Day 1 - An Occurrence at Hot Springs Ridge & The Twisting Withers

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Your capital's at risk, other fees may apply, tax treatment depends on individual circumstances and is subject to change. Oh, it's bad. What? What would people do it? Mate. Thought you'd be into it, Sam. What, me? No, that's deeply offensive. Harry, you're wearing socks and sandals. In public. Come on. I travel in style. You don't. It's a new low. They're the mullet of footwear. And? They're the mullet. Sharing moments you'll never live down. On the train, you can. So what do you guys think is in store for us this year? Lord of the Flies? Nah, that's kind of last year. Actually, it feels like John burned a lot of material with camp last year. That's what worries me. John might not be original, but he also tends to keep coming up with new ways of involving us. Each one dumber than the last. You know, I can hear you guys. The bus really isn't that big. Sorry, John. But come on. You understand our concern, right? Not really. Guys, nothing weird is going to happen this year. Seriously, life has been too much for all of us lately. We're just going to go back to camp. Just us. No one else. We have plenty of supplies and the weather report is clear for the foreseeable future. So what's the catch? What do you mean? John, can you just save us weeks worth of worrying and give a clue about what's in store? Once again, I don't have anything planned. We're just doing team building stuff at camp. Trust me. John, we all love you, but we trust you about as far as... Well, I can see you're still carrying some holiday weight, so I won't say as far as we can throw you, but... Damn. Cold-blooded. Just look under your seats. I figured you might all be a little paranoid because you're all pessimists who always imagine the worst, so I got you all something to make you feel a little more comfortable. Are these guns? What the hell is wrong with you? Yes. I mean, no, not really. Those are tranquilizer guns. John, as someone not as used to your peculiarities, can you tell me why you think this would make us feel better? Yeah, and while you're at it, why didn't I get one? Of course I'll explain, Nicole. What am I invisible? Those are for you all in case you start to think that things are escalating. I'm not saying they're going to, by the way, just that you can have them in case. You want us to shoot you at the tranquilizer dart? What? What the hell are you talking about, Michelle? No. Never shoot me. Why didn't I get one? Here, Owen, you can have mine. I hate guns. I wouldn't do that, Megan. Why not? Because the tranquilizer guns aren't for me. They're for Owen. Am I the only one who notices that when we get to the woods, Owen tends to escalate things? Oh, yeah. Yeah, tracks. I mean, that tracks. What? No, I don't. No, seriously, Owen, please don't play with that. John, I'm not a child. I know. Children might actually listen to me. What, John? You think I'm just suddenly going to- ouch! Shoot himself in the neck like Frank in old school? I mean, who didn't see that coming? Oh, look, we're here. I'm not going to die. Come on, guys, let's get stuff unpacked. I'll go grab the bags. Anyone else concerned about that? Not really. I've gotten used to the weird Minnesotian way he says bags. It's bags, John. Not that. I mean, John is, like, eerily calm. Minnesot has ever been good. Hey, are you guys coming? Okay. I say we get all our tranquilizers ready and the second John goes full John, we dose him up so he sleeps for the rest of the month and go into NOLA and get some beignets. Yeah, yeah. No, serious. Am I going to- wait, something's happening. Yeah, I'm hoping this isn't going to be a reoccurring theme this year. No promises. 2026 sucks and farts are funny. Come on, let's just get this all over with. I'm with Heather. Lock and load. Everyone else is seeing this too, right? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. What's wrong? John. Actually, nothing. Everything looks great. Thanks. I've been using frequent flyer miles the last few months to make sure stuff is set up and ready to go. I'm at a loss. It actually looks like a real summer camp. In the middle of the bayou. John, how did you do all this by yourself? The last time we were here, the place was- Trashed? Yeah, that's why I didn't invite other podcasters this year. Plus, I'm so tired. Are we actually staying in cabins this year? If you want to. We also have some camping gear, but honestly with the bugs, I'd stick with the cabins. What's the catch? No catch. Listen, ladies, gentlemen, and- wait, where's Owen? Probably still sleeping farting in the bus from the smell of it. Oh, well, we can recap it for him when he wakes up. I know that in the past, the time that we've spent together has been... Chaotic. Scarring? Like something only a bad writer would come up with? Yes, all that, I suppose. But I really do just want us to get back to our roots. Hang out, have some fun, and tell scary stories for a month so that people can stop thinking about all the fucking horse shit that's happening in the world. I don't need to get on a soapbox to reiterate anything I've already made well known about my own personal feelings regarding human rights. I started this podcast to tell scary stories. That's why we're here and why people listen, I think. That or they just really like to hear a faceless middle-aged man struggle through life. