Ep.189 – The Eighth Abigail - When is DEAD Better?!

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There's nothing quite as pure as the
love of a child. It would then

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stand to reason that when one loses
said love, they would be willing to

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do anything to have it back.
And tonight we're going to see just what

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macab lengths someone will go to.
What's that? You want to be scared?

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Come with me. You will experience
tales over Obara and ghosts and death.

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It is not recommended in the foot
the week at heart, listen us

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in the dark. It's more fun
that way way. This is Weekly Speaking.

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Hello, my spookies. It's Wednesday, and you know what that means.

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It's time for a little spooky in
your Weekly. I'm your host and

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narrator, Enrique Kuto, and we
have a very very eerie story for you

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tonight, a story that made me
think of all of my beloved Edgar Allan

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post stories, but with a very
different twist. But before we get to

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that, I need to say,
simply put, thank you so much for

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listening. Weekly Spooky brings you some
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not just in October, not just
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long. And we're heading straight toward
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That's how you support the show directly. But really, my friends, all

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I care about are your ears,
So get them ready, stretch them out,

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get comfortable because tonight's story is truly
the stuff of nightmares, and I

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know you're going to enjoy it.
We'll get to that story right after these

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quick words from our sponsors, So
make sure you don't go anywhere and don't

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turn on the lights. The eighth
Abigail by LF Falconer. The child should

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have been dead long ago. Instead
she stands still as a snow covered lawn

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ornament in the night ebony hair whips
and wicked shadows. Amid the rush of

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white flakes that streak through the air. Her nightgown billows like sails, a

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doll clutched with her left arm is
crammed tightly against her chest. The other

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arm hangs loose and large and useless
by her side. Even though it might

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be more merciful, I loathe the
part of me that wishes to leave her

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out there and allow the cold to
do its damage. I've already kept her

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longer than I ever meant to,
but I cannot allow any others to see

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her, especially my sister Victoria,
believes I burned the child months ago.

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Perhaps I should have. It's a
fight with the wind to hold the door

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open. As I call out,
Abigail, come back inside, she makes

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no move, keeping her sight fixed
upon the house up the hill. Her

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lack of acknowledgment might be a failure
to hear me over the roar of the

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storm. Yet to day has been
a bad day, a wilful day on

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her part. Her choice to ignore
me probably has nothing to do with the

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weather. It was a night very
much like this, a night, cold

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and dark and filled with storm,
which killed her before and I cannot help,

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but wonder what she's thinking. There's
little left to be done. I

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can't leave her out there, so
I pull on my boots and jacket,

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tuck the key ring into my pocket, and down my hat and gloves.

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Glancing out the window, I gather
up my favorite knitted afghan, as red

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as roses in my sister's summer garden. A deep breath pushes me on once

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more. The door tries to escape
my grip. As I exit the house,

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I force it closed behind me,
making certain that it's secure. From

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the shelter of the porch. My
call is more emphatic, Come inside,

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Abigail. Now. The girl makes
no move, transfixed by the twinkling Christmas

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lights that adorn the gable gingerbread on
my sister's house on the hill above us.

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The red, green, blue,
and golden lights breaking like stained glass

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upon the cold white expanse which separates
the gothic main house from my own.

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Gay dancing lights outline all the eves. The leaded windows, glowing amber in

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the night, portray a holiday cheerfulness
which belies the madness that lives within my

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sister's home. My own simple domicile, a caretaker's cottage in its day is

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dreary in comparison, though not lacking
in its own irrationalities barely discernible. The

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only illumination within my home stems from
a single light bulb in the hallway,

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which filters anemically through the blinds of
the living room window, the only light

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allowed after dark lest someone catch a
glimpse inside. Though years have passed,

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it seems not that long ago.
My sister was a proficient geneticist employed at

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a reputable laboratory. She keeps to
herself now. After the death of her

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husband, soon followed by the death
of her daughter, Victoria became a recluse

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and walled herself away within the cocoon
of her inherited home. I'd hoped to

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help her through her time of mourning
and took up residence within the small home

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beside hers, adjacent to an abandoned
mortuary incrematorium. To support myself financially,

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I chose to make use of the
facilities on hand, taking classes at the

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university to become a mortician. Once
my license was obtained, Victoria endowed me

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with enough of her dwindling inheritance to
refurbish the old mortuary and bring it up

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to code. It was an ideal
situation for both, keeping us near to

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one another. In Victoria's time of
mourning with her daughter's unfortunate death, I

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had lost more than a niece.
I had lost my sister as well.

