424. The Gilmarsh Ghost Tour

The game has only just begun. Radio Silence directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillette are back for round two with their new horror comedy film, Ready or Not 2, Here I Come. Samara Weaving returns as Grace, the battle-worn and bloody bride, and is joined by stars Catherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Sean Haddesey, Nestor Carbonell, David Cronenberg, and Elijah Wood. After Grace marries into a mysterious family and is forced to play a life-or-death game of hide-and-seek. She emerges victorious, but what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole new twisted battle. This time with her estranged sister Faith at her side. The duo faces a shadowy group of rival devil-worshipping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion. Don't miss the full tilt insanity. Ready or not to, here I come when it hits theaters March 20th. Hello, and welcome to Scare You to Sleep. I'm your host, Shelby Novak, and I'm here to read you a bedtime story. Before we begin, I wanted to let you know that there is currently a new Ramble You to Sleep, available on Patreon, and that also came out today. So if you're a fan of the rambles at the end of the show, then you can find whole episodes of my nonsense over on patreon.com slash scare you to sleep. This week's tale comes to us from Caroline Geary, who I would consider a beloved author of this show. Caroline's work never fails to delight me, in tonight's story is no exception. Please enjoy the Gilmarsh Ghost Tour. Everyone that loses a loved one in the sleepy town of Gilmarsh comes to me for the funeral flowers. I don't shy away from the bleakness of death. I don't create safe options with my floral tributes. Modest, muted, washed-out watercolor is not my thing. I prefer to boldly honor death with deep, dramatic, velvety black. My tributes could be described as macabre by some, maybe as morbid by others. But despite this, the customers love them, and I adore making them. I put my heart into every piece. I'd pour my soul into, if only I had one, Every carefully positioned calla lily Every queen of the night tulip Every bat flower Are all positioned precisely So the overall effect is equally as respectful As it is resplendent Also, with me being a believer in the supernatural I expect the deceased to love them too although death will have rendered them inert, at least for now, and never again will they trace the velvety softness of a petal with their fingertips or inhale the sweet scent of a fresh bloom. Elizabeth Clark, who owns the florist Busy Lizzie's where I work, has often commented on how many more funeral bouquets we've been providing since I came under her employment. Although she's never sure whether that's because word gets around and customers are now coming from further afield or whether more people have been dying in Gilmarsh since I came back to town. I'm in busy Lizzie's alone tonight. It isn't good for me to be alone with my thoughts. dark is ascending on the cobbled street outside. My own reflection meets my gaze rather than that of unknown strangers as they walk by. It's cold and dimly lit on the forest shop floor. I like to work by candlelight in the winter months when it's dark early. Despite it adding to the already creepy atmosphere It helps me get in the zone The air tonight smells of lilies And occasionally something else Something earthy and organic Not flowers Something beyond the bloom phase and into the sweet stench of decay. This place is worse at night. I snip methodically at the end of some black tulip stems. Botanically speaking, there is no such thing as a completely black flower. I hold a single tulip to the light. A hint of blackened garnet shines through. I shudder and place it carefully in the vase. The clock on the wall ticks, a steady passing of time of inevitability. That and the wet snip of my scissors on the stems are the only sounds. With each snip, I am conscious that I am cutting into something that once had life, like a vein or a tendon. I shudder at the unwelcome thought. I take in what I hope will be a calming breath, but the door to the cellar creaks open behind me. I pause, tulip in one hand and scissors in the other, candlelight playing on its blades and casting my shadow on the wall. The clock ticks on. I stay staring straight ahead, barely moving, but I close the open scissors and adjust my grip, slowly raising my hand, primed and ready for what is behind me. Persephone! I slump back in my seat as the florist's resident black cat jumps up beside me on the counter and nuzzles her soft head into my arm, purring softly. