S10 Ep17: S10E17 - "A Minor Disturbance" - Drew Blood's Dark Tales Podcast

Hey, friends. It's me again. You know what's really easy to do and even easy to forget?

Help me out and hit that like button if you're listening on YouTube.

If you're listening somewhere else, what the hell?

Pop in and give me a thumb. Say hi while you're at it.

Helps me a ton with that damn algorithm.

And besides, it's always nice to see you there.

All right there. Let's hop on that crazy train.

Oh, shit.

Yeah, I see you. Welcome back, Brent.

And have we got a lot to celebrate today? All right, let's begin.

It's action day for tolerance and respect between people. Got that covered.

Who's more tolerant than your old pal Drew? Let's see.

It's also the international day of multilateralism and diplomacy for peace.

It seems pretty peaceful to me out there.

I think that one's going off without a hitch.

Anything else I'm missing, Chester?

Oh, that's right. It's also a national hairball awareness day.

Geez, what the hell did you eat, boy?

One of them cap a berry things?

Kind of look like the neighbor's cat, actually.

Damn, I'm sure I'll be hearing about that later.

Ah, anyway, come on in, friend.

We'll let those special interest types do to celebrate in the night.

Me? I'm on the clock.

All right, so check out simplyscarypodcast.com and become a patron.

For as little as $7.99 a month, you can get their entire catalog ad free,

and available to download or stream, plus a bunch of exclusive stuff I understand.

Also, check out patreon.com for its last Drew blood sometime, huh?

I'd really hate for you to spend your hard-earned money on someone else, you know.

Anyway, tonight we welcome back our old pal WB Stickle.

He's been a busy boy, defending the nation and whatnot,

but now he's back in full force.

In this one, a rider and his wife are settling in for the night at their remote Arizona home.

It's late, it's hot, but there's music drifting in through his bedroom window,

and he just can't place the tune.

So without further delay, from author WB Stickle, I give you a minor disturbance.

Pleased with the progress he had made over the last two hours, 12 full pages,

Pete Nielsen flipped his laptop shut and set it on the floor next to his bed.

Break time, he declared, cracking his aching knuckles.

On the decent riding roll I take it?

A soft feminine voice queried from the master bathroom.

Pete looked to his left and was wholly unsurprised to find his lovely wife, Ellen,

standing in front of the bathroom's full-length mirror, naked as the day she was born.

Um, yeah, he said, sitting up.

At this rate, I'll have the new novel completed in another month.

But let's not focus on that right now.

Ellen found his eyes in the mirror's reflection and smiled.

I know that pitchbuster.

Normally I'd say hell yes, but I just worked a double at the copper queen,

and I'm too damn tired to be any fun.

The copper queen was the tavern in nearby Busby, where Ellen worked as a waitress and sometimes

tended bar. Due to worker shortages, she often had to stay for back-to-back shifts on Friday and

Saturday nights. Not sure what you mean, Pete said innocently. I'm just admiring my wife's

lovely body, that's all. After putting her shoulder-length salt and pepper hair in a bun,

Ellen turned off the bathroom light and strolled across the bedroom to her side of the bed.

Hey, at 53, I'll take it. She said, and she slid beneath the single sheet already covering

Pete's legs. That's not very fair, you know. Pete said grinning. What isn't?

You're not wearing any jammies? Too warm. She said, which was true. It had been a particularly hot

day, and though the Arizona desert air typically cooled by a dozen or more degrees when the sunset,

tonight it had opted to stick around for its own double shift. You complaining?

Not at all, said Pete. We'll do naughty things to each other in the morning.

Yeah, we will. Just not too early. And after a coffee, of course.

Mm-hmm. Ellen muleed. Now that's my kind of for-play.

She turned on her side, facing away from Pete, and switched her bedside lamp off.

All right, baby, Pete said, giving her a quick pack on the cheek. I'm staying up a bit to do a

little more riding. Is the light from my lamp going to bother you? No, let's go in to stop this

sleep train. She responded drowsily. You go run ahead and-

She abruptly stopped speaking, and Pete watched her entire body spasm.

Before he could think to ask if she was okay, she was prone to not-time leg cramps.

