Ep.213 – Burn on the Bayou - A Halloween Party TO DIE FOR

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It's October, and I guarantee many
of you out there would like to throw

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the ultimate killer party. Well,
a gentleman by the name of Lucian Grayshire

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specializes in throwing just such a party. But one question rises, is killer

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a figure of speech? Feel the
chill in the air. Listens to the

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leaves Russ rossmo as they die and
fall to the ground. It is Halloween.

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You will experience tales of ghosts and
death. It is not recommended for

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the weak a heart. Join me
for a tale foul. This is Weekly

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Spooky. Well, my Spookyes,
it's October, so how about we have

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a little more spooky in our weekly? I say we have no limit.

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The bounds are completely out of hand
in this month. So today we have

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yet another terrifying tale that I'm sure
we'll get you in the spirit. But

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before we get to that, I
want to mention we have a special deal

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head to bobletopia dot com and find
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one. I have a Freddy Krueger
sitting right here on my desk right now,

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and speaking of Freddie, tonight's story
involves a rather interesting burn victim as

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well. But before we get to
the story, I just want to remind

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you to make sure you're subscribed on
your favorite podcasting app because there will be

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a brand new weekly spooky show every
single day in October. That's right today,

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tomorrow, the next day. We're
going to keep the scary rolling and

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rolling and rolling. And if you
love what you're hearing here, head over

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to Spotify or Apple Podcasts or wherever
you get your podcasts and leave us a

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five star rating. It really helps
new people find the program, and we

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know there's a lot of new folks
listening right now ready to get into spooky

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season, and that's what we're all
about right here. But we don't just

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do it in October. We do
it all year long. But now it's

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time for a story to chill you
after these quick words. Burn on the

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Bayou by LF Falconer, Fortunate is
the man who can make a living doing

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what he loves, and Lucien Grayshire
is a fortunate man, despite having risen

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from the dead pickering manner. Hides
among ancient cypress and sprawling live oaks on

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the edge of the bayou, the
yard tangled in rhododendrons and creeping vines.

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It once served as the main house
on a modest plantation, yet early during

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the Civil War the property had fallen
into disuse. To this day it remains

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empty, locked in a state of
perpetual desperation. Beyond an eight foot brick

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wall in swathed in cobwebs and mold, A sepulchral squeal slices through the silence

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as the massive wrought iron gate is
pulled across the drive. A treasure these

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rusty hinges, Lucian notes, with
a thin lipped smile, no need to

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make any adjustments to this sound effect. In the darkness. Beyond his limited

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field of view, a crisp rustle
in the grass swallows his attention before drifting

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to silence. Thank you, he
whispers with a nod. Well done.

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According to local war rebellious slaves had
murdered the entire Pickering family in their sleep.

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Night shrieks, moans, whales,
and thundering footfalls racing across the floorboards

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have since punctuated every ghostly tale.
The manner is featured within Paine Lives Here.

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Wild seclusion, coupled with its sordid
history, make this an ideal choice

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for Lucian's smashing Halloween Bash of the
year. Never has one of his soires

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been a failure. His fame legendary
clients scramble for a booking and demand only

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the best haunted experience as they throw
outrageous funds his direction. In order to

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impress their peers, he sets his
fees high. They still pay, They

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will always pay. Each Halloween presents
a new challenge as Lucian strives for proper

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orchestration. Selecting the express location,
perfecting the ghastly props, and inviting the

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precise guests to pull it all together
makes the passage from one Halloween to the

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next seem but a blink in time. This undertaking ensures each event is unique,

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lest a staleness or predictability begin to
dampen the excitement and diminish his list

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of well paying clients. The one
standard which endures from year to year is

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his costume. He has only to
down an old ulster and top hat.

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Horrific burn scars, a natural limp, and a tall gaunt frame exquisitely complement

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his duty as host. Tomorrow is
all Hallow's eve. Everything is set.

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With his single good eye, Lucian
glances back at the manner. A squint

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of moonlight illuminates three of five gables
in shades of wet clay. Tomorrow.