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You are the worst salesman ever. I'm just saying. I've been working really hard on this basically since camp ended last year. I thought back on my old camping experiences to try and make things the best I could. Really, this all made me think of an occurrence at Hot Springs Ridge. Big Sur on the California coast is one of my favorite places to camp, and Hot Springs Ridge was the first place I ever backpacked to. Back when I decided that putting a studio apartment's weight of gear and food on my back and going for a several days long walk seemed like a good hobby. And it was for a long time. Of course, a lot changes over time, and the area was no exception. You know, the pattern. Hidden away spots get picked up by influencers or wannabe YouTube stars, and suddenly everybody just has to go stand in that same spot and take the same selfie and the same pose. And pretty soon it's more about the selfie than it is about the amazing scenery. The quiet and calm of a special place ends up filled with trash left behind by daytrippers and ravers who somehow think that just because it feels like a magic forest, there must be a magic janitorial crew to clean up after them. The interwebs get filled with people trying to find those tucked away places, and the locals telling them to stay away. Like that's ever deterred an influencer. Big Sur has been no exception. With its famous bridge and that one waterfall on the beach, but Hot Springs Ridge had largely been spared that because at the end of the day, it was a full day's hike away from the coast. And you had to really decide you wanted to spend several days out in the wilderness to spend some time in the naturally warm pools fed by the sulfur springs nearby. Also, you'd be pooping in a toilet that was basically a wooden box set over a pit that volunteer rangers redog every few years. So maybe not really selfie worthy. Although more than one person found a kind of Instagram fame when another hiker walked around the screen of trees that passed for backwood's privacy. So the area was largely, but not completely, spared. The last time I camped there was several years ago, just after the pandemic lockdowns ended and it seemed like everybody just needed to get out of their houses and into...anywhere else. So when I finally arrived at the backwood's campsite, I was excited that there wasn't a soul around. I usually took trips like this midweek to avoid the small but growing number of people who had found that an REI sleeping bag and a Walmart tent wasn't a terrible way to spend the night. But I did expect to see another backpacker or two, as this was supposed to be a full moon and the sky would be amazing 10 miles in from the coastal fog and more than 20 miles from any towns, much less any cities of any size. I had my pick of the backwood's campsites. And for once the state wasn't in a drought and there was no fire restrictions. I sat about setting up my one person tent and my gear at a site that had some river frontage, but was still tucked away from the other nearest site. And I gathered some deadfall firewood. It was calm, quiet except for the sound of the river and the wind and the trees and the chitter chatter of the Stellar's Jays that flitted around the area, just waiting for me to accidentally lease some food out for them to scavenge. Only the prescription for the stress and strain of modern life, no cell phone signal, no cars, no leaf blowers anywhere to be found, and no construction noise that seemed a constant in any neighborhood where new tech millionaires can afford just enough house to gut and remodel. As usually happens, my first night in the tent was a little fitful. As I adjusted to the nearby sounds of critters just doing critter things, like walking around my tent to investigate the new smells or the cut off high pitched cry of a small animal getting eaten by something bigger and meaner. Circle of life, am I right? Frankly, I'd rather go being chomped down by an owl than gun down at local cineplex. The moon was one night away from full, but my tent still felt a little too bright for real sleep. But the next day, day came. A whole group of hikers who clearly looked like they had just gotten their gear the day before. Their shoes were barely scuffed and I'm pretty sure I saw at least one tag on somebody's backpack. Their presence was announced by the rap blaring out of the Bluetooth speakers, one of them at dangling from the shoulder strap of their pack. I gotta tell ya, there's nothing that'll quite sour a gorgeous day by the river in the backwoods than having said river drowned out by wet ass pussy on repeat. Worse, instead of doing what any regular hikers would do and grab a sight to few over from mine to give some space, they sat up at the very next spot. That meant that while I still had a little bit of separation, they may as well have planted that speaker right next to me. I have a pretty strict policy of not being the guy to tell other people how to behave in the woods, so I endured it for a few hours and then decided to do an unplanned day hike further up the river. I was relieved that the sounds of their speakers grew solely fainter as I left them behind, around and ultimately disappeared after a couple of bends in the waterway. Alone again at last, and quiet, I breathed a long sigh and settled my day pack on my shoulders for the rest of the hike. That's when I heard this singing. Not something blaring from a speaker, thank