She sat up, exposing her breasts, and exclaimed, Pete, what's wrong with bins?

Taken a bag, Pete swung his gaze to the bedroom doorway, where their chocolate lab Bentley

lay on his belly, fast asleep by the looks of it. What do you mean? He's over by the door

minding his own business. Lucky's been for the last three hours.

Ellen's face bunched up with confusion, and her upper half melted back into the mattress.

Oh, Jesus. I could have sworn I heard him howling outside.

No, Pete said, watching the dog inhale an exhale. He's right there snoozing away. I'm looking

right at him. Damn, babe, you really are out of it. The sheet near the bottom of the bed twitched,

and he felt one of Ellen's feet tap playfully against his knee. Hey, cut me some slag buster.

I worked my tail off today. I know you did, but that was weird. It was like you fell asleep and

started dreaming while you were talking to me. Tells you how tired I is. Ellen said, pulling the

sheet over her chest. I changed my mind. Why don't you shut that lad off and fall asleep with me?

Pete glanced down at the floor where his laptop sat, waiting like a loyal pet.

Soon, he said, I've still got a few more pages in me, and I don't think I can rest until I get

them out. Ellen's left shoulder bounced up and down, and soot yourself.

An hour more, and that's it. Pete assured her, promise. He leaned over to give her a final peck

on the cheek, but halted when he noticed a thin hardcover book sticking out from beneath her pillow.

But what's this, he said, and gently dislodged a jacketless book.

New memoirs perhaps? Or celebrity autobiography? For reasons all her own, Ellen almost exclusively

read memoirs and autobiographies. Look a little closer. She muttered. Pete examined the words

printed on the book's buckram cover. The thief of always? He said, beemen with wonder.

In the 29 years they had been together, she had never once shown interest in any of the books he owned.

When did you start reading Cloth Barker?

Uh-uh. Ellen murmured.

Let's talk he more sleepy. Ask me again in the morning.

Pete opened the book and flipped through the pages until he reached the author's artistic

renderer in the frictus encarna. His two favorite characters in the YA masterpiece.

Will do, he said, admire in the strange artwork. Now get to sleep, you silly goose.

When a few seconds passed and no response came, Pete checked the woman's status and found that

she was out cold. Good for you, he thought, as he closed the book and exchanged it for his laptop.

Over by the bedroom door, Bentley snuffled and whined while his paws twitched frenetically.

Opened the old boy caught whatever dream animal he was chasing.

Pete coaxed the laptop out of power save mode and got back to work on his own novel.

67 minutes and three pages later, Pete saved his updates and peaked at the time.

Shit, he said, without thinking. Guess I'm a big fat liar, huh?

Next to him, Ellen rolled onto her back and babbled a string of unintelligible words.

Sorry, Ells, Pete whispered. Go back to sleep.

The suggestion seemed to penetrate her dose and psyche because she immediately

flopped onto her side and resumed that circadian breathing thing people did when they entered

sleep. Chastising himself for being so absent-minded, Pete shook his head and tucked his laptop into

the narrow gap that lay between the bed and his knot stand. He was about to turn off his bedside

lamp when he noted that Bentley was no longer lying in the bedroom doorway.

At some point in the last hour, the dog had relocated himself to a spot of carpet near the foot

of the bed and presently sat with his ears perked up and his snout pointed toward the bedroom

sole window. What is it, boy? Pete whispered. The dog's tail thumped twice on the carpet,

but he didn't take his eyes off the window. Pete frowned. Something out there?

Bentley looked up at him and whined before doing three circles and curling up in the ball.

Okay, weirdo. Pete said quietly. The dog herumped that that and closed his eyes.