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The song raggedly escapes his lips while
he locks the gate Tomorrow. Hobbling toward

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the idling van, his thoughts begin
to process the planning tasks which will comprise

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the coming year ahead. He sleeps
well, now, no longer troubled by

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his dreams. Brock Hennings Rolex watch
reads October thirty first, six o six

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p m. He stands before the
dressing room mirror, adjusting the black pirate

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hat atop the long dreadlocks of the
cocking it first this way than that?

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Are you certain you don't want to
come? He calls out to his wife.

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You'll never have another chance at a
party like this, as if on

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cue, Vivian appears in the dressing
room doorway. Don't be absurd, I

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can't believe the amount you paid that
man. It's positively criminal. Inwardly,

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Brock smiles, it would ruin everything
if his wife broke character and chose to

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accompany him. He already has a
date, and Desirah Jolly is a far

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more delicious piece of arm candy than
this prim dowager he'd married could ever hope

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to be. There isn't enough plastic
surgery in the world, But after three

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years of marriage, he believes he
knows his wife well enough. Vivian will

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never lower herself to attend an event
for the sheer fun of it. You

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are aware of the notoriety of a
Grayshire Halloween, he prods, gently,

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knowing he must keep up a modicum
of husbandly concern, yet not so much

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to actually change her mind. What
I'm aware of, Brock, is the

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ridiculous waste of it all. But
since you've already deemed it worthy of my

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late daddy's money, there's little I
can do about it now. But keep

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in mind that as of tonight the
purse strings close. He moves to the

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doorway and attempts to embrace her,
but Vivian side steps, evading his grasp.

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Don't be so testy, dear,
Brock reaches out ever so slightly.

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There's no need to punish me too
harshly. Oh really, First it was

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the yacht that never leaves the marina, then the summer house in Naples,

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which I have yet to even see, that damn Maserati, two loser race

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horses, and now this. I've
had more than enough, So go enjoy

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yourself while you still can. I'll
be cold contacting the lawyer tomorrow, my

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sweet pet, don't act this way, Brock makes another mock attempt to soothe

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her. You're absolutely right. I've
been a fool with some of my spending,

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but I promise I've learned my lesson. I'll be better in the future.

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What you do in the future is
no concern of mine. I'm through.

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My daddy didn't leave me his estate
just so you could blow it all

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in a few short years. Get
out, go, don't keep your guests

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waiting on my account. Vivian wheels
about and strides from the room, slamming

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the bedroom door on the way out. Brock relaxes and steps from the dressing

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room. At the bedroom window,
he glances out at the hedgerow along the

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far edge of the yard beyond.
Before drawing the drapes, he unlocks the

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window latch, then turns and removes
the buccaneer jacket from the costume box.

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With a wink of approval to his
mirrored reflection. He tucks his cell phone

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and wallet away and departs his wife's
ancestral mansion. The drive to Desiriah's home

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is uneventful, and he whips the
sleek black Grand Tarismo into the open driveway,

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making certain to lock it upon exiting. This neighborhood seems plucked straight from

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his past, teeming with the lower
middle class and their wall to wall track

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combs. Thanks to Vivian, he
is finally moved above all this, he

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plans to stay there. Before he
can knock upon his paramour's front door,

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it opens, revealing the comely young
woman clad in a velvet boustier mini skirt

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and over the knee black leather boots. Ah. Now there's a fair wench

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if ever I've seen one. Brock
sweeps her into his arms, drawing her

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back inside the privacy of the house
while he closes the door behind him with

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his foot. I could devour ye
right here and now any other time,

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and I'd let you captain Hook,
but I'm pretty anxious to get this night

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over with. Is everything set?
Brock nuzzles her neck. It's Jack Sparrow,

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not Hook. And yes, I
have a man named Watts who will

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come in to burglarize my home.
It's a damn shame. Vivian will only

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get in his way. But such
things can't be helped, can they,

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does Ariah purrs against his ear.
No, they can't. And I can't

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wait to move in. I'm dying
to get my hand on that place,

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and we've been waiting way too long. She clutches onto her lover's hand and

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accompanies him to the door. After
settling into the car, Brock programs the

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GPS for directions and they're off.
Lucian waits at the gate in the dark,

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a battery opera rated lantern held in
one hand, created by strategically placed

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machines. Low fog shimmers in the
distance. It resembles smoke to the point

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that he can actually smell it,
the rank odor of charred wood and plaster