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I rub her ears and she purrs and butts her soft head against my hand. Her tail brushes against my arm as she pads past me to sit down amongst some wrapping paper. Her thick black fur ripples with golden shades of chestnut from the candlelight. Her eyes are knowing luminous orbs. She licks a paw, blissfully unaware of how much she scared me. Elizabeth keeps her here as she thinks there are mice in the cellar. I, for one, know there is something much worse down there. The bell above the shop door jingles as it swings open and Ethan walks in. Persephone doesn't raise her head. I smooth my hair from my face and adopt what I hope is a warm, normal face expression. Hey, you up for tonight? He asks. He always pops in here on Friday nights on the way home from his day job, even though the answer is always yes. I smile in greeting and keep snipping at the tulip stems. 7pm sharp. It's gonna be busy tonight, I can feel it, he says, giving his fist a little triumphant shake. and as quickly as he entered, he leaves busy Lizzie's closing the door behind him. It's after five, so I go to the door and lock it, carefully turning the sign over to read closed. I wish I had Ethan's confidence. We had started the Gilmarsh ghost tour six months ago, having grown up here together. I reached out to Ethan via Facebook on my return, and we met for a drink in the three pigeons, Gilmarsh's oldest pub. I didn't explain why I was back, and Ethan didn't ask. We came up with the idea of the Gilmarsh ghost tour after sharing a bottle of wine. A too-strong, but deliciously full-bodied red that had us reminiscing on our childhood hopes and dreams. Ethan had wanted to be an actor growing up, the star of all our high school plays, but despite a couple of minor roles, he ended up working in a bank. I told him I thought he'd done well for himself, better than most, better than me, but he told me he longed to do something where he could be the star of the show. As for me, I just needed some extra money to make ends meet, and I intended to spend as much time out of the limelight as possible. Things had started well, and the people of Sleepy Gilmarsh and some of the surrounding villages had been excited about this new form of entertainment, and we had a healthy group of attendees each Friday night. The town of Gilmarsh has a rich history. It's hard to believe that over a thousand years ago, people walked these same streets, just like today. They lived, breathed, worked, raised families, and died here. Even though Ethan may have embellished some of the tales he told on the tour, the cobbled streets and narrow alleyways made it easy to believe that secrets were lying beneath the surface. I knew only too well that they were. Busy Lizzie's itself was supposed to be haunted. Local lore told the legend of a young girl whose spirit dwelled in the cellar. She was said to be heard calling out mournfully and, as is often the case with ghost stories, was said to be dressed in Victorian clothing, spending eternity going up and down those cellar steps in her apron and petticoats. I used to tell the ghost tour audiences about the disembodied voices that entered my head as I descended the stone stairs to the cellar, that I heard whisperings in my ear telling me to do bad things, and that now I was hearing the voices everywhere I went, not just when I was in the cellar. I told them how whatever whispered to me was ever-present, and I looked each and every one of them in the eye. Some people shifted uncomfortably as I told them my woes, while some giggled anxiously. Ethan lapped it up, giving me a conspiratorial wink each time I told the audience about the darkness that was down there, the darkness that had found its way in me. If only he knew. Ironically, Ethan doesn't believe in ghosts. I want him to believe. I want him to believe in me. I want the Gilmarsh Ghost Tour to be a success again. He thinks I'm acting. The audience does too. Ethan was the main reason I had come back to Gilmarsh. I had been in love with him since high school, although nothing had come of us. People would roll their eyes when they saw that I had done his homework again and he would blush and mutter and not really talk to me when there were other people around but I never took it to heart He probably didn want his friends knowing that he struggled with English, art, and history. I often thought about him, and was delighted and a little surprised when he agreed to meet me in the pub after all those years away. We'd never seen each other outside of school, and even though I knew I was on borrowed time, it would be nice to believe. Just for once. Just for a while. No one else from our school days seemed to be around. Ethan didn't seem to see anyone from back then. He didn't seem to have many friends these days, from what I could gather. Finally, something in common. Early on in our ghost