Pete stared at the animal for a tross, then whispered good knot to the old boy and switched off his

lamp. In the ensuing darkness, he scooted down the mattress and rolled onto his side, basing his

wife. On any other knot, he would have pressed himself against her to see if she was feeling

peckish. But since they already had that schedule for the morning, he simply shut his eyes and

waited for the sandman to come calling. To help speed up the process, Pete did as Ellen recently

suggested and engaged in a little mindful breathing. While he had never previously put much stock

into new agey stuff like mindfulness, Ellen talked to him into giving me the try after a recent

nightmare made it difficult for him to fall asleep for three straight knots. Although his first

couple of attempts at it went poorly, Ellen gave him some concentration on the tips that helped

keep his mind from wandering. Thereafter, he was consistently able to knot off within 15 minutes

of closing his eyes. Opened the technique worked even faster to knot, Pete zeroed in on his

inhalations and exhalations, and called to mind the most boring thing he could think of. Ben

Stein discussing voodoo economics in Ferris Bueller's day off. When that eventually lost its sway,

he switched to counting sheep and oldie but an effective goodie. A warm drowsiness began to

creep over him as he approached triple digits. He was on the verge of drifting off when his ears

noticed the music. Music, he thought, coming back to full consciousness. Curious if he had

imagined it, Pete kept his eyes shut and listened closely to the Arizona night. Sure enough,

there it was. A faint yet rhythmic sound floating through the bedrooms open window like a slightly

nauseous smell. Music out here? At what? Pete said checking the digital clock on his knot stand.

1137 PM it read. In most of the other places he had lived in his life, all cities or suburbs of

cities, the sound of music near midnight on a Saturday evening wouldn't obstruct him as all

that peculiar. Those places had been rough with people and people were inherently noisy.

Where he and Ellen currently lived on the other hand was a different story.

Smack dabbed in the middle of the southern Arizona desert. They were about as oscillated as one

could get in the continental United States. The nearest town, Busby, set a good 10 miles to the south

and their closest neighbor, a rancher named Henry Wilcox, lived two miles due east.

The only noises they heard this far out came from the local wildlife, the screeches of hawks and

vultures during the day, foxes and coyotes at night. What was presently coming in through the window

was none of those. Fuck! Pete said quietly, knowing full well that his brain wouldn't allow itself

to rest until he satisfactorily sussed out why he was here in music way out here in the middle

of nowhere. With a subdued grumble he set up and resumed listening to the night.

The music droned on, soft and melodic and very far away, miles and miles away maybe,

which he supposed was possible, given the flatness and aridity of the surrounded landscape.

He recalled seeing the documentary on wolves that posited the wolf's howl could travel

up to 10 miles over open terrain. Why then, he reasoned shouldn't music be able to do the same.

This in mind, Pete reckoned the sound might well have been coming from Henry Wilcox's ranch.

In fact, as he was considering this, a recent memory broke free of its cerebral morons and

took center stage in his mind. The memory of his last trip to the hardware store in Bizby,

during which he had run into Henry while perusing the plumbing aisle.

After they had exchanged a normal pleasantries, Henry had blathered on about some end of summer

bash he was throwing in the coming weeks, acclaimed backed up by all the audio visual supplies in his

cart. Well, there you go, Pete thought, as he slid back down and repositioned his head on his

pillow. Old Henry's throwing his party. Good for him. Glad to put that little mystery to bed,

Pete shut his eyes again and patiently started over with the mindful breathing and sheet counting.

He had barely cracked 30 when a series of random images flickered in his mind's eye.

Him and Ellen sitting on an unfamiliar beach, Ellen pointing and laughing at something near the

horizon. Pete walking across the air was on a desert by himself with vulture circling high above.

Dead animals litter in the streets of Sierra Vista, hollow-eyed children staring at him from

their hospital beds, Bentley thrashing about on the living room carpet. His brown coat haven't

turned black as not. No, Pete growled, not to shit again, not now.

More images came, each more disturbing than the last. When the final one came and went,

Pete reached up and began massaging his temples. This was how it usually went when the left

field images assailed him. A couple of bursts typically at night as he lay in bed thinking about the

day. Then a trickle more and that was it. On occasion, they went off-script and struck during the

daytime while he was filling his gas tank or waiting in line at the grocery store. But those were

few and far between. As far as Pete could tell, these image bursts were directly linked to his

insomnia-inducent nightmare, arriving as they had on the hills of that awful reverie.

Initially, Pete believed them to be a daydream version of what occurred in the Big Nightmare.

