Intruder in the Night | Home Invasion Horror for Halloween

In 1944, a 14-year-old Candace is babysitting two boys when a window opens. Muddy boot prints appear inside the house and a sickly sweet smell drifts through the room. Then she finds one of the children unconscious and hears a soft but deadly hiss. What's that? You want to be scared? Come with me. You will experience tales of horror, ghosts, and death. It is not recommended for the weak at heart. Listen as in the dark. It's more fun that way. This is Weekly Spooky. Hello, my spookies. It's Wednesday, and you know what that means. It's time for a little spooky in your weekly.

I'm, of course, your host and narrator, Henrique Couto, and tonight we have an absolute classic for you to listen to. I don't mean because it's old, I mean because you won't forget it anytime soon. But before we get to that, I want to say thank you all so much for joining me, and I want to say an extra special thanks to Joe and Debbie down in Cincinnati, who saw me at Horror Hound Weekend. I was there, no publicity, just helping out at the Terror Vision Records and video booth, but they spotted me and said hello, and I was so happy to chat with them, and probably they wished I would...

Shut up sooner than I did. But thank you guys so much. And boy, it is almost spooky season. Of course, if you're tuning into this all year long, you know that spooky season is in our hearts and our minds. But tonight's is going to be extra to help us get ready for Halloween. So if you love what we're doing here and want to show us some love and support, you can head to your favorite podcasting app like Apple Podcasts or Spotify. and leave us a five-star rating to let the spookies out there in the world know they're in the right place.

And if you want to support us in a very direct way that means a whole lot to me, head to weeklyspooky.com slash join, and for as little as $ 1 a month, get two bonus shows every single month and help the show keep going and growing. And thank you all again for all your very kind 40th birthday wishes. But now, as for tonight, most of us know the little Sounds a house makes at night. A window rattles. A floorboard creaks. A child calls from the next room. And usually, we can explain them away. But in Kuto Basin in 1944, 14-year-old Candace Cardona is about to learn what happens when every harmless explanation runs out at once.

A strange smell hangs in the air. A window refuses to stay closed. Muddy boot prints cross a floor she just cleaned. And somewhere inside the house, a man in a steel helmet is carrying a deadly weapon and waiting for the lights to go out. Intruder in the Night by David O'Hanlon My name is Candace Cardona, and as far as I know, I'm the last survivor of the terrible events that occurred in September of 1944. I've spent eight decades living in fear, but as I approach my centennial, death is no longer a threat. It's a certainty.

The madman is long since dead, as are those that covered up the massacre. in the name of public safety. Everything was tidily swept away, blamed on a confluence of industrial incompetence and hysterical women. Bribes and threats and accidents ensured the secret was kept. These old hands ache with every keystroke, but the pain is gratifying. The world will finally learn the truth. of the Mad Gasser of Kuto Basin. I had just turned fourteen a week prior to my night of terror. We didn't know it at the time, but the gasser had already begun his grim work.

The local newspaper, the Basin Journal Gazette, had been focused on a Nazi POW that escaped custody from Camp Perry. Sensationalist headlines warned that he may have been looking to commit acts of sabotage and mayhem. They speculated he may target the basin's Denoyer diesel chemical. In the meantime, the deaths of Urban Geist and his wife were somewhere on page three under a hyphenated headline that read, Gas leak claims two. I wonder if the paper was in on the cover-up at that point, or if the speculative Nazi saboteur was just too intriguing to bother doing their jobs.

Or perhaps it really was a faulty pilot light that ended the lives of the Geists. I never did find out, not for sure. The Marshall family was attacked the next night. but the incident was still under investigation at the time the Journal Gazette went to print. That was the last I heard on the subject before I went to school that day. It was still uncomfortably warm in Kuto Basin, and the smell of the Marshall House drifted well beyond the police cordon. The classrooms were stifling. but the teachers kept the windows closed in fear of letting the ghosts inside with the odor.

Little did we know, the smell would get much worse in the coming weeks. After school, I walked to Ollie's Diamond Dine, a general store with a small counter for soups, sandwiches, and ice cream. I worked the counter there four afternoons a week. The pay was terrible, even for 1944, but the free malt every shift made up for it, and Mr. Ollie was a nice old man. It's funny typing that. Just north of 60, he was a nice old man back then. Now I'm decades beyond that number which seemed so decrepit to my teenage self. Time is cruel, but she's not without a sense of humor.