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as the smoke billows beneath the locked
bedroom door. Beyond the door, echoing

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through the inferno, the maniacal shouts
of his father footfalls heavy running the wrong

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direction. Help me, Daddy,
Lucian's cracked frantic cry, eyes and throat

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of fire, hands beating at the
hot door. Don't leave me, Lucian

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snaps to attention, driving the moudacious
memory into the shadows, as the engine

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wine of the approaching Maserati binds him
fully back into the present. The gate

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screeches as he opens it wide,
and after his client drives through, he

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follows the red tail lights up to
the lantern lit drive, limping toward the

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vehicle. As Brock and Desiriah ungracefully
extricate themselves from the low slung car.

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Good evening, Lucian gives a courteous
bow, doffing his top hat for a

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moment before righting himself this place.
Brock shakes Lucian's hand, My man,

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this all looks spectacular, so far
downright, haunting, all on its own.

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Show me what you have in store. Keeping close to Brock's side,

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Desiiah gazes around the empty drive.
Isn't anyone else coming? The party doesn't

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actually begin until ten, Brock explains, But I want to see what all

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mister Greyshire has planned for our night's
entertainment. Sir, madam, shall we

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go inside. Lucian leads the way, and Desiah and Brock follow their host

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the The flickering lantern light commands grim
Shadows to skid her through the unkempt yard.

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At an oak door burnished with time, Lucian hefts it open, motioning

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his guests inside. By the way, great costume, Desiiah says, as

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she steps over the threshold, you
look kind of like doctor Hyde. Mister

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Brock corrects, examining the cobwebs evident
within the white light of Lucian's lantern,

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it's Doctor Jekyl and mister Hide.
Musky Dust rises up, making his nose

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itch and threatens a sneeze. Desiiah
grasps on to Brock's arm. Whatever,

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it's still a pretty cool makeup job. Really gross, Lucian pulls the door

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closed behind them. Forgive me if
I appear unhandsome, my lady, it

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was a childhood misfortune. Desiiah purses
her lips. Oh, sorry, no

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offense taken. Lucian ushers them from
the foyer. Please, let's make our

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way to the reception parlor, shall
we, for that is where the main

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activities will be taking place. Desiriah
glances up and shrinks back against Brock with

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a shriek. He holds her and
scans the staircase amid the darkness. Upon

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the top step, a hazy male
figure clearly manifests. One hand holds a

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bloody axe. A woman's severed head
dangles from the other. There's more scares

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where that came from. Weekly,
spooky will be right back. What the

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Brock shoots Lucian in acerbic glare.
A simple projection, Lucian tells him,

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as the figure fades away, A
lovely don't you agree? The figure appears

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once more. That's pretty gruesome,
all right. Brock blows out a foiled

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whistle, mere breath between his lips. I've got a hand it to you.

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You know your stuff. The figure
fades out again. My research uncovered

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the estate's true history, Lucian explains. As they proceed toward the reception parlor

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to the left of the foyer,
Brock notes the eyes of the portraits on

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the walls following their every move.
Cliched, he thinks, yet still unsettling.

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Evidently it wasn't the slaves who murdered
the Pickering family. Lucian leads his

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guests through the parlor door. The
butchery was done by Master Pickering himself.

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Lucian sets his lantern aside and pulls
a small box of matches from his coat

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pocket to light the wick of a
lamp ensconced upon the wall. Please forgive

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the lamplight. But the house has
never possessed electricity. Is this place safe,

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Desiraah asks, I mean it's been
deserted for like one hundred years,

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one hundred and fifty two. Brock
spews his stifled sneeze, bless you.

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Lucian pulls the tissue from his pocket
and hands it to Brock, clicks off

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the battery operated lantern and steps to
the next scance. With the disappearance of

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the cold white lantern light, the
room darkens ominously shadowed beneath fretful flames.

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He glances back at the girl and
lights the second lamp wick. The manner

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is quite sturdy, if that's your
concern. Do you know for sure,

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Desiree counters, Oh, I know
many things, my lady. Lucian blows

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out the match, many things.
So it was Pickering who actually killed his

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family. Broc takes a sudden step
back, startled by the hasty transparent reflection

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in the window, the same figure
he'd seen at the top of the stairs.