God, but a song coming from an actual person, and one that seemed to fit out here in the woods. A soft and low melody that had a bit of melancholy in it, a bit of sweet sadness, but really beautiful. I couldn't quite get the words, but as I got closer the tune got clearer. By this day I can hum it if I close my eyes and think of wild rivers and the wind in the trees. I came around the bend in the river where a slight breeze picked up and wafted the sense of honeysuckle and jasmine over. I stopped dead in my tracks because there, just ahead of me in a shaft of sunlight, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was in the river submerged in the water up to her neck, long hair floating behind her as she gently floated and sang to herself. There was nobody else around and I saw a pile of neatly folded clothing on the bank opposite where my path was, so I figured she was naked. I know what you're thinking. This is how porn movies start. And I suppose that's true. But believe me when I say that even though I was a healthy young guy with all the right hormones and all the right places. All I could think of was the amazing beauty of the moment. Sex was the last thing in my mind. Besides, I'm not a creeper, so I cleared my throat and coughed politely to let her know that someone was around and she didn't have as much privacy as she thought. The woman didn't startle, but she did maneuver herself around to pace me. The emerald green of her eyes opened wider in astonishment. I blushed like I was the naked one and stammered. Oh, hi. I'm just passing by. Sorry to disturb you. I didn't see anything. My stammering petered out as she laughed with a clear and clean burble that was free of any embarrassment or concern. Between those eyes and the laughter, I felt myself relaxing. If she wasn't worried about it, I suppose I shouldn't be either. After all, this was a wilderness and it was always a question mark if people swimming in the river had clothes on anyway. Woman paddled away to the opposite bank, still not saying anything. As she stepped up out of the water, I saw how truly long her hair was, trailing behind her like a veil until she was fully out of the water. When she was on solid ground and began gathering her clothes with unhurried movements, her wet hair curled and flowed across her breasts and skin, somehow covering her more than a swimsuit would have, but also making her look even more naked and vulnerable. For the first time, I seemed to notice how pale her skin was, almost creamy white against the background of the brown and green of the forest. Most sooner had that thought crossed my mind than there was some shift in the air, some indiscernible change and it felt like the day went from jasmine and sunshine to storm clouds and a deep animal musk. In the shadows of the trees on the opposite bank, near the mysterious woman, I thought I saw some huge shape, upright like a human, but with lighter shadows rising about its head like a crown or horns. I blank and the moment passed. The far bank was empty. The woman must grab her clothes and run off, perhaps as disturbed by whatever was in the shadows as I was, and that it was just ordinary again. A light breeze, a flowing river, in the now afternoon sun casting new shadows on the ground. I shook myself and decided to head back to camp. I had a lovely moment with a stranger, and I could survive a few more hours of that amplified music before bed. When I got back to camp, it wasn't so bad, even though the group had spread out and I was clearly infringing on my camp area. There was a pall of weed smoke over the area where they were sitting around several fires and passing around joints, but at least there was no music blasting from a speaker. I noticed several dogs with them running loose. That was never a good idea in this area. Dogs weren't unknown, and we had plenty of wild pigs that would rip through those house pets without a second thought. I had to mention the mountain lions that generally avoided humans, but were seen with increasing frequency in the area. I broke my own rule and approached the group. I suggested that they may want to have their dogs secured, and it was met with a chorus of, whatever man, and it's cool they don't bite from the group. I gave up. If they got old wrecks killed or more likely got sighted by rangers for having loose dogs in the area, it would be on their heads. After nightfall, I watched the full moon rise up over the trees, and it was as magical as I had hoped. Ethereal silver light filled the spaces between the trees, and a million sparkles reflected off the waters that rippled in the moonlight. It was indeed a magical moment. Night up until the group decided that a full moon dance in the woods needed the calming sound of Cardi B again, and cranked up their speakers to full blast. I was about to just give up and head into my tent in my own earphones to see if I could sleep when I heard one of the dogs beginning to bark, joined by the rest in short order. This was frantic, worn-the-pack level noise. Then I saw her step out of the trees. In the moonlight, her hair and skin seemed to have shared that same ethereal glow. Like the moon had birthed a small version of itself and was moving across the ground toward me. As she passed, the dancers slowed and stopped. Their gazes turned toward her silently. Even the music stilled, although I didn't see anybody touch the speaker. It got weird when one of the dogs, clearly less