There were fewer customers than normal that night, but the place was loud with boisterous discourse. I caught only bits as I cleared away the forgotten shakes left to melt in their glasses. Alice Marshall's death, along with that of her sister and children's, had officially been announced by Chief Bowles, and the entire basin had their theories as to what had happened. According to the Holland brothers, Alice's husband killed them to steal a sum of money, a claim given credibility by Drew Mills, who saw the sisters counting a considerable amount of cash in the living room while he walked his dog.

Tammy Greenberg said it was another gas leak. That's what she'd heard at the salon, anyhow. The wife of Officer Daly confirmed it was murder. That didn't sit well with the sister of Officer Winfield, who said it was smoke inhalation. That Nazi, now identified as Johann Sprigg, was naturally a suspect. But... Sure as a bear shits in the woods, someone pointed a finger at poor Lou Farley. As far as I knew, he had never done anything to earn the title of pariah in our community. They all hated him, nonetheless. To the point that little kids even had spooktales and rhyming games about him.

It never changed, either. He's still the basin's boogeyman. one of them, anyhow. The war had been pulling men away from the basin for three years, and that left a shortage of workers for Denoyer Diesel Chemical. A lot of the townswomen worked there in the evenings, which put babysitters in high demand. I took on the herd children to help out around the house. My father had done his service during the previous world war, and while he made it home, His left leg hadn't. It was presumably still intact. France, somewhere. The prized chew toy of some poodle that fished it from the marne, he often joked.

The only work he could find was a low-paying desk clerk position at Denoyer. Mother made a nickel more working one of the production lines, and I'd slip my babysitting money into his wallet while he slept. I'm sure he knew it hadn't been there before, but he never questioned it. I arrived at the herd residence a bit past seven and knocked softly in case little Eric was already asleep. The toddler was more like a wind-up toy than a child. He'd go and go and go until he didn't. At that point, he slept where he landed and waited until his body's gears were wound tightly enough to resume playing.

The door creaked open, and I shifted my gaze two foot lower than I had expected to find a welcoming face. Candace! Elwood screamed. The eldest herd boy was six and a tad small for his age. He made up for it with a big mouth. I don't know if Eric had been asleep before the greeting, but he certainly wasn't afterwards. He did the frantic, bow-legged run of all three-year-olds straight into his brother's backside. He made a show of hiding behind Elwood before poking his head out with a wide smile that seemed to have too many teeth in it.

Can eyes, he screeched before holding out his hand with wriggling fingers play me i slipped off my shoes before i took his hand and pretended i was unable to resist his impressive strength as he dragged me through the living room i heard his mother laughing in the kitchen it was a braying hee-haw sound that shouldn't have come from such a fine and delicate lady in retrospect she wasn't so delicate nor a lady But that's not my story to tell. Good evening, Mrs. Hurd. I called over my shoulder as we rounded the hallway into the boys' bedroom.

Play me, Eric repeated, flopping onto the floor amidst an assortment of wooden blocks. Build house, can't I's? I know he simply couldn't pronounce my name, but the attempt always made me a little self-conscious about my glasses. It seems so silly now, especially since I can barely see with these pesky things, but aren't we all a little silly when we're fourteen? I took the glasses off and set them on top of the toy box. I wouldn't need them just to stack blocks, especially not for the ten minutes it would take little Eric to tire of such a stationary game.

Sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Hurd said from the door with Elwood hugged tightly to her waist. Seems there's some serious construction underway in here. I just wanted to let you know I could be home a little earlier than usual. Oh? Is it because of the thing at the Marshall House? I asked. Barney won't be in for... Well, maybe not ever, I suppose. He's the only one that can keep those damned machines running right. It's just... Terrible what happened to him. She stroked Elwood's hair. I mean, Alice is one thing, but to lose the children, too, there's no telling what that'll do to a man.