But he changed his tune after the second time they struck, as it became clear that they were more

like repressed memories. Only these were false repressed memories, because none of what occurred

in them had actually happened. Ventant and exasperated saw Pete for the third time focused on his

breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth, in, out, in, out. He pictured a single sheep

in his mind and was about to resume counting when the music grew slightly louder.

It was only by a few decibels, but it was discernible enough to make the sheep disappear.

God damn it! He said, ears homing back into the sound.

Ellen muttered an indesoperable response. Ignoring her, Pete listened as hard as he could to the music,

to see if he could place its genre. If he could at least do that, maybe his brain would let it go

and finally allow him to get some sleep. If only, he thought, as the music persisted.

There was a definite repeat and melody to it, with small variations in tone.

Pete's God told him it was probably some flavor of country, since Henry fancyed himself a cowboy,

despite only no livestock, and everyone knew if you were a cowboy, then you listened to country music.

Personally, Pete had never understood the Twingy genres mass appeal. Aside from the occasional

Johnny Cash and Patsy Klein did, his taste ranged from heavy metal to good old fashioned rock and roll,

bands like Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors, and Black Sabbath, or on the slightly heavier

side, Slayer, Metallica, and Anthrax. What he was hearing didn't sound like any of those.

What his ears detected was too cyclical, too subdued, and if he wasn't mistaken, it was

Faden, decibel by decibel, growing quieter every few seconds.

After a minute, it slipped beneath his low level to not as such that Pete no longer hear it.

Wondering if the song had simply ended, he waited to see if another song started up, but none did.

Thank God, he thought. Pete listened to short while longer before cautiously returning to his

sheet-counton. This time, the Sandman was waiting for him. He hadn't even reached

ten when the Sleep God blew sand in his eyes and ushered him off to Dreamland.

Some time later, a claxon-like noise ripped Pete from a most unpleasant dream.

Jesus, he exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. What the hell's happening?

His panicky eyes darted all about the darkened room, searching for the sound's origin.

Unable to pinpoint it, Pete reached her Ellen's arm to see if she knew what was going on.

Ellen, he started to say, but went quiet as it dawned on him that there was no blaring claxon.

The noise that woke him was a mere figment of his imagination. Something his dozen mind had

fabricated to rouse him from the unpleasantness of his dream, the details of which were already

slipping away. He knew there had been fire, a lot of it, resulting from something like a nuclear blast.

Everything else was a big fat blur.

Hell's bells, he said, reclining against the bed's headboard.

Realizing his heart was racing, Pete took a deep breath and gave the thump and muscle a chance

to slow down. While he waited, he listened to the sound of Ellen breathing beside him.

Her respirations were as strong and steady as they had been before he fell asleep.

Relieved his outburst, hadn't disturbed her, Pete moved his focus to the bedroom window

and what lay beyond that darkened rectangle. The music was back, he noticed.

Only it was a smidge louder than before, as if Henry had decided to play a new album and crank it

up a tad. No, Pete thought after listening to it for a few seconds. It's not just louder,

it's closer. Unsure what made him think so, Pete closed his eyes and concentrated on the music.

Within a half minute, his gut convinced him that it wasn't fact closer, which meant it wasn't

coming from Henry's ranch after all. So where then, Pete inquired with a scale.

He supposed it might have been coming from a vehicle parked on North Juniper. The small road he

technically lived on, despite it sitting a quarter mile away from his recessed homestead.

There were several scenic overlooks up there where teens from nearby Bispy and Sierra Vista

often convened to hang out, listen to music and get high. It was conceivable that a car with a

decent stereo had parked at one such overlook before moving on to a nearer one. If that were indeed

the case, teens up there hanging out, listening to music, Pete was okay with it. He'd gotten up to

his spare share of mischief in his youth. Why shouldn't they? As long as they didn't venture

down his long driveway, they could get up to all the mischief they wanted. There, Pete whispered,

mystery solved again. Confident he had sufficiently solved that part of the mystery,

Pete went back to deciphering the music genre. He couldn't say why, but doing so was very important

to him. He listened for five more minutes and concluded that it wasn't country or rock,

nor was it blues, jazz, or bluegrass. It had more of an electronic repetitive feel to it.