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As she succumbed to her despair.
More than that, she became ensnared by

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an overwhelming drive to undo what had
been done. At first, I supported

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fully her habit of dabbling in her
home experiments, her efforts to clone her

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beloved Abigail. The focus appeared to
ease her distress, and I hoped it

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would help her work through her grief, until the sister I had once known

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might one day find her way back
to me. Yet, year after year,

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my sister's cloning experiments proved to be
constant, efficient failures. Looking back,

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I should have sought some help for
her then, for she began to

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abandon the genetic approach, sinking into
desperation as she delved into more ancient,

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sinister alternatives. It was through those
alternatives that she came to depend upon me

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even more. While it went against
my better judgment, Without too much nefariousness

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on my part, I was able
to provide Victoria the body parts she requested

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for her new laboratory experiments. At
first, it was merely a face or

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two. She required those she would
meticulously alter and keep viable in cold storage.

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She soon became quite adept in her
abilities to alter one's appearance from its

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natural state to the one she desired. Then she began to want more.

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She asked for an arm, here, a leg, there ahead a torso.

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And from those poor souls who entrusted
me with their final exit from this

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earth, I became a thief in
order to indulge my sister's passion. I

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gaze again upon the wretched being standing
like a statue in the snow. The

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wind tries to push me back,
but I leave the shelter of my porch

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and trudge out into the storm.
Deep snow edging its way over the tops

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of my boots. I drape the
red afghan over Abigail's shoulders, stirring to

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life a whiff of lilacs and death. I cannot know how well she feels

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the warmth or the cold. I
cannot know if she feels the wind biting

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her lips and cheeks, or the
hair whipping her face. I cannot know

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if she's aware of the drifts that
envelop her naked feet like a pair of

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downy white shoes. But I do
know she is aware of the twinkling colored

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lights. Her eyes dance with them
as they pierce through the snow, and

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she does not move, not even
a shiver. Please, Abigail, come

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back inside with me. I urge, without touching her, even protected by

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my gloves. I have no wish
to touch her dead, fragile flesh,

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made colder still by the storm.
Abigail makes no move, as if she

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hadn't heard me. Yet I believe
she did hear. I do know she

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hears, even when she chooses not
to respond. But I've learned that sometimes

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no response is preferable to the emotional
tempests I've come to encounter of late.

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I have no wish to instigate the
increasingly destructive power of her outbursts. She

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is not like the Abigail she is
supposed to represent. This girl is rage,

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unconstrained, all hate and bile,
teeth and claws. At one time,

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this child was loved. She was
happy. She frolicked through the grass,

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chasing butterflies in the summer. She
caught sweet rain drops on her tongue.

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She tickled the bellies of fat puppies
and kittens, and sang her ABC's

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along with a muppet on the television. She played with dolls, dressing them

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in finery of satin and sparkling lace, instead of maiming them and eating them.

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These things I do not know for
a fact, but I imagine she

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was a healthy child when she died
in that car accident a year ago.

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Therefore, I imagine she was as
happy and playful as a young girl can

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be, as happy and playful as
the first Abigail was the original Abigail.

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But this is not the Abigail I
knew. This Abigail I have only known

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in death, in bad temper,
in despair. The face she wears,

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a face treated and cured, a
face made to endure like a living mask,

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a face delicately crafted from another,
reshaped and reformed to simulate Victoria's daughter,

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a face manually jolted to animation.
This face no longer resembles the niece

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I once knew and loved. This
face harbor's smoldering resentment deep inside. It

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is never smiled. The eyes shine
not with sparks of living joy, but

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with anguish and fury. Too often
they are empty and lacking in soul.

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At this moment, the only light
that reflects in them is a twinkling rainbow

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which bleeds across her moist dark pupils
like watercolors. What memories do these lights

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ignite inside the revenant child? Does
she recall her death? Does she remember

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her life? I once tried to
warn Victoria of this, of how to

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the dead, death is often preferable
over a life no longer their own.

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But Victoria is convinced that eventually she
will reconstruct her beloved Abigail, and the

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torture which now drives her to such
unscrupulous ends will disappear, as if blown

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by the wind. When successful,
all will be forgiven beneath the new born

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shroud of Abigail's love. How many
faces does Victoria have on hand? How

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many have I supplied her as I
abet her obsession? How many of her

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failed experiments have vanished in my fires? I have only myself to blame.