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It suspends a different head, a
young boy's. Lucian lights a third

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lamp. He took an axe to
them, one by one, the children

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first, then his wife. By
the time he started in on the household

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slaves, they overpowered him and threw
him into the cistern, but not before

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two had perished. After the slaves
realized what had happened, they all fled,

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fearing the blame would be laid upon
them. And so it was.

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You're making that up, Desiriah shivers
beneath the chill blasting through the room.

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Everyone knows it was the slaves that
did it. It was the father.

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Lucian snaps, impaling her with his
one eyed glare. Holding her hands up,

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she takes a step back. Okay, okay, geez, chill out.

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It's a damn good story for the
effects you've set in place. Brock

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continues to watch the window, waiting
for the grizzly vision to reappear. This

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place is really giving me the creeps, he admits, turning now to glance

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out the door. I can actually
hear footsteps out there, but no one

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else is here outstanding. People will
be talking about my party for years.

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You really think anyone's gonna actually be
brave enough to show up, Desiree asks,

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this place has a really bad reputation. Brock steps back into the foyer

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watches for the image at the top
of the stairs, nearly overcome by the

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stench of swamp rod and dank humus. Story's blown way out of proportion,

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which mister Grayshire has managed to magnify
magnificently. What better place for a haunted

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party than a well known haunted house. It's brilliant, though you might have

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gone a bit overboard on the smell
effects. It's more often people who are

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haunted than places, and the odor
is natural to the manner. It's not

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my doing. It's hardly a party
atmosphere, you're correct, But it is

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a haunted atmosphere, which was part
of our contract. Lucian lights the final

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lamp, and I always fulfill my
contracts. The grotesque image in the window

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fades in and out. Would you
care to tour the grounds? Desireah shudders

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again. No way, this is
scary enough. Oh come on, Brock

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urges, It's not real. It's
all simply well orchestrated, like movie effects.

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He winks at Lucian right Grayshire.
Lucian nods. The key to any

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plan is proper orchestration, but it
is the execution which makes it a success.

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An unearthly wail echoes through the room. Broc and Desiah start with a

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gasp. Their face is ashen.
Broc looks uneasily upon Lucian with a nod

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of admiration. Desiiah glares in contempt. Are you sure this is all fake

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orchestrated? Lucian confirms quietly. He
had been dead when the fireman pulled him

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from the flames. His mother and
younger brother remained dead. Lucian had been

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brought back to life, a life
irrevocably altered through death, A life lived

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hospitalized for years in burnt agony while
his father was sentenced to life in prison

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for arson and first degree murder.
But it was well orchestrated, his father

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continually claimed, in a failed insanity
defense, a plan well orchestrated. Lucian

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had studied the court transcripts until he
knew them by heart. Brock picks up

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the battery operated lantern and clasps Desiraah's
hand come on, sweet thing, let's

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tour the grounds before the guests arrive. She wrenches free. No way,

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Lucian takes the lantern from Brock's possession. You may remain inside if you wish.

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I shall escort mister Henning alone.
Wait a minute, Desiah says,

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even if all of this really is
fake, I don't want to stay here

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all by myself. Broc takes her
hand once again. Then you'll have to

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come with us. He gives Lucian
a sidelong glance as they head for the

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back door. Several lanterns hang from
the back porch eve, scattering shallow illumination

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across the neglected yard. Luminous fog
creeps across the ground. Several unbodied wisps

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of white slither upwards like sylphs into
the night. Undaunted, Lucian leads his

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client through the mist. Dimly visible
in the restless lantern light, weathered headstones

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make a vague emergence above the fog. Oh hell, no, Desiriah protests,

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bringing her footsteps to a halt.
In the distance. Near the edge

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of the dark, A lone figure
of gauzy white hovers above the stones.

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It has no head. This this
isn't a real graveyard, is it?

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Brock asks. In days of old, the dead were often interred upon their

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own land. Lucian continues winding his
way through the mist and shrouded stones.

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The headless figure vanishes as the lantern
light move mos off. Brock and Desiraiah

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hasten to keep up special effects,
right, Brock asks, Lucian flashes a

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toothy smile and winks his cloudy,
sightless eye. Brilliant, wouldn't you say?