Nothing good, I whispered, thinking about the theories batted around at the diner. Do they know what happened yet? It's the basin, dear. Everyone knows everything, especially when they don't. She pinched Elwood's cheek. Mommy's going to work. Be good boys for Candace. They're always the best boys, I reassured her. Usually, they were the easiest children to care for. Not that night. Apparently, my compliment sounded like challenge to them. Twenty minutes after their mother left, I went to run their bath, which gave Eric enough time to engineer a stepladder from a chair, the breadbox, and a mixing bowl.

Elwood watched the doorway while he sent the expendable toddler up to their own Tower of Babel for the cookie jar atop the refrigerator. Like the Tower of Old, theirs also came toppling down. My socks slid perilously as I navigated the broken glass. Elwood had darted as soon as he heard the crash. leaving his little brother dangling from the icebox door. The base of the mixing bowl rested below him with a four-inch glass fang waiting to bite through his cotton diaper when he fell. Can eyes! Eric cried. Me sorry! I was almost to him when the pain shot through my foot.

I hopped the rest of the way and managed to pry Eric's death grip From the appliance, I sat him on the counter and fought the urge to give him a smack. My sock made a sickly noise when I raised my foot from the cedar floor. The bottom had turned crimson already and dripped fat drops. I scooped Eric into my arms and edged my way around the kitchen before settling him in the hallway. Elwood Dwayne Heard! Get in here right this second, I commanded, even though the pain-induced crackling of my voice took all of the authority out of it.

The boy came anyhow. He sniffled and started to apologize, but I cut him off with a snap of my fingers. Take your brother to the bath, and you two stay put until I come get you. Yes, Candace, he muttered. Are you hurt? His shaky hand pointed at the blood faucet that used to be my foot, as if it were another explanation aside from being hurt. I measured my response and pointed toward the bathroom. Go, now, and be sure to get the backs of your necks. I slid down the doorjamb and inspected the wound with a sigh.

I want them clean when I ring them later. I hobbled back to the kitchen counter and climbed on top to put my foot in the sink. I could hear the gentle splashing of the boys in the tub. I prayed the misadventure would keep them from the usual chaotic splashing. I turned on the sink and let the water warm while I peeled the sock away. Biting my lip, I stuck my foot under the spigot. My glasses were still in the boys' room, but the bulge was easy to spot. There wasn't enough of the shard to grip.

The thought of what was to come brought me to tears before I even began. I pressed on my foot, pushing the intrusion out the way it came in until there was enough to pinch hold of. I took three deep breaths and jerked on the shard. It didn't come free. I pulled again and it just kept sliding out like a magician's trick handkerchief. It finally came to an end and slipped from my trembling fingers with a clatter into the sink. The wound gushed worse than before. I stretched to pull a hand towel from the stove's handle.

and gasped sharply as I sat up. Perhaps it was my absent glasses or the crying, but I could have sworn there was someone looking right through the window. I squinted at the inhuman figure with its strange, bulbous head. I bit my lip, stealing enough of my jangled nerves to move my face closer to the window. The face didn't flee. It didn't even twitch. The screen door thumped, giving me a start and pulling my attention away. When I looked back, the face was gone. Nothing's gone, silly. It wasn't there, I told myself while I dried my eyes.

It never was. The kitchen was a disaster area. Broken glass, slices of bread, and Bloody footprints occupied the floor in stark contrast to the floral wallpaper and yellow trim. The cleanup would have to wait. I used the hand towel to control the bleeding and got the boy. out of the tub. While they put on their pajamas, I went back to the bathroom and cleaned the cut with mercurochrome. Muttering darns and hacks the whole time. Tiny knuckles wrapped on the bathroom door. What is it? I asked harsher than I'd meant. Can eyes, UK? Eric muttered. Yes, Eric, I softened my tone.

Can eyes is fine. Go put on your PJs, I'll be in to read you a story. I found a bent tin can of band-aids and put a couple side by side over the wound. I hobbled back to the kitchen and carefully worked my way to the fridge. I grabbed three cookies from the jar and slipped two of them into my dress pocket. When I got to the children's room, Eric and Elwood were sitting on their beds with their heads hanging. I leaned on the doorjamb, taking a slow, contemplative bite from my chocolate chip cookie. This is what all that trouble was over?