Industrial maybe, like ministry or nine-inch nails, or some arcane offshoot of techno,

possibly EDM or house. Nettled that he still couldn't say for sure, Pete eased himself out of

bed and sculpt his way through the house to the kitchen. A notoriously light sleeper,

Bentley perceived his master's movements and dutifully trailed after him.

Oh, Pete said when the dog rushed by him. You must be thinking it's treat time for some reason.

He flipped on the kitchen lights and found the old boy sitting in front of the pantry's closed

double doors. Yep, that's what you're thinking. Bentley swapped a paw at the left side door,

knowing full well that his jar of milkbone sat on the other side of it.

Pete edged past the dog to the refrigerator and opened the door. Sorry, pal, it's too late for that.

He peered inside the fridge and extracted the lemonade pitcher he had mixed up earlier.

Call me crazy, but lemonade always sharpens my senses, and I need them sharp to help me figure

out this music business. Bentley regarded him with a vapid stare.

All right, you got me. Pete said as he poured himself a glass,

mindful of shit. I was just thirsty and wanted some lemonade. He guzzled the glass's contents,

placed the glass in the sink and returned the pitcher to the fridge. That's better.

Bentley wound it, Pete, and stood in his way. Standing your ground, eh?

The dog's tail wagged hopefully.

Fine, said Pete, cave in in and retrieving a milkbone from the pantry.

He dropped the biscuit onto the kitchen floor and headed back into the bedroom.

Bentley made quick work of the treat and followed Pete into the room,

curling up near the foot of the bed. Gotta get some shudder, Pete whispered as he got himself

resettled in bed. But first, he trailed off there and listened to the music.

He had barely fixated on the drone in melody when it abruptly loudened,

startling him so badly his whole body spasms.

Son of a bitch! He cried, clutching at his bedsheet.

Though he couldn't see anything in the darkened room, Pete glanced to his ride and waited

for Ellen to chastise him for waking her up. For sure, this outburst was enough to ruin her slumber.

However, an area of Pete came from her side of the bed.

Guessing she had popped an ambient in the bathroom, Pete shitted his focus back to the window

and the music streaming through it, whose volume by his estimation had jumped threefold,

maybe four, meaning it was now coming from somewhere on his property.

Mother fucker, Pete said, thinking whoever was in the hypothetical car at the overlook

had stupidly decided to descend his long driveway. You dumbasses!

Trying to recall if the shotguns in his gunsafe were loaded, Pete peered into the darkness

that lay beyond the bedroom window and waited for his pupils to die late. As they did,

vague moonlit shapes came into view. His tundra parked in the driveway,

the cluster of cacti growing in the front yard. The hills stood in this property.

What he didn't see were signs of another vehicle, like headlights.

Was the vehicle's driver attempting to navigate the winding pathway by moonlight?

Pete frowned at the dangerous notion and as he did, the music jumped another two decibels.

It was undeniably electronic whatever it was, but it no longer sounded like conventional music to Pete.

It had a busy chaotic avant-garde feel to it, like something Mike Patton from Faith no more,

and Mr. Bungle, my composer, on a weekend bender, and louder still a groove,

jumping another five decibels.

God damn it, Pete said. I'll scour in the murky landscape outside his window.

If he were a bedding man, he would have wagered with a clear conscience that the source had

closed within a hundred feet of the house, putting it just past a stone archway that delineated

his front yard from the surrounding desert. Okay assholes, Pete said, shaking his head.

Winchester time it is. He switched on his bedside lamp and shook Ellen's shoulder hard to

rouse her. If shit was about to go down, she needed to be conscious and dressed. Ellen, honey wake up.

Ellen murmured something but didn't budge. They be, Pete hissed. Come on.