impressed than its owners, gave a low ground and began a stiff-legged, stalking approach to the woman from the river. I don't know how to describe what happened next, because it didn't make sense. The woman paused, locked eyes with the dog, and murmured a couple of syllables that I couldn't make out. The dog whined, cowered, and then just collapsed, like it had fainted. It didn't seem to be hurt, and I could see its ribs rise and fall with its breath. The other dogs were quieted, and they also lay down. Not collapsing so much as just deciding it was nap time. It wasn't quite the same for the dancers. All around the moonlit woman, the dancers were falling, bonelessly toppling to the ground like puppets whose strings had been cut. I winced as one of them hit their head on a rock with a loud crack. Unlike the dogs, that one didn't keep breathing. I couldn't tell what happened to the others. Were they breathing? Sleeping? Dead? Oh, I thought to myself. Okay, this must be a dream. And I kept thinking that even as she grew closer and closer. The night seemed to take on an extra warmth with her nearness, and the air was full of honeysuckle and jasmine as she reached for me with pale arms and her long hair seemed to wrap itself around me and pull me into her with a mind of its own. The rest of the, let's call it a dream, was not porn, but it was definitely full of pleasure and give and take and rhythms of sex and full of every fantasy I could imagine when a beautiful woman comes into a campsite naked under a full moon. Eventually we slept, I guess. Do you sleep in dreams? I don't know if it was minutes or hours later when I heard the dogs again. This time whining low and letting out stressed little wolves instead of barking. I caught that other scent on the breeze. The musky, wild animal stink I'd experienced briefly earlier that day. I got stronger and stronger, and I felt the woman rise up from beside me as if to meet it. I sat up slowly and lethargically, not sure if it was a dream time adventure or something real. I saw the woman in the moonlight standing next to the shadowy creature. And I could tell this time there was not a crown or horns, but antlers that rose up from its head. And while it stood upright like a human, there was something strongly animal-like in its posture as if it would be more comfortable on all fours. The woman spoke to it in that burbling language I'd heard, and it responded to her with more the deep rumble that sounded like something between language and animal expressions. She responded, and even though I couldn't understand the language, her tone carried both anger and some firmness to it, almost defiance. A chill rushed along my skin as she gestured at me, and the shadow creature turned the most frightening gaze had ever felt onto me. I could make its features out a little better as it faced me. Its head was deer-shaped, and there were definitely antlers rising out of its skull, although the shadowy forms were hard to focus on. But the eyes, they were neither human nor animal, but some combination of the two. Their depths flickering with the orange of the forest fire and the silver of a full moon in the forest. That gaze lingered on me, and I felt myself holding my breath until it last it turned away, a final rumble that felt like a dismissal and an agreement at the same time. Honey suckling jasmine enveloped me as a woman wrapped me in her arms again. My face tight against her breast as if she was sheltering me. And maybe she was, because that's when I heard the dogs again, this time deep and aggressively growling. Part of me wondering if I wasn't dreaming of wolves and not hearing good ol' Rex out there. And then the scream started. It didn't last long, but I'll never forget the sounds of canine snarls, shocked cries of betrayal from lethargic human voices escalating to shrieks that sometimes were cut off in the middle and sometimes faded into weeping before finally everything was silent. Everything except the sound of the river and the quiet breathing of my moonlight lover as she held me tight against her. The last thing I remember that night was a gentle brush of her hair on my face as she kissed my lips the last time. And the fading scent of jasmine and a honey suckle as I heard her footsteps and the footsteps of something larger, heavier moving out from the camp. I was followed by the lighter padding of several smaller animals all heading deeper into the wild woods. The next morning I woke up inside my tent. There was a heavy, coppery smell in the air. I stuck my head out of the tent, but neither saw nor heard any signs of the neighboring campers. I stepped carefully out of the tent to investigate, but I stopped in mid stride when I saw a mountain lion dragging a lump of something bloody into the tree line. Before vanishing, the creature paused as if considering whether I was a better meal than whatever was already carrying. Its eyes, looking at me over its jaw full of human carrion, flickered briefly with orange flames before the big cat turned away and disappeared with its burden, leaving me with only the quiet songs of the river in the morning sun. That was the last time I trekked up to Hot Springs Ridge. It used to be a great place to camp, but I don't go there anymore. If I were you, I'd ignore the reddit threads that talk about trying to get up there for selfies and pay a little more attention what the locals tell you. Stay down closer to the car camping sites. That's