I said before making a show of swallowing I guess they're pretty good cookies. Yep, Elwood pouted. The best. The kitchen is a mess, I walked to his bed. Seems like a real waste to go through all that and not get a single cookie out of it. It is, he agreed. I drew one of the cookies from my pocket and passed it before his downturned eyes. He looked up at me and started to say something, but I put the cookie in his mouth as soon as it opened. I answered his befuddled gaze with a smile. Hush up and eat your cookie.

I handed the second one to Eric. You boys should have known to just ask me, and I'd have gotten the jar down for you. Eric could have gotten badly hurt, but he didn't, so there's no reason to be upset. But you hurt, Eric said, chewing slowly. And tomorrow it'll hurt a little less, and not at all in a week, I answered. Mistakes happen. It's going to take a lot to clean up that one. So I need you boys to go to sleep so that I can get finished before your mother gets home. We'll go straight to sleep, Candace.

Elwood took another bite. We're really sorry. Really? Really. Eric added. Not straight to sleep, I said. We're not skimping on story time, after all. And we didn't. After an hour of Tarzan, the boys felt sleepy enough to at least stay in bed, and I felt empowered to go forth and conquer the wild jungle of Mrs. Hurd's kitchen. I turned the radio on lowly whilst gathering cleaning supplies from under the sink and In the cupboard, I swept up the entire mess and never heard a note of music. Even late in the evening, the airwaves seemed reserved for the depressing state of affairs.

When the broadcaster finished with news from the war, he spun straight away into local events. He spoke of Johan Sprigg, who was still at large, and he spoke passingly of the deaths of Alice Marshall, her sister, and the three children. I stormed over to turn it off when something moved in the window. I screamed, and so did Elwood. I didn't mean to spook you, he said quickly. I need a glass for water. I laughed at my ridiculousness. For a half second, I knew the Nazi had come to get me. I even convinced myself the movement had been outside the glass and not Elwood's reflection.

A simple trick of the light played on the mind of a silly young girl. We got Elwood his glass and some water from the sink before walking back to his room. Were you getting hot? I asked. No, he said. Why? I thought that might be why you... opened the window. He looked at the curtain moving gently in the breeze, then to me, and shook his head. I didn't open the window, he whispered. Oh, I walked to it. It wasn't open much, just about four inches. Eric's bed was closest to it, but I doubted the toddler had the strength to lift it himself.

I brushed his hair away from his eyes and found him sound asleep. I wasn't about to wake him up to ask. Perhaps it had been open all day and I simply hadn't noticed earlier. It's nice to get some fresh air, but let's keep it closed tonight. I shut the window and tucked the boy back in before returning to the kitchen. Something seemed peculiar in the kitchen, too. I dumped the broken glass and spilled bread into the trash to take outside, but I didn't recall setting the can next to the back door. I shrugged it off.

I made another pass around the kitchen with the broom and then tied up the trash bag and took it outside. A strange, faint smell lingered in the backyard. It was sweet but unpleasant, somewhere between cough syrup and bad fruit. Its origins nagged at me. I deposited the bag into the outside can and sniffed at the receptacle cautiously. The smell definitely wasn't coming from there. The stench of old garbage made me gag and twirl away from the putrid can. A cold sweat formed on the back of my neck. Paranoia spurred me into a jog around the back of the house to the children's bedroom window.

It was still closed. Of course it's closed, Candace, I groaned frustratedly. You closed it. We lived in a boring town in a boring state, and I was outside investigating a window for signs of... Nazi spies. The previous Christmas, my mother gifted me the first five Nancy Drew mystery books. I devoured them before New Year's. I'd read all of them since. Maybe that's why I kept seeing clues. Being a teenaged sleuth sure beat being... me. Only I wasn't any good at it, apparently, and I felt completely idiotic in the moment. My bare toes bumped against something that clanked against the home's foundation.

I slapped a hand over my mouth in surprise. In the midst of heavy footprints was a metal canister. I knelt to inspect it and immediately toppled onto my backside from the waft of its remaining contents. My vision blurred and the soil seemed to pull me in. I laid back for a moment, staring up at the sky. Stars danced and shadowy figures moved around my peripheral vision. The next thirty seconds passed, agonizingly slow. My eyesight returned to its normal, poor state, and the ground became solid again. I sat up carefully. The canister had rolled next to the trunk of a shade tree, right when I had fallen.