tour days, a couple of faces I'd recognized from school could be seen hanging around our tour, lurking at the back of the crowd, laughing at us. And I felt my cheeks flame, my awkwardness of youth returning. I fixed a stare on them, suffering the worst second-hand embarrassment for Ethan as well as myself. But he seemed unaware that they weren't here to be nice. He just thought they were trying to get away without paying because he knew them. Although I did notice a red flush rise across his cheeks whenever I brought up. As the weeks passed by, I could feel us growing closer. Friday nights were the only nights I got to see him, of course. He was very busy with work in the week, and as our audience numbers began to dwindle, and as summer turned to autumn, I began to worry if the Gilmarsh ghost tour came to an end, I wouldn't see him as much, or even at all, as there wouldn't be a reason for us to see each other. My mobile phone buzzes loudly against the wood of the counter, making Persephone's tale twitch in irritation. An Instagram notification. My heart sinks immediately. I haven't told Ethan about the messages I've been getting on the Gilmarsh Ghost Tour Instagram page. They've all been anonymous, of course, usually from a username that has no followers and is only following us. always something with an air of menace such as user 666, one user watching you, and so on. They heckled the Gilmarsh ghost tour pages saying how cringe and embarrassing me and Ethan were. They mocked the Victorian getup I wore each week at Ethan's request saying I was the creepiest part of the tour, and they mocked Ethan's failed acting career and too tight shirt. I couldn't bear for Ethan to read the comments, so I did a pretty good job of deleting them before he could see them. The culprit would then slide into my messages and tell me how ugly and useless I was and that Ethan was using me. The trolling happened as soon as the rival ghost tour arrived in Gilmarsh last month. This new ghost tour had a different angle. It was called Sip and Scare, and for an overpriced ticket, they took their audience from pub to pub, drinking ghoulishly named cocktails, and hearing about the local legends, passing key places of interest en route to the next pub. They had paid actors and stooges providing jump scares that made for amazing social media content, and everyone was raving about it. At one pub, they did a Ouija board, and another, they had a tarot reading. Everyone loved it. No one was interested in our Gilmarsh ghost tour anymore, and I'm sure the fabulous Catherine and Alan, the husband and wife duo who ran Sip and Scare, were behind the trolling and the messages. They needn't have bothered. The Gilmarsh ghost tour was declining in popularity to the point that I wondered if I could go on much longer. I can't let our little ghost tour fail. So tonight, I have decided to pull out all the stops and get people back to see the Gilmarsh ghost tour, get everyone talking about it, and I know exactly how to do it. I shall invite them into Busy Lizzie's. as part of the ghost tour. The previous audience members we've had have shown a real interest in my tales of the haunted cellar and what lies under the cobbles here in Gilmarsh. Of course, I haven't asked Elizabeth's permission. She wouldn't have said yes, but when I raised the idea to Ethan, his eyes had lit up and I simply could not bear to disappoint him. I basked in the glow of his excitement. I'll make the place look amazing, I had said, leaning forward and looking into Ethan's big brown eyes. I wasn't sure if I imagined it, but I felt he backed away from me somewhat and broke eye contact with me. People have always told me I can stand a little bit too close, and I know I can be a little intense, I've been told. but I knew this would be amazing. I knew I would create a night no one could forget. So, in the quiet shop floor, and with only the candlelight, I draw the blinds and set about clearing my workspace and preparing for the night's activities. I know what I need to do. I just don't want to do it. The clock continues to tick on the wall, rhythmic as a heartbeat. But if the shop floor is the heart of the florists, then what is the basement? My costume is down there. And also, something else. I don't want to go down there. I should be used to it by now. Elizabeth doesn't know this, but the cellar of busy Lizzie's has become my home. When I first came back to Gilmarsh, I thought finding a place to live would be easy. It wasn't. I wasn't able to provide the references for letting agents. After the incident that happened when I was away, no one could know I was here. I mean, they would probably find out eventually. But if things came to an end, then I would want them to come to an end here, back in