what I do now. The mussels are easier to reach and are also beautiful places to spend some time. Even if nobody cares when you play your music so loudly that it drones out the river. I'm sorry, you want camp to be like that? Well, not exactly like that. How do you want it to be? Oh, oh my god, hey, hey, where is everyone? Arlen, we're outside! What's this thing in my neck? A tranquilizer dart. I do so love a good O1X machina. Oh, someone shot me with a tranquilizer dart? You shot yourself. Uh, yeah, that tracks, I suppose. Whoa, look at this place! Woohoo! Yay! Owen, slow down, walking feet. Ugh, I'll go get them. Okay, maybe I do understand the dart guns now. It's worst case scenario, really. I mean, if he gets shot like five or six times, he'll just sleep through the rest of camp anyway. I'll go get dinner ready. Anyone have a story to tell in the meantime? Has anyone here ever heard of the Twisting Withers? Aside from the slow and steady hoof falls of the large draft horses against the ancient stone road, or the continuous creaking of the nearly as ancient caravan wagon's wheels, Horace was sure he couldn't hear anything at all. In the fading autumn light, all he could see for miles around were the silhouettes of enormous, petrified trees, having stood dead now for centuries but still refusing to fall. Their bark had turned an unnatural and oddly lustrous black, one that seemed almost liquid as it glistened in whatever light happened to gleam off its surface. They seemed more like geysers of oil that had burst forth from the earth, only to freeze in place before a single drop could fall back to the ground, never to melt again. Aside from those forsaken and foreboding trees, the land was desolate and gray, with tendrils of cold and damp mist lazily snaking their way over the hills and through the forest. Nothing grew here, and yet it was said that some twisted creatures still lingered, as unable to perish as the accursed trees themselves. The horses seemed oddly unperturbed by their surroundings, however, and Crassus, Horace's elderly traveling companion, casually struck a match to light his long pipe. Don't go getting too anxious now, laddie. He cautioned, no doubt having noticed how tightly Horace was clutching his blunderbuss. Silver buckshot ain't cheap. You don't be firing that thing unless it's a matter of life and death. You hear me? I hear you, Crassus. Horace nodded, despite not easing his grip on the rifle. Does Silver actually do any good anyway? The things that live out in the twisting withers aren't lichens, or revenants, I mean. Burning Lunar Caustic in the lamps keeps them at bay, so at the very least they don't care much for the stuff. Crassus replied, it doesn't kill them, because they can't die, which is why the buckshot is so effective. All the little bits of silver shrapnel are next to impossible for them to get out, so they just stay embedded in their flesh, burning away. A few times I've come across one I've shot before, and let me tell you, they were a sorry sight to behold. So long as we're packing, they won't risk an attack, which is why it's so important you don't waste your shot. They're going to try to scare you, get you to shoot off into the dark, and that's when they'll swoop in. You're not going to pull that trigger unless one is at point blank range, you got that. Yes, Crassus, I got it. Horace nodded once again. You've seen them up close, then? I, and you'll be getting yourself a nice proper view yourself there too long, near your mind, Crassus assured him. And are they, are they what people say they are? Horace asked, tentatively. Bloody hell, I know, I'm old, not a historian, Crassus scoffed, but even when I was a youngin, the twisting weathers had been around since before living memory. Centuries at least, nothing here but dead trees that won't rot, nothing living here but things what can't die. Folk blame the Coven Hood for the withers, at least when there are no witches or clerics in earshot. Horace said softly, looking around as if one of them might be hiding behind a tree trunk or inside their crates. The Coven Hood tried to eradicate a heretical cult, and the dark magic that was unleashed desolated everything and everyone inside of a hundred mile stretch. Even after all this time, the lands never healed, and the curse has never lifted. Whatever happened here, it must have been horrid, beyond imagining. Mess not to dwell on it, Crassus recommended. There's just a creepy old road with few nasties lurking in the shadows, not so different from a hundred other roads in Whittaker. I've made this run plenty of times before and never ran into anything shot from a blunderboss couldn't handle. But the twisted, Horace insisted, his head pivoting about as if he feared the mere mention of the name would cause them to appear. They're twisted, that's all that need be said. Crassus asserted, but they're twisted men, women, children, creatures. Whatever was living in this place before it became the withers was twisted by that same dark magic, Horace said, utterly ruined but unable to die. He said this place has been this way since beyond living memory, but they might still remember, somewhere deep down. Enough, you're here to shoot them, not sympathize with them. Crassus ordered, if you want to be making out of the withers alive, you pull that trigger the first clean shot you get. You hear me lad? I hear you boss, I hear you. Horace nodded with a resigned sigh, returning