Oh, Candace, I groaned. You stupid little girl. My teenaged foolishness had prevailed once again. The moonlight revealed the still webs of tent caterpillars in the lower branches. I'd just sniffed a carelessly discarded canister of pesticide. I crawled to my feet, which proved the effects hadn't entirely worn off. I used the house to steady myself to the back porch and stepped into the kitchen. The single bulb in the overhead light hit my chemically compromised eyes like fireworks. I could just make out the human shape through the brightness before I closed my eyelids tightly. Elwood, you've had enough water, I said.

Please go back to bed. You don't want to still be awake when your mother returns. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my fingers on the hardwood top. I still had homework to do when I finished cleaning up my blood. I looked down at my filthy feet and crossed my wounded one over my knee. The track outside had peeled off one of the band-aids. I slung my head back with a dramatic whine. Yet another thing to deal with. I went to the bathroom, leaving mud and grass in my wake.

I'd have to mop most of the house at the rate I was going. I washed my feet in the tub and redressed the wound as quickly as I could. My clothes were damp and dirty, but I hadn't brought any extras, so that was just tough cookies. Determined to get things done, I limped back into the kitchen and mixed a bucket of water and ammonia to clean up with. The sponge which I swore had been in the bucket was nowhere to be found. I checked the sink and then under it. Not only was it not there, but there wasn't a second one either.

I retraced my footsteps, literally following the muddy path to the bathtub. wondering if I'd somehow managed to carry it off in the chaos. I stopped at the bathroom door, turning slowly to the hallway. Dainty, barefooted dirt tracks showed my path from the kitchen to the bathroom, but they weren't alone. Large, vaguely shaped boot prints that had left scratches in the hardwood led to to the children's room. Fear overpowered common sense. I burst into the bedroom. Eric was still fast asleep. Moonlight dazzled in a strand of drool from his lip to the mattress. Moonlight was shining through an open window.

I slammed it shut, not giving a damn if I woke the children. Someone had been in the house. Maybe someone still was. I'd take them across the street to get help, only the window hadn't woken them. I shook little Eric, but he didn't budge. I turned to Elwood. Oh, God, no! I ran to his bedside. I'd found the sponge. The intruder had stuffed it into his mouth. That same sickly odor hung heavily around Elwood. I pulled the sponge out of his mouth and tossed it to the side. I patted the boy's cheek and said his name, repeating the actions over and over with greater intensity until I was slapping him and screaming for him to wake up.

He jerked upright. then bent to the side, vomiting violently over my dress before collapsing off the bed and onto me. I got him onto his side. He coughed, choked, and threw up some more. I'm going to get help, I promised him. I took another glance at Eric's still body and began sobbing uncontrollably as I fought to my feet. I couldn't bring myself to check if he was breathing. I stumbled from the bedroom. Elwood's wheezing and coughing worsened, and I dashed madly to the front door. Terror assaulted my senses. It tore away at my logic, my knowledge, my awareness.

All I had was that door. I couldn't think of anything else, couldn't see anything else. It was the thing that was keeping me from getting help. I charged at it with laser-like focus. Then, the wet mist hit my face. My glasses kept it out of my eyes, but my panicked hyperventilation drew it deeper into my lungs. I fell forward and slid on my knees, head first, into that damn door. My scalp split, leaving a splatter on the panels. I heard the whistle hiss of the flit gun pumping more chemicals into the air. The air thickened inside my throat, hardening like cement in my lungs.

A man spoke from somewhere in the room. Every night for eighty years I've wondered, What he might have said. My brain swelled inside my head. Every syllable he spoke was a thunderclap rumbling over the horizon, so loud but so distant. He spoke like any other person I'd ever heard, but the words were not words in my befuddled mind. The man's boots were all I could see as he approached me. The floorboards seemed to shudder as he drew closer. I could see the hobnails gouging the boards with each step. I shriveled into a ball, determined not to look at him.