Gilmarsh, where I was born. When I had first arrived back in Gilmarsh, I had stayed in a cheap hotel, with the plan being only to stay till I found my feet. The sheets were itchy and the decor dated and ugly Luckily, I had been able to find work after a couple of weeks Elizabeth's previous staff member had disappeared at what was described as inexplicably short notice Leaving her somewhat in the lurch and making room for me People are so unreliable these days I had said in my interview as Elizabeth told me how she had lost my predecessor with no notice whatsoever. I thought she loved it here, said Elizabeth, waving her heavily bangled wrists in the air. And then she just stopped showing up. I nodded sympathetically. Of course, I had given Elizabeth fake references, a florist up north that didn't exist. I had claimed it was a small family-run company, and I had created a generic Gmail address, and when a reference request dropped in the inbox, I responded with my own glowing reference. Although it was fictitious, it was also true. I was a good florist, and my love of the macabre and the gothic meant I did make a wonderful floral tribute for a funeral, as was the case with so many of my skills. The muse would visit me and something deep and primal in me would take over. However, Elizabeth's wage, despite my working full-time, was not enough to make ends meet. I couldn't stretch out my meager savings to cover cheap hotel rooms anymore. Ethan didn't pay me anything for my work on the ghost tour either. and I didn't like to ask. It wasn't like he was making much. Luckily, Elizabeth didn't like to go down in the cellar, so she was unaware that some of my humble belongings were down there. Well, in fact, my only belongings, all stuffed into a small brown tatty suitcase that used to belong to my mother. I missed staying at hotels, even if they were basic. The rooms were all uniform, and even with the tatty dated decor, I took comfort in the fact that I was amongst a hundred sleeping people, all in rooms identical to mine, and that I wasn't alone. Like corpses in overcrowded 18th century cemeteries. I liked the anonymity. Although one night, around midnight, I returned to my room after a trip to the 24-hour supermarket across the street. I'm somewhat a creature of the night after all. As I swiped my card to enter my room, my neighbor arrived to enter his. Our eyes made brief contact as he entered his room. He smelt of an expensive aftershave, cigarettes, and booze. A businessman, I surmised, here for work making use of the expense account at the hotel bar. He smiled at me, which took me completely by surprise. A brush hadn't touched my hair in days and makeup had become a thing of the past, something I instantly regretted. My mouth dropped open, but before I could say anything, his door opened and closed shut again with him behind it. I stood there for a few minutes, wondering what I should have said. could have said. I entered my own room, put the chain across the door, wondering if he had done the same. I mean, you never know who you might be sharing a room next to. Then I heard his television turn on, and I walked instinctively to the wall dividing our rooms, and pressed my ear to it. I heard the ups and downs of different voices as he changed the channels. I pictured him lying in bed, tie loosened, top button undone, thinking he'd settled on the news. I stood there, ear pressed against the wall for hours, till I finally got the courage to knock on his door. But tonight, I bring my mind back to the present and start the descent down the cellar steps. It smells bad down here. Persephone runs down the stairs and meows at me, accusingly. I ignore her. I start first with my costume. Although it's not much of a costume. All my clothes are black. They fit a lot looser than they used to, I notice. My black tights sag at the ankles. I imagine the rival ghosts who are laughing at me, taunting me. I slip my boots on. They aren't actually part of the fancy dress. They're mine. I love these boots. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking on air in them, but I'm gliding across the floor on their polished, pointed tips. I put on the mop cap that Ethan encourages me to wear. I'd rolled my eyes at him and asked why he thought all ghosts came from the Victorian period, but he insisted I secure it with bobby pins and let a few black silky tendrils of my hair fall around my face I look in the mirror and the candlelight down here I see how gaunt I look Dark shadows under my eyes something hollow around my eye sockets. I brush a translucent powder over my cheeks, adding to my wand pallor and dab concealer on my lips and study my face in my small compact mirror. I now understand where the phrase deathly pale comes from. Then I see