to his vigil of the ominous forest around them. As the wagon made its way down the long and bumpy road and the light grew even fainter, Horace started hearing quick and furtive wrestling in the surrounding woods. He could have convinced himself that it was merely the nocturnal movements of ordinary woodland creatures, if only he were in ordinary woodland. That's them? he asked, his hushed whisper as loud as he dared to make it. Nothing in the twisting withers but the twisted. Crassus nodded, don't panic, the lamp's burning strong and they can see your blunderbuss, plain as day. I've got nothing to worry about. We're surrounded, Horace hissed, though in truth the sounds he was hearing could have been explained by as few as one or two creatures. Can't you push the horses harder? That's what they want. If we go too fast on this old road we risk toppling over. Crassus replied, just keep a cool head now, don't spook the horses and don't shoot a false charge, don't let them get to you. Horace nodded and tried to do as he was told. The sounds were sparse and quick and each time he heard them he swore he saw something darting by in the distance or in the corner of his eye. He would catch the briefest of glances of strange shapes gleaming in the harvest moonlight or pairs of shining eyes glaring at him before vanishing back into the darkness. Pitter pattering footfalls or the sounds of claws scratching it to tree bark echoed off unseen hills or ruins and without warning a haggard voice broke out into a fit of cackling laughter. Can they still talk? Horace whispered. If we don't listen, it don't matter now, do it? Crassus replied. I'm not helpful at all, you know that? Horace snapped back. What am I supposed to do if these things start? He was abruptly cut off by the sound of a deep rumbling bellow coming from behind them. He froze nearly solid then and for the first time since they had started their journey, old Crassus finally seemed perturbed by what was happening. Oh no, not that one. He muttered. Very slowly, he and Horace leaned outwards and looked back to see what was following them. There in the forested gloom lurked a giant of a creature, at least three times the height of a man, but its form was so obscured it was impossible to say any more than that. Is that a troll? Horace whispered. It was or at least I'm afraid it was, but it's twisted now and that's all that matters. Crassus replied softly. What do you mean by not that one? Horace asked. You've seen this one before? A time or two? I. Many years ago and many years apart, Crassus replied. On the odd occasion it takes a mind to shadow the wagons for a bit. We just need to stay calm, keep moving and it will lose interest. The horses can outrun a lumbering behemoth like that. Surely, Horace asked pleadingly. I already told you we can't risk going too fast on this miserable road. Crassus said through his teeth, but if memory serves there's a decent stretch not too far up ahead. We make it that far, we can leave tiny back there in the dust. Sound good? Yeah, sounds good. Horace nodded fervently, though his eyes remained fixed on the shadowed Crassus prowling up behind them. Though it was still merely following them and had not yet given chase, it was gradually gaining ground. As it slowly crept into the light of the lunar caustic lamp, Horace was able to get a better look at the monstrous creature. It moved on all fours, walking on its knuckles like the beast men of the impenetrable jungles to the south. Its skin was sagging and hung in heavy, uneven folds that seemed to throw it off-center and gave it a peculiar limp. Scaly, diseased patches modelled its dull grey hide and several cancerous masses gave it a horrifically deformed hunched back. Its bulbous head had an enormous dent in its cranium, sporadically dotted by a few stray hairs. A pair of large and askew eye sockets sat utterly empty and void, and Horace presumed that the creature's blindness was the reason for both its hesitancy to attack and its tolerance for the lunar caustic light. It had a snub nose, possibly the remnant of a proper one that had been torn off at some point, and its wide mouth hung open loosely as though there was still something wrong with its jaw. It looked to be missing at least half its teeth and the ones it still had were crooked and festering, erupting out of a substrate of corpse blue gums. It's malformed. It couldn't possibly run faster than us. Couldn't possibly, Horace whispered, Don't give a reason to charge before we hit the good stretch of road and we'll leave it well behind us. Horace, Crassus replied, The twisted troll flared its nostrils, taking in all the scents that were wafting off the back of the wagon, the odor of the horses and the men, of wood and old leather, of burning tobacco and lamp oil. None of these scents were easy to come by in the twisting withers. Whenever the troll happened upon them, it could not help but find them enticing, even if they were always accompanied by a soft, searing sensation against its skin. Crassus, Crassus, Horace whispered hoarsely, It hides smoldering. Good, that means the lunar caustic lamp is doing its job, Crassus replied, But it's not stopping. Horace pointed out in barely restrained panic. Don't worry, the closer it gets, the more it will burn. Crassus tried to reassure him, It's getting too close, I'm going to put more lunar caustic in the lamp. Horace said, Don't you dare put down that gun, lad! Crassus ordered, It's