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He had purchased the headstones with the
prophets from his first event, one

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for his mother, one for his
brother, Finally able to mark their plots

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in an appropriate manner. No longer
are they left unnamed, unnoticed, and

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seemingly forgotten in the Havenport Cemetery a
thousand miles distant. No, they were

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never forgotten, and he feels it
an injurious aberration that they are the ones

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buried and gone. While his father's
every living need is seen to through the

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taxes and sweat of the working class, and though revenant himself, part of

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his soul still walks the land of
the dead, especially at this time of

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year when the veil runs thin.
Desiriah clings to Brock's side, clutching his

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hand. Let's go back to the
house now, she says, I've seen

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enough. Allow me one more piece
of orchestration. Lucian says, I assure

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you it will be the highlight of
your night. Brock readily concedes. Since

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we've come this far, I suppose
we should see it. Leaving the graveyard

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behind them in the darkness, the
trio wends through a close set grove of

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cyprus. Dangling Spanish moss latches onto
Desiiah's hair. They're better there not be

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any spiders in this stuff. She
brushes at it and grips Brock's hand tighter.

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If we go much further, we'll
all end up in the bayou.

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A sliver of moonlight glimmers overhead.
We're still upon solid ground, Lucian assures,

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keeping his direction set through the trees. We're actually nearer to the road

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than the swamp. Brock glances over
his shoulder. You will be able to

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find your way back to the house, won't you. Under the lantern light.

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Lucian's smile stretches wide beneath what remains
of his nose. I've become quite

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well acquainted with these grounds. There's
no need to fear becoming lost his footsteps.

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Halt ah, here we are.
Why would you go and set something

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up this far from the house,
desiahs fear comes out bitter. No one's

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even going to come all the way
out here, not unless they're drunk or

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stupid. Brock shoots Lucian a curious
frown. She has a point, as

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much as the taut, shriveled skin
allows. Lucian attempts to pout. If

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you'd really rather not see it,
we shall return to the manor forthwith forthwith

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Desiriah grumbles, who even talks like
that? Now, now, sweet thing,

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Brock soothes her ruffled feathers. Don't
be cruel. There's no need to

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belittle the man's manner of speech.
Well, this place is creepy enough in

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the daylight, let alone at night
with a bunch of scary orchestration going on

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00:28:44.279 --> 00:28:48.240
with some weirdo. Can't we all
just go back to the house and wait

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for the others. Lucian moves off, taking the lantern light with him.

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Please, it's right over here,
if you'll but take a quick glimpse.

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00:29:00.200 --> 00:29:07.559
It took great effort to prepare a
rock wall manifests within the dim glow one

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foot tall and circular in shape fifteen
feet in diameter. Broc and Desiraah step

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closer. Is that a cistern?
Brock asks the cistern. Lucian peers over

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00:29:22.720 --> 00:29:27.000
the edge of the open well.
Lantern light bounces off the lime plaster walls,

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00:29:27.039 --> 00:29:33.799
revealing a pit of twelve feet in
depth. Shallow black water pools at

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the bottom, reflecting the lantern's luminance. Desiiah bends forward and glances in.

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What's that down and there? Brock
looks at Lucian, his eyebrows knitted in

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00:29:45.640 --> 00:29:53.559
question, pickering. Lucian cocks his
head and mouths a silent command. Brock

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responds with a shrug. Are those
gaiters? Desiriah asks. Lucian silently commands

292
00:30:03.319 --> 00:30:11.160
Brock again. Brock slowly pries his
hand free from Desiiah's grasp and shuffles back.

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Don't be ridiculous, my sweet,
he says, how would alligators get

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00:30:17.119 --> 00:30:22.880
inside a cistern? I'm pretty sure
those are gaiters. Indeed, you are

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00:30:22.960 --> 00:30:27.680
correct, Lucian says, waving his
hand behind her, mouthing his silent words.

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Yet again, Brock takes another step
back. Lucian rolls his good eye

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skyward, spewing a disgruntled breath.
A bloody hell, must I do everything?

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He steps up and shoves Desiriah in
in Lucian's eye. She seems to

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tumble with grace, like a slow
motion gymnast, dismounting a bar after she

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00:30:57.200 --> 00:31:03.279
performs a mid air twist. Her
fingers are left desperately clinging onto the rock.