something in the mirror behind me. I drop the mirror and it cracks in half. Seven years of bad luck bestowed upon myself. I will do this. I stand and straighten my back. The creators of the other ghost tour are in for a shock, as will the whole of Gilmarsh be, and Ethan's ghost tour will go down in history. I spend some time in the candlelight, making the place look as spooky as I can. It doesn't take much, as the cellar is the creepiest place I'd ever seen. I tidy away my clothes and any evidence I have been sleeping here. I don't want to spoil the effect, after all. I admire my handiwork and shudder as I leave the room. Back upstairs on the shop floor, I get things ready for the arrival of the tour. I take pictures for Instagram. I want our ghost tour rivals to see they have competition, and if nothing else, I want the world to see something fantastic. I want to be remembered. I want my work to be remembered. Have some recognition, some fame, some infamy. Hot, sticky cider simmers in the slow cooker. Warm, spicy, and intoxicating. Perfect for ghost stories. I light tea lights fragranced with honey and bergamot. I wonder briefly if this is a fire hazard, but decide it's safe. That is, until I see Persephone slink by with her tail in the air. I decide to shut her in the cellar just in case her long, black, fluffy tail catches a light. Or, perhaps more likely, she knocks one over on purpose. A cat after my own heart. I take a cat treat from the packet in the drawer and throw it down the stairs. Persephone bounds after it, claws skittering on the concrete steps. I shut Persephone down there. She'll be fine till later. And let's face it, she isn't alone. Cellar door, I think to myself. The most beautiful sound in the English language. I get ready to leave. When I reach the high street, the night is pretty. A large full moon hangs heavy in the sky. Clouds sink and swim below. Swelling and threatening to burst. like the night is set to implode. As I walk down the cobbled high street, luckily I am a legend in heels, I check my mobile phone for any activity. Nothing. Before I left today, I had messaged Catherine and Alan, aka Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful from the rival ghost tour, asking them to come along, see what we were all about before they judged us. I've never been sure it was them mocking me as I had never received any replies from my engagement with the trolls but my suspicions held firm it's no secret, I mean, I've told you already that the Gilmarsh Ghost Tour is dwindling in numbers week by week we've even had occurrences where there has been no attendees at all we had then gone to the Three Pigeons in full regalia to drown our sorrows These were my favorite nights Misery loves company And if I could moan to Ethan about the injustice of it all It could only bring us closer Right? Actually, some nights we have just one solitary person turn up And believe you me, that is worse than no one I was always only a heartbeat away from taking the solo attendee to the three pigeons for a drink Instead of an excruciating tour for all three of us although, as if, I could hardly afford my own drinks, let alone pay for someone else's. Tonight, however, was different. As I walked along the cobbles, sure-footed as a mountain goat despite the slick dampness underfoot, there was already a sea of expectant people, including Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful. I beamed my biggest smile at them. They nodded and looked at each other uncomfortably, Mrs. Wonderful shifting from one well-heeled boot to another. This evening goes well. I notice that Ethan is wearing a new white shirt. He looks slimmer, too. I watch him chatting with a pretty girl and giggling with her. I wonder what they're talking about and feel a tug of annoyance. The tour is going to plan. We know it by road. It is amazing how much better it goes with the larger crowd, how the crowd lifts each other and shares banter. I point out key places on the tour like I always do. I adopt what I hope are menacing facial expressions when it's called for, lifting the lantern to my chin with my flat, somber effect, working its magic. By the time we reach busy Lizzie's, the night has already been a success. Faces are flushed red from the cold. People are smiling, ready for a mug of warm cider and the promise of entering a bona fide haunted hotspot. It is time for me to take my turn. Despite our shared high school play history, Ethan is the main event I've left those days far behind me. but we have discussed this and I'm happy to oblige. I think people think my pale face, large dark eyes, and Tim Burton vibes is down to good makeup, good costume, and wardrobe. But as I start to speak, the smiles slowly start to drop. The excited chatter and