He went to shake her again, but her skin seemed to change under his palm, going from soft and warm

to cold and rubbery. Ellen? A swell of dizziness passed over him and everything went blurry

for a moment. Then it cleared up and the black dots began to appear. At first, Pete thought he was

imagining the dime size circles, but one after another, they continued popping up, covering his hand,

arm and shoulder. The fuck is this shit? He whimpered as they spread across his chest and

traveled down his abdomen. A gassed, he tore the sheet off his lower body and looked in horror

as a hive of them extended to the halfway point of his left thigh. His honest darted to his right

leg, but none of them were there. Fearing for his pelvic region, he squimishly lifted his

underwear's elastic band and peaked at his genitals. The dots were there too, dappling his penis and

testicles. Christ! He said, as his mind grasped for a reasonable explanation. He had said rash or

infection, but the dots were perfectly round and nature just didn't roll that way. He supposed he

could have been dreaming or hallucinating at all, except what he was experiencing seemed too vivid

and real to be either of those. Was it conceivable then that he was going crazy?

No way, Pete said, certain that crazy people never asked if they were going crazy. Only same people

did that. The faux music's volume jumped once more. Convinced to sound was coming from right

outside the window now. Pete shot a look at Bentley and called out his name.

Bentley! Bentley boy! Look at me! The dog lifted his head and gazed up at Pete. His tail

simultaneously thumped twice on the carpet. By and large, Bentley was a friendly well-mannered

animal who rarely showed aggression towards other people. The expensive obedience classes

Pete had enrolled him in had paid off nicely in that regard, as had the additional personal

protection course which taught Bentley to defend Pete and Ellen from potential aggressors,

via special verbal commands. Commands taught in German, so Bentley didn't get confused by

inadvertent conversational terms, or commands issued by those aggressors.

Okschung! Instructed Pete, Bentley snapped too as he had been instructed with his ears at the ready.

Pete said and blinked his eyes. In the span of time it took for his eyelids to come together and

split apart, a very strange thing happened. Bentley moved from his spot near the foot of the bed

to the spot right next to Pete by the nightstand. He did not walk the eighth feet that existed

between the two locations, nor did he run or pounce. It was like he had teleported himself.

Moreover, he was chomping on a new milkbone.

How did you do that? Pete said as the faux music sparked a fourth time.

Be wilder Pete looked about the room wildly, trying to make sense of what was taking place around him.

After bouncing between Bentley and Ellen, his gaze returned to the mysterious black circles on his

belly. As he inspected them, the notion that it was an infection resurfaced, causing him to worry

about Ellen. Fearing she might have the circles too, he chucked a sheet onto the floor and scanned

her back side. Seeing none of them there, he rolled her towards him so she was lying on her back

and scanned her front side. To his immense relief, she had none anywhere.

St. God, he shook her shoulder, trying to wake her. Wake up, baby! You gotta wake up now, please!

The faux music searched again, rise into the level of a full-on cacophony.

It seemed to be coming from all directions and the intensity of it hurt Pete's ear drums.

What is this? He yelled, clapping his palms over his ears.

He had no sooner covered them when the first of the holes materialized.

At least that's what Pete's brain interpreted the thing to be. A hole.

In reality, it was a jagged, dark, gray patch of air by the closet.

What looked like a large perforation in the canvas of an otherwise perfect painting,

revealing a different painting underneath. Except there was a death to this perforation,

within which thin widths of smoke swirled like twirl and snakes.

Pete had barely processed the hole's existence when eight more like it broke out across the bedroom.

Inside these, he discerned things stranger than smoke. Within the one on the far wall,

he saw what appeared to be a long row of steel tables upon which lay other naked bodies riddled

with small black dots. Through the bigger one hanging in front of the bedroom window,

he observed a tall stone cylinder imbued with colorful flashing shapes.

Easily the more unnerving of the lot, however, was the hole to his rye, which completely blotted

out Ellen's head. Ellen, Pete queried, unearthed by the sight. Open beyond hope, it was just a hallucination,

a flashback from his LSD days back in college. He reached his hand toward the hole.

And to the dark gray, the appendage went, moving into the space where her head should have been.

Ellen's body trembled as his hand went further and further into the ragged hole.

When he got as deep as his elbow, Ellen turned on her side and faced them. Somehow,

despite his hand occupying what should have been the same space as her head, she seemed wholly

unaffected by the intrusion. Beginning to tremble himself, Pete retracted his arm and looked at

the hole that had just appeared over his lower body. In this one lay a most baffling vision,

a set of male hips complete with penis and testicles and a pair of stumpy legs.

