammer, Eric pried the other nails out of the floorboard. The space beneath the floor had an old, musty smell. The kind of odor one expects to smell in a second-hand shop or antique store. As the beam from his flashlight scanned the dust-caped alcove, Eric finally saw what had caught his eye.  Eric lifted the box from his hiding place and wiped the dust from it with his shirt sleeve. The box was made of very sturdy wood that had been painted black by its creator. The lid was slightly dumbed and secured with a large antique lock. Emblazoned across the front of the lid were letters that Eric instantly recognized as Hebrew. Eric rubbed his stubbled chin as he tried to make out the letters. He had taken Hebrew lessons as a child, but he hadn't studied or read anything in the language since his bar mitzvah. Now, in his late 30s, the letters seemed alien to him. He thought about calling his mother and asking her what it said, but their relationship had been rocky ever since she told him that she could not accept that he had abandoned his faith. At any rate, Eric knew he had to see what was inside. He went back to his toolbox and returned once again, this time with a pair of bolt cutters. Eric placed the cutters on the lock and with one firm squeeze, the lock snapped in half. He removed the remnants of the broken lock from the latch and, without warning, the lid flew open with a horrible screech. Eric jumped back from the sudden noise. After taking several deep breaths, he clutched his chest and laughed a bit to himself. He walked back over to the now opened trunk and peered inside. Eric's eyes lit up as they had at Henry's when he mentioned Halloween.  But among the various oddities, the most impressive was an antique jester marionette. The puppet glared up at Eric with lifeless blue eyes and a sardonic grin that was thinly framed by a pair of blood red lips. Eric reached toward the limp figure to inspect it when, with a loud wooden snap, its mouth popped open. Oh, crap! Eric gasped as he recoiled and withdrew his hand from the marionette. His heart began racing and the sound of pumping blood filled his ears. From the downstairs living room, Searsie had begun to bark. It's all right, girl! Eric shouted. Daddy was just being a wuss. As courage crept its way back into Eric's body, he noticed a small piece of paper in the puppet's mouth. He slipped the paper out of the doll's open maw and found the same Hebrew lettering on it. Must be your name, Eric wondered aloud. With that, he placed everything back in the trunk and decided he would ask Henry if he knew anything about it tomorrow morning. Eric sat on Henry's porch as the blazing autumn sun beat down on him. Though it was still early in the morning, the temperature had already reached an uncomfortable 91 degrees. This heat and the accompanying humidity were not uncommon for the area, but it was more than Eric was used to. Sweat drops had already formed on Eric's forehead and his clothes began to cling to his body with sweat. A mysterious trunk sat on the small patio table in between the two men. Any idea what it could be? Eric asked Henry as the two studied the box and its contents. Looks like a lot of weird stuff! Henry replied. Hell, son! Thought you was into all that spooky stuff! Eric chuckled. Henry had a good point. This was the exact type of thing Eric would go out of his way to find at antique stores and estate sales. Eric was about to reply when Henry gestured to the inscription on the trunk. Ain't those them Jewish letters? Henry asked. Eric nodded as he took a sip of water from his bottle. Yeah, Eric replied. Hebrew, was the previous owner Jewish? Henry let out a deep sigh and shook his head solemnly. Now my paw and I always had our suspicions about curts. Henry began. The old fellow that lived in that house before you, mean old bastard, thick German accent, bought the place he used living in around 1950.   Eric looked at Henry with a steady gaze, swaddled the lump that had built up in his throat. My family is Jewish, Henry. They escaped the Nazis in Poland and fled to America when the war was over. Henry placed a hand on Eric's shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. Son, I know it might seem strange living in that place knowing what you know now, replied Henry, but maybe this is restitution of sorts. That old prick is dead and buried. Now you live in his house and you've reclaimed something that belonged to your kin. Yes, sir, this is just your people reclaiming what is rightfully theirs. Eric forced a smile and looked down at the box The puppet met his gaze with its own cruel smile. Eric turned back to Henry, but why wouldn't the realtor have said something about this? Henry let out a laugh. Even if they knew the old fool's history, do you really think that'd be something they'd advertise? Henry replied. Eric knew he was right. No sane person would stop at a real estate listing that read rural farmhouse, country living, former fascist occupant. Eric thanked Henry for his time, gathered up the trunk and its inhabitants and started to walk down the dirt road that led to his house. Henry called after Eric, Whatcha gonna do with that creepy puppet? Eric turned and replied, Well, Halloween's in a couple weeks. I think you'll look pretty good on my mantle. Before long, Eric had started putting up his Halloween display. He spent years purchasing and collecting the most grotesque and gory pieces he could find. His once scenic front yard was now an avatois littered with limbs and heads festooned with intestines and manned by blood-soaked animatronic clowns. Henry came by a few times a week to see how the displays were coming along. Each time he'd ask Eric if it was finished, and each time Eric would tell him there was always room for more. Inside the farmhouse was more tame by comparison, but still it had its fair share of horror. Actual skulls and bones Eric had acquired from various collectors adorned his walls. Antique surgery tools and dental phantoms sat proudly on his end tables and