over too, it's not bright enough! Horace insisted, dropping the blunderbuss and turning to root around in the back of the wagon. Boy, you pick that gun up right this! Crassus hissed, before being cut off by high-pitched screeching. A twisted creature burst out of the trees and charged the horses, Screaming an agony from the lamp light before retreating back into the dark. It had been enough, though. The horses kned in terror as they broke out into a gallop, Thundering down the road at breakneck speed. With a guttural howl, the twisted troll immediately gave chase. Its uneven quadrupedal gait slapping against the ancient stone, As its mutilated flesh jostled from one side to another. Crassus, bring those horses in! Horace demanded as he was violently tossed up and down by the Rallicking wagon. I can't slow us down now, that thing will get us for sure! Crassus shouted back as he desperately clutched onto the reins, Trying to at least keep the horses on a straight course. All we can do now is drive and hope it gives up before we crash. Hold on! Another bump sent Crassus bouncing up in his seat, And Horace nearly up to the ceiling before crashing down to the floor. Various bits of merchandise falling down to bury him. He heard the twisted troll roar ferociously, Now undeniably closer than the last time. Crassus, we're not losing it! I'm going to try shooting it! Horace said as he picked himself off the floor and grabbed his blunderbuss Before heading towards the back of the wagon. It's no good! It's too big and it hides too thick! You'll only enrage it and leave us vulnerable to more attacks! Crassus insisted, Get up here with me and let the bloody thing wear itself out! Horace didn't listen. The behemoth seemed relentless to his mind. It was inconceivable that it would tire before the horses. The blunderbuss was their only hope. He held the barrel as steady as he could, As the wagon wobbled like a drunkard, And was grateful his chosen weapon required no great accuracy at aiming. The twisted troll roared again, So closely now that Horace could feel the hot miasma of its rancid breath upon him. The fact that it couldn't close its mouth gave Horace a strange sense of hope. Surely some of the buckshot would strike its palate and gullet, And surely those would be sensitive enough injuries to deter it from further pursuit. Surely, not daring to waste another instant, Horace took his shot. As the blast echoed through the silent forest, And the hot silver slag flew through the air, The twisted troll dropped its head at just the right moment, Taking the brunt of the shrapnel in its massive hump. If the new wounds were even so much as an irritant to it, It didn't show it. Blast! Horace cursed as he struggled to reload his rifle. A chorus of hideous cackling rang out from just beyond the tree line, And they could hear a stampede of malformed feet trampling through the underbrush. Oh, you've done it now! You've really gone and done it now! Crassus dispaired as he attempted to pull out his flintlock with one hand, As he held the reins in the other. A twisted creature jumped upon their wagon from the side, Braving the light of the lunar lamp for only an instant before it was safely in the wagon's shadow. As it clung on for dear life, it clumsily swung a stick nearly as long as it was, As it attempted to knock the lamp off its hook. Hey, none of that you! Horace shouted as he pummeled the canvas roof with the butt of his blunderbuss, In the hopes of knocking the creature off, Hitting nothing but weathered hemp with each blow. It was not until he heard the sound of glass crashing against the stone road, That he finally lost any hope that they might survive. Crassus fired his flintlock into the dark, But the twisted creature swarmed the wagon from all sides. They shoved branches between the spokes of the wheel, And within a matter of seconds, the wagon was completely overturned. As he lay crushed by the crates and covered by the canvas, Horace was blind to the horrors going on around him. He could hear the horses bolting off, But could hear no sign that the twisted were giving chase. Whatever it was they wanted them for, It couldn't possibly have been for food. They heard Crassus screaming and pleading for mercy as he scuffled with their attackers. The old man ultimately being unable to offer any real resistance, As they dragged him off into the depths of the withers. Horace lay as still as he could, Trying his best not to breathe or make any sounds at all. Maybe they would overlook him, he thought. Though he was sure the crates had broken, Or at least bruised his ribs, Maybe he could lie in wait until dawn, With the blunderbuss as his only protection. Maybe he could travel the rest of the distance on foot before sundown. Maybe he could. These delusions swiftly ended as the canvas sheet was slowly pulled away, Revealing the twisted troll looming over him. Other twisted creatures circled around them, Each of them similarly, yet uniquely deformed. With a casual sweeping motion, The troll batted away the various crates, And the other twisted, Regarded them with the same general disinterest. Trade goods were of no use or value to beings so far removed from civilized society. Horace's eyes rapidly darted back and forth between them as he awaited their next move. What did they even want him for? They didn't eat, or didn't need to anyway. Did they just mean to kill him for sport or spite? Why risk attacking unless they stood