One of the legs, the left, extended down to a kneecap before ending. The rye ended just beyond the

hip. On a primordial level, Pete understood that he was looking at his own legs.

Movement to his left drew his eyes to another gaping hole that hung in front of his dresser.

Inside it, something was moving. Something tall and conical,

bearing a rocking-crusted exterior that was covered with a root-locked flagella

that whipped and rippled every few seconds. Just as Pete knew that the stumps he saw were his own,

he understood with absolute certainty that this shape was a living being with an advanced intellect.

Seeming to sense Pete looking at it, the monolithic entity approached a hole from its side,

and as it did a slew of new holes materialized, followed by more and more, and soon there was nothing

left of Pete's bedroom. There was only this vast dimly lit chamber with hundreds of steel tables,

including the one holding Pete, plus the tall, colorful cylinder on his left and several more

of the conical beings. The one to Pete's rye and three others huddled around the glowing cylinder.

The one on his rye gravitated closer and halted next to Pete's table. It must have stood seven

feet tall. Who are you? Pete shouted amid the clamoring foam music. What is this?

The rocking-crusted entities flagella vibrated, and a stream of words flittered through Pete's mind.

Please do not be afraid. We are friends. Pete's hands dropped from his ears to his chest,

where a subtle, almost euphoric feeling purled about his heart.

Was that you? He yelled at the thing. More words flittered through his mind.

Yes, it is the easiest way for us to communicate. All at once the blaring noise he had mistaken for

music ceased, replaced by a portentious silence. I don't understand, Pete blurted out.

In the relative quietude, his words echoed comically through the large chamber.

We know the thing next to him replied. It's flagella quivering in concert with its response.

We are sorry. We did not intend this.

And what, Pete said lower in his voice. A minor system's failure. Our engineers are correct in it.

Pete surveilled the colorful cylinder and noticed that the three other beings flagella were

shuddering constantly as they tended to it. Their shuddering seemed to manipulate the lit shapes

as they began flickering in random patterns.

What are they doing? Pete said. Repairing the failed system. Do not worry. They have successfully

located the problem. Very soon, all will be as it was before. What's that mean, Pete fired back?

Where am I? What is this place? You would call this place an infirmary.

There was an accident. We conducted an experiment on your atmosphere. It caused a great fire.

Most of your people perished. We regret this happening. It was not our intention.

A Voltex sensation, word, and Pete's head. And he suddenly remembered that he was a truck driver,

not an author, and lived in a crappy trailer in an even crappier trailer park.

He remembered that he and Helen had divorced because neither of them could stay faithful while he

was on the road. He remembered her visiting the trailer park the day of the great inferno.

They had been sitting on the trailer's riggedy steps, discussing how they wished they had

done things differently. When the sky turned a pretty shade of pink before bursting into flames,

from which came a lethal hell of meteor-like projectiles that rained hell upon the earth.

One such projectile landed in the trailer park. Pete remembered his legs catching

fire and watching Helen's body combust. After that, there was nothing.

Everything was destroyed, he said. He surveyed the multitude of other tables in the chamber.

Each holding another injured human like him, he glanced to his right. About 10 feet away,

it was a similar table, holding the man with no arms. The rest of him was covered in black dots.

What are those, Pete asked? Sensory interfaces. To enhance the illusion we constructed for your

resting vessels until we have achieved restoration. Lotion? What are you? Wait, wait,

are you saying we're in the fucking matrix? Elon was right!

The rocking-crusted entities flagella oscillated thoughtfully. The popular cinematic contrivance

about sentient machines using humans as power supplies. We comprehend your confusion.

No, we have created a mental illusion designed to heal and incubate as we repair the damage

we caused. Pete vented a humorless laugh and searched the nearby tables for Helen and Bentley.

What about my ex-wife and dog? We are sorry. They both perished in the aftermath of our error.

We do not possess the technology to reconstitute them. They're dead? Pete gasped. Before it could

answer, the colorful cylinder began emitting a high-pitched screeching sound that quickly

filled the massive chamber. Pete saw that it had started to spin and its lights had begun to

blink in unison. The three creatures stand in near it back to way. Eyes well enough with tears.