counters. Preserved rodents, bats and spiders occupied his mantle, along with the contents of the trunk, the marionette taking center stage. Eric had decided to name the marionette Jerry. Both he and Henry agreed the puppet's angular features, rectangular head and broad smile made it look like a medieval Jerry Seinfeld. Eric had just finished putting up a few more decorations and lights when he decided to turn in for the evening. The heat was still pretty intense during the day and all of the outdoor decorating had drained the energy out of him. He took Searcy on her nighttime walk, making sure to pick up after her. Though dog feces can be quite scary, they were not welcome in his display. Eric and Searcy came back inside and Eric told her it was time for bed. The dog curled up on her favorite wing-backed chair, put her head down and blew air out of her nose the way a disappointed child would respond if he told him it was time for bed. Eric crossed the living room toward the stairs leading up to his room. As he reached for the light switch, he turned toward his dog. Good night, Searcy. You were such a good girl today. Searcy did not get up or even open her eyes, but her tail began to wag energetically to show him she understood. Eric then turned toward the mantle. Good night, Jerry. Keep an eye on the other decorations for me, will you? As if in response, Jerry's mouth snapped open with that distinct wooden click sound. Searcy began to whimper and growl in her sleep as the hair on her scruff bristled. Eric felt all the little hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he stared at the puppet in shocked disbelief. Calm down, he thought to himself, it's just an old doll. He made his way cautiously over to the mantle, his eyes locked in a staring contest with Jerry's. Eric reached out with a trembling hand to close the puppet's mouth, expecting the thing to spring to life at any minute. He placed a finger on Jerry's chin and slowly pushed its mouth closed. Eric sighed with relief and made his way back to the light switch, never taking his eyes off of Jerry. I'll find some wood glue in the morning and take care of that jaw problem you got there, Jerry, Eric joked, maybe even give you a fresh coat of paint. With that, Eric turned out the lights and went to his room to have one of the most troubling sleeps of his adult life. That night Eric could not sleep. His dreams were a labyrinth of nightmares that he struggled to escape. Images of Jerry and his terrible grin haunted Eric's every wakeless second, forcing him to jolt awake and scan the room for the demonic doll. Every creak, every tap, every subtle noise caused Eric to spring awake. It was getting to the point where he wasn't sure if it was better to just stay awake and try to take a nap in the morning. At around 6 a.m., a new noise had shocked Eric from his bed. Downstairs he could hear the distinct sounds of seercy barking and snarling. Eric felt a knot form in his stomach. Maybe it's just a rat? Eric hoped as he climbed out of bed. The dog's barking grew louder and more fierce. Eric knew he had to go downstairs and investigate but fear slowed his movements to a glacial pace. The stairs from the second floor creaked with unease as he crept downstairs to see what seercy was barking at. Eric peered through the living room doorway. However, what he saw was more annoying than startling. His mantle display had been knocked down and strewn about the floor. Broken display boxes and animal specimens littered the area rug that was below the mantle and in front of the fireplace. The one startling aspect of the scene was that Jerry did not fall all the way to the ground. His marionette controls and strings had snagged the edge of the mantle causing the puppet to hang and sway like a corpse on a noose. Jerry's mouth hung open as seercy barked and snarled at him. Seercy, Eric yelled, what did you do? Despite Eric's accusations, the dog continued to bark and lunge at the dangling puppet. Eric grabbed seercy's collar and dragged her toward the kitchen. He told seercy to sit and stay, shutting the door behind him as he returned to the mess she had left. Eric got a broom and began to sweep the broken glass from the rug. From the look of things, he would not be able to save any of the pieces. Once he was sure he had cleaned up all the glass, Eric untangled the marionette string and sat Jerry back on the mantle. I guess seercy thinks you're creepy too, Eric said aloud to the doll. As he turned to let seercy out of the kitchen, Eric felt a sharp pain in the bottom of his foot. Eric screamed as he grabbed his foot to see what he had stepped on.  Eric hobbled over to the couch and examined his injury. He pushed on the skin around the glass to force it to the surface. He plucked the shard from his foot as blood began to stream faster from the puncture. Eric hopped over to the bathroom, cleaned his wound, and covered it with a bandage. Upon returning to the living room, Eric found Jerry slumped over and lying on his side. Eric limped over to the mantle not wanting to put pressure on his foot. As he reached for the puppet, Jerry's mouth snapped open again. Eric quickly recoiled his hand. Before he had time to register this new fear, he was startled again by a loud bang at his front door. Eric cried out in surprise. Eric, you in there? Henry's familiar voice called from the front door. Still slightly panicked, Eric hobbled over to the front foyer and answered the door. Eric smiled a weak smile at Henry. Hey, Henry! Eric said. How's it going? Henry looked Eric up and down. He could tell things were out of the ordinary. I was just going for my morning stroll and decided to see how the display was coming along. Henry replied. But from the look things, you've had quite the morning. Eric nodded and explained to Henry what had transpired since the dog had made the mess. Henry shook his head.  