301
00:31:03.400 --> 00:31:08.240
Rim one red, fingernail broken,
She dangles inside the pit, boots

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00:31:08.359 --> 00:31:14.799
kicking at the smooth interior wall in
search of a non existent foothold. Her

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00:31:14.839 --> 00:31:21.559
plea for help a curdled scream.
Brock jutters forward. Oh, dear Lord,

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she's fallen in. We got to
help her, but mister Henning,

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00:31:26.079 --> 00:31:33.039
Lucian leans in and crooks his non
existent eyebrow. Your instructions were explicit,

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00:31:34.119 --> 00:31:38.680
your payment, Oh, for Peaked's
sake, gray Shire, I'm trying to

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00:31:38.720 --> 00:31:42.240
maintain a pretense here. Work with
me, man, work with me.

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00:31:44.240 --> 00:31:48.480
Desiriahs screams again, her fingers clawing
at the stones. Her left arm crawls

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atop the rim. She begins to
worm her way up. Lucian straightens.

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00:31:56.240 --> 00:32:00.240
My deepest apology, sir, for
a dreadful moment I thought perhaps you'd changed

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00:32:00.279 --> 00:32:07.319
your mind. Ha Brock steps to
the rock rim and stomps upon Desiriah's right

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00:32:07.319 --> 00:32:10.839
hand. I'll be damned if I'm
going to share my upcoming inheritance with this

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00:32:10.960 --> 00:32:15.880
silly little gold digger. As she
fights to regain her hold, he kicks

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00:32:15.880 --> 00:32:22.799
her arm off the rim. She
plummets, her blood chilling screen consumed by

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00:32:22.799 --> 00:32:30.160
the surrounding trees. A rush of
splashing rumbles up from the pit. Brushing

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00:32:30.200 --> 00:32:35.319
his hands together, Brock steps backwards
with a smirk. And thanks to your

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00:32:35.359 --> 00:32:39.359
recommendation of watts after tonight, I'll
be sitting pretty for the rest of my

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00:32:39.559 --> 00:32:46.519
life. The screams from the cistern
go silent, the splashing slowly subsides,

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00:32:47.480 --> 00:32:57.000
muted by darkness. Brock glances over
at Lucian with a satisfied grin. Brilliant

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00:32:57.079 --> 00:33:04.200
job. You've earned every penny I
paid you, every penny. Lucian tips

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00:33:04.200 --> 00:33:09.559
his hat with a slight bow and
more from the shadows, a dark,

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00:33:09.599 --> 00:33:17.119
hooded figure emerges Silently. It glides
to Lucian's side, the scythe shimmers in

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00:33:17.160 --> 00:33:22.640
the lantern light. Brock shuffles back
with a wide eyed gasp. Bumping against

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00:33:22.640 --> 00:33:30.839
the cistern's rim. With a single
nudge, he topples over the edge.

325
00:33:31.079 --> 00:33:38.400
As the screams and splashes below start
anew Lucian turns and gives an approving nod.

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00:33:39.599 --> 00:33:46.119
Vivian sweeps the hood back and spits
into the cistern. My daddy didn't

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00:33:46.240 --> 00:33:52.960
raise a fool. Reaching inside her
robe, she withdraws a fat envelope and

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00:33:52.079 --> 00:33:58.279
several keys and hands them over to
Lucian. The yacht and the house in

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00:33:58.400 --> 00:34:01.599
Naples are now yours, as we
agreed, I'm keeping the maserati, so

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00:34:01.759 --> 00:34:06.680
please, when you sail off,
leave it parked at the marina where it'll

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00:34:06.680 --> 00:34:13.360
be noticed. Fortunate is the man
who can earn an excellent living doing what

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00:34:13.440 --> 00:34:21.159
he loves, and Lucian Greyshire is
a fortunate man, vigilant and insuring due

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00:34:21.400 --> 00:34:27.880
justice is well served. Graciously,
he accepts, tucking the envelope and keys

334
00:34:27.960 --> 00:34:31.599
into his coat pocket. Thank you, my lady, it's been a pleasure

335
00:34:31.679 --> 00:34:37.239
doing business with you. I do
appreciate you allowing me to finish the little