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Last December, this child died with
her mother. She should have remained in

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death, but the two lives cut
short were put into my care, and

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with that another Abigail came to be, not a child made of bits and

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pieces, this time for other than
the face. The only part not original

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is the right arm. Her own
was shatter'd beyond redemption. The one she

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bears now had belonged to her mother. The arm never did work, the

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bulky appendage always dangling like a broken
pendulum. At Abigail's side. She had

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been the correct age. She had
been, nearly a complete specimen. It

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was as if she had been a
gift, a Christmas gift one I presented

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to my sister unrequested, Hoping to
finally put an end to our miserable existence,

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Victoria meticulously bestowed the girl a new
face and brought her back to life.

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Unfortunately, the child failed from the
start. Never could she master the

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art of speech, managing mere grunts
and animalistic snarls and growls. She ate

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whatever she liked, much of it
unsanitary and undigestable trash. She refused to

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learn and follow rules. Her dead
flesh never fully recovered, taking on a

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greenish septic hue. And while my
sister could rebuild a close physical replica to

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her lost daughter, she could not
reanimate Abigail's soul. With yet another failure

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on her hands, Victoria returned the
child to me for disposal, as she

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had done time and time before.
I do not know what kind of monster

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Victoria thinks I am, or am
I a monster for keeping the child alive.

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After all, this child is different
than all the others. She was

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my choice, and she was so
nearly a success. Yes, she is

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flawed, but aren't we all.
She's close to success, but not close

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enough to Victoria, she was simply
another failure. By the time she came

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back into my possession for disposal,
suppuration had fully established it self beneath pockets

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of flesh. Putrification caused a bloat
to her skin. For a time,

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the use of glutteral and carbolic soap
helped, but the necrosis could not be

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stemmed. I can no longer bathe
her. Large chunks of dry, blackened

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flesh peel off in the process,
and her stench is becoming unbearable. My

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lilac scented cadaver spray no longer helps. I cannot comb her mangy hair,

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lest the teeth wrench it free from
her scalp. I cannot keep her from

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wandering outside. I cannot keep her
from eating unsavory things. I cannot make

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her happy though alive. She does
not live. Though dead, she does

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not die. The wind, with
its petulant gust, rips the afghan from

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Abigail's shoulders and spills it onto the
snow, where it eyes like a pool

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of blood. After a moment,
I retrieve it and cover her again,

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pulling it around to block the sight
of the doll. She carries a doll,

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at one time, fresh and as
pretty as she herself had once been,

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A doll now marred beyond repair.
It wears no clothes. The nose,

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the cheeks, the fingers have all
been chewed away, the hair torn

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from the perforated scalp, the marble
eyes gone, leaving behind only deep gaping

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holes through which the doll cannot possibly
see. Yet, in her own way,

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Abigail adores the doll, evident by
the way she forever holds it close,

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as if, perhaps due to their
shared deformations, it could return her

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affection. Does she see the doll
as an extension of her own self,

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a flawed, disposable plaything. I
bring my gloved hand up in an attempt

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to tame the wild, dark hair
blowing free in the wind. It is

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matted and stiff, beneath my touch. Together, Abigail and I stand motionless

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in the snow, watching the colorful
carnival of lights shatter through a hazardous rhapsody

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in white. She an imperfect shell
in need of love and compassion. Me

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the denier of death or the giver
of death. Bundled as I am still,

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I grow chilled. We should go
now, Abigail. I whisper against

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her ear, allowing the frenzied flurry
surrounding us to swiftly cleanse the air.

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Placing both hands upon her shoulders,
I struggle to guide and turn her around,

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but her frost bitten, gangrenous feet
fail. She collapses to the snow,

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her big dead arm making no move
to break the fall. Her left

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arm still clutches the doll. Abigail's
eyes stare blankly into the flickering colored night.

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Dark hair oozes like cold tar across
her face, chunks of necrotic flesh

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cling to the packed snow where she
had stood. I do not know that

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she cannot feel the pain. I
only know she does not react to it.

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Perhaps that's a small blessing. The
House on the Hill, in its

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gaudy holiday dress, taunts us with
its screams of false cheer and joviality.

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Tears well in my eyes, causing
the lights to blur. Without my knowledge

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or aid, Victoria has managed to
acquire a new child, a living child,

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this time, a child which now
bears the face of the dead.

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Where she got her I do not
know, I do not want to know.

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For twenty years, Victoria has struggled
to bring her daughter back, her

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life an endless journey of broken dreams
and sadness. I do not know what

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it's like to lose a child.
That's a grief I've yet to encounter.