Well, at any rate, I just wanted to say your yard decorations are getting pretty sick, even for my taste. Eric gave Henry a quizzical look. Henry, I haven't added anything to the outside display. Henry looked confused and the two stepped outside onto the front porch. Dangling from the trees were dozens of dead mice and birds swaying lazily in the light breeze. Eric swallowed hard. He was suddenly aware of the strings that were wrapped around each animal were identical to the ones that were on Jerry. Henry, Eric stammered. I didn't hang these. Henry gave Eric a stern look. Listen, boy! Henry started. I'm all for a good scare here and there, but this may drive business away from my farm. I'm asking as a friend, please take him down. Eric, not looking down from the ghoulish menagerie, nodded silently. Henry patted him on the shoulder. I'm happy you're getting into the spirit of things, but don't go getting carried away. With that, Henry started back down the dirt road toward his house. Eric retrieved the ladder from the shed and began the grim task of removing the lifeless creatures from his trees. As he finished taking the last morbid ornament down, he heard Searcy barking from inside the house. Eric climbed down the ladder and burst the front door. To his horror, he found Jerry sitting upright in Searcy's chair. Eric rushed over to the puppet, snatched it off the chair and shoved it into the fireplace. He then shoved some newspaper and scrap wood under Jerry and struck a match. As he set the ghastly pyre ablaze, Jerry's mouth fell open once again with a hideous click. That night, Eric gathered what remained of the trunks' contents and threw them in the trash. He snapped a picture of the box with his phone and, begrudgingly, sent it in an email to his mother. He hated contacting her after they're falling out, but she knew how to read Hebrew. As he hit Send, he glanced over at the fireplace. The fire continued to blaze, but all remnants of Jerry had become smoldering ash. Eric just walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID simply read, Mom. He took a deep breath and answered, Hey, Mom. Hello, Eric. She responded, I just got your email. What exactly am I looking at? Eric did not want to tell her all that had happened since he found the trunk. It's this really old box that was left by the previous owner. I can't make out what the Hebrew says on the lid. Eric heard his mother sigh. You don't even remember enough Hebrew to read a short word like that, his mother scolded. Well, at any rate, I hope you left that thing alone.  Why? Eric asked. What's it say? Daibuk, his mother responded. Old superstition. They're like demons or spirits. The word actually means adhere or cling. Eric took a deep breath, but before he could respond, he heard a sharp yelp from the living room.  Eric hung up the phone and bolted into the living room. The sight that greeted him sent his head spinning. Searsie was thrashing about on the floor in front of the fireplace. Petruding from the ashes was a long, sickly, pale arm. Its skeletal fingers were firmly wrapped around the dog's neck. Searsie, Eric shouted. With that, the arm gave a quick twist, breaking the dog's neck with a terrible snap. The arm raised Searsie's lifeless form into the air. Then, with one swift motion, threw the dog toward the front door. Eric stood frozen in horror, not knowing what to do or where to run. Before his senses could fully return, all the lights suddenly snapped off and the fire went out. Eric groped behind him for the kitchen door, eyes fixated on the unlit fireplace. Eric's phone buzzed violently in his hand. The screen illuminated. The caller ID said, Jerry. Before he could do anything, the phone accepted the call and switched to speaker mode. A shrill, unearthly screech emanated from the device as images of an eyeless, daunt face in jester paint flashed on the screen. Suddenly the phone went dark and the screeching stopped. In the darkness, Eric heard something slump onto the floor in the direction of the fireplace. As he turned to run into the kitchen, he heard the sickening thumping of the creature crawling toward him. Henry stood in Eric's yard. An old cigarette clung to his lips. He shook his head. Mr. Holt, I'll ask you one more time. What were you doing in the deceased's yard so early in the morning? Henry took a long drag from the cigarette. I told you, officer, me and him had become very close. We were fixing to be partners around Halloween time. He'd spook the youngins and city folks and I'd sell them pumpkins. Poor kid. I knew he was in a bad place. Told me about his wife leaving him. Told me about not being on good terms with his folks. I knew something was off, but never guessed he'd do something like this. The two men turned around to re-examine the horror of which they spoke. In a tree, high above the Halloween grotesquities, on Circe, a coarse rope pulled tight around her neck. Thinking beside her, swung Eric. Face made up to resemble the marionette sitting upon the branch, suspending them. In a classic 1950s sci-fi style podcast called Auditory Anthology. Also on the site, you can visit the store for Weird Darkness t-shirts, mugs and other merchandise. Plus, it's where you can find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression, addiction or thoughts of harming yourself or others. And if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell of your own, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. All stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction and you can find links to the stories or the authors in the show notes. Wonderland was written by Riley Vanderlip. Eight o'clock in the morning is by Ray Nelson. The room where the stars live is from Quiet Please. And the trunk was written by J. M. Sonoma. Weird Darkness is a registered trademark. Copyright Weird Darkness. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Proverbs 20 verse 22. Do not say, I'll pay you back for this wrong. Wait for the Lord and he will deliver you. And a final thought. Nothing you wear is more important than your smile. Connie Stevens. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.