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00:34:37.280 --> 00:34:44.679
weasel off, an opportunity well deserved
in my humble opinion. He offers her

337
00:34:44.719 --> 00:34:49.280
his arm. What about Watts,
I had to shoot him in the leg,

338
00:34:49.400 --> 00:34:54.760
but now he's in police custody.
Vivian entwines her arm around Lucian's what

339
00:34:54.840 --> 00:35:01.119
about the alligators. I'll return them
to the bayou tomorrow. Shall we retire

340
00:35:01.199 --> 00:35:06.280
now to the manor house. I
believe our guests will be arriving at any

341
00:35:06.360 --> 00:35:14.039
time. Vivian looks over and smiles. It would be unkind to keep them

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00:35:14.079 --> 00:35:23.079
waiting. I love a good story
about turnabout being fair play. And I

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00:35:23.119 --> 00:35:30.280
also want to mention that name Lucian
Greyshire might sound familiar because we had a

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00:35:30.360 --> 00:35:35.880
story about him way back in episode
one sixty five, which was entitled Lucien

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00:35:35.960 --> 00:35:39.440
Greyshire and the Ghost from Applebee's.
And it's a good one. If you

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00:35:39.440 --> 00:35:45.000
haven't heard it before, why not
head to Weeklyspooky dot com and punch in

347
00:35:45.079 --> 00:35:49.639
episode one six' five in the
search and give it a listen. I

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00:35:49.679 --> 00:35:54.039
assure you it will not disappoint.
We are almost through our first week of

349
00:35:54.079 --> 00:35:58.960
October, and boy, have we
published a lot of good content. So

350
00:35:59.000 --> 00:36:02.320
I hope you've been paying attention,
hope you've been subscribed, because there is

351
00:36:02.400 --> 00:36:07.400
so much more to come. Goodness, gracious, we're only on day six

352
00:36:07.480 --> 00:36:10.960
out of thirty one, and I
can't lie. I am knee deep in

353
00:36:12.000 --> 00:36:16.199
the Halloween spirit because I'm spending every
waking moment, it seems, recording something

354
00:36:16.320 --> 00:36:21.119
scary just for you. And if
you want to support the show in a

355
00:36:21.159 --> 00:36:25.400
direct way, why not Headweeklyspooky dot
com and click on Patreon. For as

356
00:36:25.440 --> 00:36:30.320
little as one dollar a month,
you get a bonus story every single month,

357
00:36:30.639 --> 00:36:34.480
as well as a lot of other
bonus content. And speaking of which,

358
00:36:34.480 --> 00:36:37.039
I want to say an extra special
thank you to our Patreon podcast boosters,

359
00:36:37.360 --> 00:36:40.480
folks who pay just a little bit
more to hear their names on the

360
00:36:40.480 --> 00:36:45.840
show, and they are Johnny Nix, Bobotopia dot com, Megan Hua,

361
00:36:46.000 --> 00:36:52.199
Julia Kersh, Brent mccallaugh, Steve
King, Karen Weemet, and Craig Cohen.

362
00:36:52.280 --> 00:36:53.719
Thank you all so much, And
if you want to join those names

363
00:36:54.000 --> 00:36:59.760
on the list, just head toweeklyspooky
dot com, click on Patreon and select

364
00:36:59.760 --> 00:37:02.800
an eat tier at fifteen dollars a
month or higher. This is the most

365
00:37:02.840 --> 00:37:08.280
direct way to make sure at Weekly
Spooky we never die, or at least

366
00:37:08.360 --> 00:37:13.199
we never stay dead. But anyway, my friends, now I'm going to

367
00:37:13.199 --> 00:37:16.159
get back to it, because we
have a very special episode dropping on Saturday

368
00:37:16.159 --> 00:37:21.800
and Sunday. So for myself,
for my executive producers Rob Fields and Joshua

369
00:37:21.920 --> 00:37:24.719
Butler, my producer Dan Wilder,
and our composer Ray Mattis, we will

370
00:37:24.760 --> 00:37:30.920
talk at you tomorrow. I can't
wait. Thank you for listening. NA.

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00:37:30.679 --> 00:37:36.480
Make sure to find your way back
next week week. But for now

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00:37:37.360 --> 00:37:39.559
you are safe. Trust me,