banter withering under the metaphorical lights, like a match blown out by a soft, firm breath. And here, I say, when we are outside busy Lizzie's, is my day job. I make funeral flowers. People look at each other and smile, unsure whether I'm joking or not, but they want to hear more nonetheless. It would be the perfect job, I continue, lantern to my face, my eyes scanning the crowd, stopping on Ethan and then Alan and Catherine, who both seemed intrigued by me, surprised that I speak and I'm not just a figment of their imagination. But there's something in the cellar, I say, that won't let me work, won't give me peace. After a too long pause, shall we go in? Ethan's voice booms and I open the door and let everyone in. The crowd loves the interior of busy Lizzie's and why wouldn't they? It has old world charm, wooden beams, exposed brickwork, and the smell of beautiful flowers. Some bouquets and water for the morning, even though it doesn't matter now. Help yourselves, I start serving warm cider. People drink greedily as I knew they would. Enjoy it, guys, I think, as I offer refill after refill. Showtime. The large ticking clock on the wall ticks over to 9pm and I know the time has come I tap the ladle on the side of the simmering slow cooker And the bustle on the shop floor fizzles out and dies It's been a lovely evening, I say Are you sure you want to spoil it? The clock ticks on Nervous laughter ripples across the room along with a cool draft that everyone feels. I mean, we could end your night here, or if you want to see the haunted heart of Gilmarsh, you can follow me down the stairs. I snap the lights using the switch behind me. There's no hocus pocus, but everyone jumps. I suppress a smile. The candlelit lantern in my hand and the fairy lights draped across the exposed brickwork of the shop floor are the only lights now. I see the girl who had been giggling with Ethan go to set her glass of mulled wine down. Oh no, I say, take it with you. I say, letting a smile bloom across my features. No one else smiles. I walk with my lantern, held high across the room. I say louder than the previous dialogue, If you're of a nervous disposition, leave now. Consider this your trigger warning. Everyone else, follow me. The cellar door creaks open. I hesitate. The air smells stale. Expected. After that, I smell an earthy smell. Peat, moss, something else. I walk down the stairs. They'll follow. They're invested. It's so dark down here, it takes my eyes a while to adjust. As everyone walks down the stairs, my eyes, when they are used to the dark of the cellar, scan the room. Do I have everyone's undivided attention? It seems I do. My hand hovers over the light switch. One sweep of my hand, and it will be the big reveal. Things haunt us, I say, feeling the tension radiate from Ethan, who will not know where I'm taking this, wondering what I'm about to say as I go off-piste and deviate from our script. But, is it the things we've done? The things others have done? Or the things we might do? Everyone is listening. The girl that has been giggling with Ethan earlier hasn't taken a sip of her drink. She's clutching the mug, even though I'm sure it will now be stone cold. I've been trapped down here, I say, my voice trembling for the first time tonight. With my thoughts, all alone, I had no choice. I'm aware tears are starting to fall, and Ethan, who has stepped back into the shadows, looks triumphant. Like I'm giving the performance of my life, which I suppose I am. I did bad things, I say. I'm not well and I came here and slept down here and I had nothing and no one and she knew. I was talking about Elizabeth. She knew I said And so She had to go Not that it makes a difference But she scared me I say And she haunted me And I haunted me And it all brought me here Brought us here I snap the light on Elizabeth's body is in an old chair. It dusty faded upholstery in stark contrast against Elizabeth pristine clothing Pristine, that is, apart from the bloody wounds on her face, the once porcelain flesh reduced to the texture of peach pits, blood dripping down her face and down her throat to form a necklace of blood. Flora's twine keeps her upright. I didn't mean to do it, but she knew. She knew that my references were false, and she knew I was sleeping in the cellar. I knew the game was up, and I did feel bad for Elizabeth. The scissors in the neck were too gruesome. For one, I needed to decorate her. Decorate her beautifully. With flower tributes. with an apology. I'd given her a crown of white roses, significant as I only used black flowers usually and corsages of black-eyed Susans and a spray of carnations in her mouth. Persephone, who appears to have eaten her dead mistress's cheeks, sits purring contentedly. on her lap. The end. flowers. So