Pete watched helplessly as the cylinder continued to spin faster and faster while its multicolored

shapes morphed into one solid white light. Please do not hate us, the nearest creature implored.

The illusion is the best we can offer you until your planet is mended. In the future,

we hope to offer our regret and forge a lasting friendship.

Sleep well, Pete Nielsen. Pete tried to tell the creature not to count on human forgiveness,

but his eyes closed before he could get it out. A beat later, the illusion reconstituted itself around him.

Somewhere in the Arizona night, a coyote hailed mournfully.

Ellen! Bentley! Pete cried as he sat up in bed,

pulls pounding, eyes squinting at the glow from his bedside lamp.

He had been having an intense dream, but the specifics of it were nebulous and fading by the second.

It had to do with fire, that much he knew. Fire and coyote's howlin' and some surreal shit

about the world enduring an unthinkable calamity. Supposing it wasn't important,

Pete glanced down at his thighs and observed that his laptop was still perched there.

Glad he hadn't thrown it onto the floor while he was sleeping. Pete saved the document he was

working on and stowed the computer under the bed. Trifted off in the middle of writing again,

Ellen murmured. She was lying on her back, struggling to keep her eyes open.

Shit, baby, Pete said. I didn't mean to wake you. No. She replied. You just shouted my name.

He scrutinized her lovely face, with its crows feet and age lines and characteristic half-green.

The sight of her there in that moment was strangely comforting to him, though he couldn't say why.

Hey, are you okay?

Absolutely. Ellen said. Her eyes closed, and her chin sagged towards him. She was out.

A snuffly noise from across the room drew Pete's gaze to Bentley's bed, where the old

puff lay on his side, his front paw twitching away like it was tapping out Morse code.

Pete smiled at this. Bentley was a good boy and a good friend. He was fortunate to have him

and Ellen in his life. Turning off his lamp, Pete yawned and nestled his head into his pillow.

What a stupid silly dream he had been having, he thought. Why he had even been dreaming something

like that. The world going very wrong. He couldn't imagine. He had the perfect wife, the perfect

dog, the perfect career. What could have possibly been wrong with the world?

And that was a minor disturbance by WB Stickel. I'll tell you what. The last time I found my

junk dappled with dots, they sure as hell weren't sensory interfaces. But don't worry about me,

friend. It's all cleared up now. A little about the author. An old friend of the show, WB Stickel,

is a writer of dark and speculative fiction who has been published in various anthologies and

magazines. And his work has been featured on top tier podcasts such as Drew Blood's Dark Tales,

Horror Hill, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, Dr. Creepin, Tales to Terrify and Nocturnal Transmissions.

Recently, WB decided to hang up his military uniform and try his hand at civilian life.

After 30 rewarding years defending the nation, he's exchanged his blues and OCPs for Turtle

Necks and Elbow Patch Quarter Royce. And is presently pursuing his dream of becoming a full-time writer.

His forthcoming collection, everything in its raffle place through the quiddity press in

print, is his first foray into the self-publishing domain. For the time being, he still lives in

upstate New York with his wife and son, and a crazy ass plot-hound named Bailey. Keep an eye out for

his website, WBStickel.com. Currently under construction, but in the meantime, you can find them on

X at WBStickel and on Instagram at READSY and Facebook under WBStickel.

In the upper menu, you'll find yourself at ChillinTalesForDarkNights.com, where you can become a

patron for as little as $5 per month, and get access to their entire audio archive, all ad-free,

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The Drew Blood's Dark Tales podcast is accepting submissions, friend. If you've got a story or two,

you'd like to be featured on the show, send it to Drew Blood Horror at gmail.com. If selected,

you'll get the full treatment 10 bananas.

Well, I'm afraid this is where we part ways, at least till next week. So grab a dream for the

road, friend. Try not to step on that hairball on your way out. Pretty gross. But make a win

be at your back, and make a road rise up to meet you. I'd like to give a big shout out to all my

sweet patrons out there. Thanks so much for being there for me, guys. Y'all mean I hope hell

of a lot more to me than you think. And if you ain't a patron yet, go check it out at patreon.com

for the slash Drew Blood. I'll see y'all next week. Until then, go fuck yourselves.

Good night, y'all.