to benefit from it? The troll picked him up by the scruff of the neck with an odd sense of delicacy, Holding him high enough for all its cohorts to see him, Or perhaps so that he could see them. More of the twisted began crawling out on the road, And Horace saw that they were marked in hideous sigils made with fresh blood, Blood that could only have come from Crassus. The old man didn't have much left in him. One of them barked hoarsely. It stumbled toward him on multiple mangled limbs, And he could still make out the entry wounds where the silver buckshot had marred it so many years ago. Ounts by ounce, body by body, The blood ritual we began a millennium ago draws nearer to completion. The Coven Hood did not, could not stop us. Delayed, yes. But what does that matter when we now have all eternity to fulfill our aims? That being, the sorcerer Horace realized, hobbled closer, Slowly rising up higher and higher on hind limbs to grotesque and perverse in design For Horace to make any visual sense out of. As it rose above Horace, it smiled at him with a lipless mouth That had been sliced from ear to ear, Revealing a set of long and sharpened teeth, Whichly carved from the blackened wood of the twisted trees. A long and flickering tongue weaved a delicate dance between them, While viscous blood slowly oozed from gangrenous gums. Its eyelids had been sutured shut, But an unblinking black and red eye with a serpentine pupil Sat embedded upon its forehead. Several of the twisted creatures reverently placed a ceremonial bowl of twisted wood beneath Horace, A bowl that was still freshly stained with the blood of his companion. Though his mind had resigned itself to his imminent demise, He nonetheless felt his muscles tensing, And his heart beat furiously as his body demanded a response to his mortal peril. The sorcerer sensed his duplicity and reveled in it, Chuckling sadistically as he theatrically raised a long dagger With an undulating serpentine blade, And held it directly above Horace's heart. Not going to give me the satisfaction of squirming a commendable. It sneered, May the blood split this moon-narrowed a new age of flesh reborn, Of a ophianorbis orborus. As the twisted sorcerer spoke its incantation, It drove its blade into Horace's heart, And skewered him straight through. His blood spilled out his backside, And dripped down the dagger into the wooden bowl below. The twisted wasting no time in painting themselves with his vital fluids. As his chest went cold and still, and his vision went dark, The last thing Horace saw was the sorcerer pulling out its dagger. His dismembered heart still impaled upon it. Okay, well, I need to head out. I need to meet my tour bus back on Bourbon Street. Holy crap, I totally forgot you were going on tour. Yeah, I'm so excited. I'm opening for Dance with the Dead and Magic Sword on their US Face-Off tour. We're hitting 42 major cities in April and May. Safe travels, Megan. Can't wait to see you in Minneapolis. I'll make sure to add a link in the description for all your tour dates and how to get tickets. Come on, I'll walk you out. You know, I was more than a little concerned about coming back to camp again this year, But I'm starting to think that this year will be exactly as advertised. Yeah, sounds like it. Hey, have you guys seen this place? It's so much better than it was last year when everyone was going off-feral. But it's still nice to see some things never change. What do you mean? He means that we just passed John down by the swamp. And he's talking to himself. Are you sure he wasn't talking to Megan? He left a little while ago to walk her out. Megan wasn't there. It was just John talking to himself. What's so weird about that? He was crying. This week's episode is brought to you by Wellgo USA's new creature feature horror, The Yeti. Only in AMC theaters April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th. When an oil tycoon and a famous adventurer disappear into the frozen wilderness of northern Alaska, a hand-picked rescue team ventures in to bring them home. But they're not alone. They've crossed into the Yeti's territory and the brutal elements are the least of their worries. Packed with blood-splattered suspense, a towering beast and gruesome practical effects, The Yeti is a throwback to the glory days of monster movies. Starring Brittany Allen, Eric Nelson, Jim Cummings, William Sadler and Corbyn Bursing, Don't miss it. The Yeti. Only in AMC theaters April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th. Attention passengers. If you can hear me right now, you're actually aboard our spaceship, the STS-45 Cloud Breather. We're a colony ship on a multi-year voyage through uncharted space just trying to reach our new home. And you're listening to the ship's local station, Deep Space Radio. I bring you interviews, Hello passengers, it's me, the captain. Captain Donald, that is. Live event coverage, and even the occasional pirated audio. So, hey. Hey yourself. And it's a good thing I do. Because I get the feeling there's something more to this stretch of uncharted space than meets the eye. There's a reason you're not supposed to create sentient programs. It seems this pyramid of metal is acting as a kind of conduit. Tune in for a new broadcast every weekday morning. Each season brings a new adventure that you can take right alongside us on Discord. So strap in and hold on to something. Because I'm Colin Gossel, and this is Deep Space Radio.