my desk smells like green onions and they just kind of flew everywhere. I went a little crazy. And my brother's name is Ethan. So that was interesting for some of that dialogue. But I really love this story. Caroline, you always know how to paint a beautiful picture of a little snippet of a world we get to view into. So I appreciate that about your work. And as I mentioned at the top of the show if you'd like more uh from this show you can go to patreon.com slash scary to sleep where you can find ad-free episodes as well as bonus episodes this week's um ramble or today's ramble i had to do it today i was i explained in the ramble why a ramble came out the same day as an episode is not normal for that to happen but i talk about a lot of stuff i kind overshare. So if you'd like to hear me overshare, again, if you're a fan of these end rambles, which I have tightened up, I think over the years, so I can throw the rest of them over on Patreon because some people don't like them at the end, which is totally understandable. What else? Oh, you can follow me on social media at scary to sleep. If you'd like to follow the show at Shelby B Novak. If you'd like to follow me, as I've said before, I mostly just stick around Instagram these days. And yeah, so if you'd like to follow me there, if you have a story you'd like considered for the show, you can send it to scary to sleep at gmail.com. Yes, I if you've sent in a submission, I probably have it categorized right now. There are quite a few I need to go through. So, but always feel free. It never bothers me if you shoot me an email to say, Hey, I sent you a story like a month ago, seven months ago, over a year ago. Yeah, I know. I'm, I am but one, one person. And I really, it's actually very helpful if I get a little reminder email, not too many. If you send me like one a week, I will be very off put by that because I, again, I can only get to these. So often I only have two eyes, as I've said, but a reminder email is very helpful. In fact, this episode you listened to tonight came about because Caroline sent me a little reminder email. Things get lost in my inbox. I don't just get submissions to that inbox. I get a lot of other things for a different work. I've gotten a little better because now I have a work email address when it comes to work things through my parent company, not my parent company. I don't, scary to sleep does not have a parent company, but through the network I belong to is parent company Cineverse. So I have an email over there. So it's getting a little easier to parse out work things that don't have to do with scary to sleep. See, here's the ramble part. I'm just oversharing. You don't care about that. You literally don't care. And I don't blame you. what other things do I always say at the end of the show? Oh, please go check out my other ventures, the bloody disgusting podcast over on YouTube, really trying to boost those numbers. This is not don't give us you don't have to go. Like if you don't if it's not your jam, it's a totally different vibe of a show. It's a totally different speed, totally different subjects. But if you are have at all been curious about the bloody disgusting podcast and what goes on over there then I would love if you could go watch us on YouTube and leave a comment and be like hey I came over here because of because of that you don't even have to say that you can just participate we usually ask questions we love horror hot takes if you have like hot takes when it comes to like horror movies and stuff, then please let us know. We'd love to talk about it. We love to argue with people too. I love to argue. So go, go argue if you ever want to. Oh, and still taking submissions for, uh, I apologize by the way, I have a bit of a sore throat. I'm getting a little sick. Everyone around me got sick after the convention or just in life. And I managed to stave it off until today. So I am a little slow moving, but, um, what was I going to say? Oh, shout out to B for sending me that chicken soup recipe, by the way, that's going to come in clutch. Uh, yeah. Oh, oh yes. So I'm taking submissions for questions, anonymous questions. The link is in the show notes. uh this has been pretty a pretty tame bunch uh it's I usually get some get more um first of all I get a lot of very graphic sexual confessions usually I'm not saying like you have to run and do I just I really don't care I that's why I allow anonymous submissions because you know sometimes people just gotta say stuff and you know it's interesting it keeps me it it entertains me I'm not gonna lie it entertains me but I will say this is a more chaste bunch of questions like they're actual questions I really do the last few I've had to weed through a lot a lot of smut about myself which