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But is life truly better than death? Does not Abigail, the first Abigail,

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the original Abigail, deserve the respect
of cherished memory. Victoria believes she

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is creating a miracle by doing the
work of a negligent God. Yet her

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work benefits only her own insatiable hunger
for something that should never be requited.

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At the moment, Victoria is happy, she has no remorse. But when

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her new Abigail begins to sour in
her expectations, what then will she simply

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give her over to me for disposal
and start anew I bring my unwilling hands

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back to the child in my care. Come with me, Abigail, it's

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time to go home. I try
to coax her back to her feet,

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but she fails to cooperate. Her
gaze remains fixed upon the colored lights on

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the hill. What do her dead
not dead eyes truly see. I kneel

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beside this eighth, Abigail, My
knees grumbling against the cold. Last Christmas,

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I denied this child death. This
year, I will give it back.

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I do not know if she feels
the cold, but she might.

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I do know she will feel the
heat, and I know I can no

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longer bear the screams, the words
crawl through the lump in my throat,

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only to die on the wind.
Merry Christmas, child, forgive me.

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Her only response is the reflection of
fanciful lights glimmering upon her liquid eyes.

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My gloved hand presses firmly over her
nose and mouth. For a moment,

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her eyes leave the mesmerizing lights and
focus upon my own. Stony and comprehensive.

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There is little fight left within.
A small fist pounds her clutched doll

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against the snow. Bony heals kick
once twice. She surrenders and goes limp

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beneath my hold, slipping into an
undead sleep. Clustered snow flakes melt upon

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my cheeks. I pry the glove
from my hand and pull the key ring

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from my pocket, locating the key
to the crematorium. I need to feel

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the cold metal against my skin.
I need its hardness to steal my resolve.

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I lift the child into my arms. It's much like hoisting up a

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small bag of sugar. A negligible
load, yet a load as burdensome as

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the cross. I must bear my
sins as great or greater than my sisters

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in this folly. It is only
Abigail who holds no blame, Abigail who

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always pays the price. I just
gotta say, Ella Falconer is never messing

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around. Her stories are truly chilling
and wonderful, and we can't wait to

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have a little bit more of her
content right here. So lf, if

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you're listening to this, send over
anything anytime, weekly Spooky, we'd love

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to have you. I hope you
enjoyed that story as much as I did.

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It really did give me these chilling
feelings. I got a lot of

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Edgar Allan Poe vibes. Maybe that's
because on Friday nights. I've been reading

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Poe for all of you. I
don't know if you've noticed that yet,

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but on the feed there are several
Edgar Allan post stories and poems that I've

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recorded as a little bonus to thank
you for joining me on the Spooky and

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00:26:14.000 --> 00:26:18.559
it's definitely painted the way I'm reading
other stories, I suppose, but there

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are worse things than being inspired by
the true American master of horror, Edgar

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Allan Poe. And speaking of truly
awesome, I want to say a big

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thank you to our Patreon backers who
make this show possible every single month,

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00:26:32.839 --> 00:26:37.400
and especially our Patreon podcast boosters,
folks who pay just a little bit more

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00:26:37.640 --> 00:26:41.839
to hear their names at the end
of the show. And they are Bobbletopia

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00:26:41.960 --> 00:26:45.759
dot Com, Megan Hua, Julia
Kersh, Brent McCullough, Gino Lyons,

262
00:26:45.799 --> 00:26:49.839
Steve King, Karen we Met,
Jack Kerr and Craig Coh and thank you

263
00:26:49.880 --> 00:26:52.440
all so much. And if you
want to hear your name at the end

264
00:26:52.440 --> 00:26:56.359
of every Weekly Spooky show, all
you have to do is go to Weekly

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00:26:56.440 --> 00:27:02.960
Spooky dot Com, click on Patreon
and select a fifteen dollar or higher tier.

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00:27:03.440 --> 00:27:08.400
You'll get all kinds of bonuses and
my sweet silky voice reading your name

267
00:27:08.720 --> 00:27:12.519
on the show. But now,
my friends, I have to go and

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do something truly terrifying, which is
find a plumber. Yes, I have

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been documenting my battles with homeownership right
here on the show, and I'm worried

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that maybe that's a little too scary, So for myself, for our executive

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producer Rob Fields, our producer Dan
Wilder, and our composer Ray Matdis.

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I'll talk at you next time.
Thank you for this face. Make sure

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to find your way back next week. But for now, you are safe,

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trust me.