is really weird it's just weird because I mean I'm just a guy Like I'm just, I'm just here in, in my one bedroom apartment. And then it's like, oh, I had no idea people had these feelings about me. I'm just a voice on the radio. But, um, so that's been interesting. Just again, overshare and be transparent. But Hey, I, there's, these have been some pretty solid questions. If you want to send me smut, that's fine. If you need to get that off your chest or whatever, I don't care. But also I just thought it was interesting. Usually that's a lot of that. And this time there's literally been zero of it. And I've been really appreciating a lot of the very well thought out, again, well thought out questions. Thank you. But I am still accepting them. So go over to the link, the NGL link in the show notes. Shoot me over. It doesn't, again, it doesn't have to be a question. It can be a comment. it can be a confession to a crime i love those i've gotten a few of those confess some crimes tell me your most embarrassing story um no don't do that i thought that'll that'll be a whole tangent i get too bad about tangents anyway don't don't tempt me with a tangent um so yeah send me it's in the link below if you've ever just if you just have again thoughts thoughts if you have things you want to talk to me about, like horror movies, then send it over to the Bloody Disgusting email address so Zena and I can both talk about that with you because that's always fun. I might steal a few of your questions actually and use them over at the Bloody Disgusting podcast. What are you going to do about it? Fight me? Come at me, bro. Okay, there we go. No baking corner. Did I bake a single goddamn thing this week? thinking thinking no I didn't I'm in a real mango mood you know those viral gummies that were kind of going crazy on like TikTok the the peely ones you can peel them so I got a bag of those on a lark I was actually putting together a little gift basket for my friends who were watching little miss Clara Bo while I was at the convention and I was like like going I was just grabbing a of like fun, strange candies for them. And I saw those Peely ones. So I got them a couple and I was like, I'm going to grab myself some because I keep seeing these on Tik TOK and I'm curious and I bet they're going to be gross, but whatever. And so I grabbed myself a bag of the mango ones. I heard the mango ones were the best. And you guys, I am on my second big bag of them. It's bad. It's a problem. I don't know why it's the texture. I love everything mango flavored anyway like i probably every couple weeks stock up on dried mango from trader joe's the one that has no added sugar i think it's called like just mango or simply mango or i don't know what they're called but there's like the ones that have the sugar on them but then there's the other ones that don't i get the boring adult um no added sugar ones but man these little candies you guys and as so many people on the candy subreddit yes i'm part of the candy subreddit it's very it's really interesting. They're kind of mean over there. They all say that it just tastes like chemicals and garbage. And I guess I like chemicals and I do like diet Coke. What else? What's, what's more chemicals and garbage than diet Coke, right? I like my chemicals and garbage. I also love the taste of like cherry NyQuil. I like the taste of chemicals. I don't know. I, it's, which is so funny. Cause I eat so clean for the most part. Like I read very clean, but then it's like I have these like few things where I'm like it's like my body is like no we need the chemicals it's like the microplastics in my blood speak to me and whisper to me and they're like eat the weird mango peely things so I don't know what's wrong with me I already rambled so long today I'm sorry I guess I think it's because when I get a little sick I get a little like vulnerable feeling and it makes me want to just talk to someone and you're someone so you're someone my friends are all in relationships and have plans this weekend I don't so sorry you're stuck with me rambling at you about the peely mango gummies um yeah okay uh I'm gonna go I love you and drink your water don't get sick like I did don't be don't don't get sick. Make some chicken soup. Um, I don't know, go live your lives. Uh, bake something for me since I didn't bake anything. If you bake something cool, if you bake something cool with mangoes in it, I found like a dessert, like a Filipino dessert. That's like mango and condensed milk and cream. And it's like in a pie crust. And I think I want to make that soon. I I'm like, I've got mango fever. What can I say? Okay. All right. I'm going to, I'm going to go. I love you. um did i say that already go get some sleep i sure am sweet dreams Thank you.