If I saw him, he would have been real. He knelt, letting the chemical sprayer bang down beside my head. I struggled for a single breath of air, gloved fingers twisted in my hair, turning my face up. No face looked back. Beneath the rim of a steel helmet was a mask of leather and chainmail, the eyes covered with metal slats. The intruder dragged me to a seated position, and I watched his other hand move to his bayonet on his hip. He took his time drawing the weapon, letting the razor-sharp edge drag on the brass locket of the sheath.

He pressed the point into my chest. Past the bayonet, I saw the sprayer with its handle primed to give another puff of its vile contents. He was going to kill me, and then he was going to finish the boys off with the poison gas. That's when it all clicked into place. The marshal house, the people in the diner, arguing over murder or gas leak. I knew then what had really happened and that it was about to happen again to the herd children. The intruder dragged the tip of the bayonet to my throat and raised my chin with the edge.

I felt it resting on my jugular notch, ready to plunge downward into my heart, My fingers tapped along the floor. The intruder leaned forward, steadying himself for the killing blow. Got it. I raised the flit gun onto its handle and pushed down, firing a puff of the poison under the chainmail. The intruder whirled away, taking a slice out of my chin in the process. He choked on his own noxious mixture, giving me the time to scramble to the kitchen on all fours. I used the counter to pull myself upright. I leaned over the sink, hacking from the exertion when the powerful arm wrapped around my waist.

I grabbed onto the faucet for dear life with both hands. He pulled at me hard. My hands slipped closer to the spigot. The still, bloody shard I'd wrenched from my foot sat in the basin. I risked letting go with one hand and grabbed for it. The next jerk broke my grip. The intruder slung me down onto my face. He grabbed my hair once more as he straddled me from behind. Only this time, I had an advantage. I clawed at his hand, feeling for the perfect target, then pushed the glass in between his knuckles. He roared and stumbled away.

I pressed myself up. I didn't know how to fight, but there wasn't any other way I would survive. I made the best fists I could, but the intruder did something completely different. He pulled a glass jar from a pouch on his belt. Another, smaller jar rested inside, nestled in a bed of crystalline powder. Before I could give it much more thought, he threw them at my feet. The contents bubbled violently on the floor when they shattered, filling the room with white fumes and the stench of moldy hay. Whatever diabolical mixture he'd unleashed was much more potent than the chemical he'd sprayed before.

My lungs spasmed, my knees buckled, the intruder sheathed his dagger, and with a final glance in the direction of the children, turned and stormed out through the front door. I'd won, but the victory would be short-lived. And so would I. I staggered forward, slicing my feet on broken glass for the second time, I fell and crashed into the cleaning bucket I'd prepared earlier. The ammonia mixture washed across the floor. Air coming in from the intruder's escape swirled the fumes around me like a poisonous sea of clouds. The ammonia burned in my cuts, keeping me awake despite the choking effects of the gas.

Then the smell began to dissipate. The fumes thinned out as the breeze pushed them around the kitchen. A sticky sheen sparkled on the floor where the heavy gas can had settled. I rolled to my side. The cleaning solution had washed over the intruder's gas bomb. It fizzed placidly from the new reaction. I crawled toward the living room and passed out, a few feet shy. When I awoke in the hospital the next day, I told Chief Bowles what had happened. I explained everything. The man in the military uniform, the chemical sprayer he'd used on the boys, the sponge he'd jammed in poor Elwood's mouth, and how he'd used some sort of poison gas to overcome me so that he could escape.

The chief never made a mark in his notebook. When I was done recounting my story, I was told what had really happened. I'd cut my foot on some broken glass and while cleaning it up I carelessly mixed dangerous chemicals together. The vomit on my dress was my own. Any blood in the kitchen was mine as well. I fell and hit my head on the counter and anything I thought I saw was a combination of the chemical reaction and a concussion. That was the story I would tell because it was in the best interest of the public good.

When I protested, I was told the other story of what happened that night. The one where a disturbed teenage girl racked by psychotic hallucinations decided to punish the kids she'd been babysitting by holding a sponge full of chloroform over their mouths until they were unconscious. You can guess which version I told. In the coming weeks, it wouldn't matter. The Mad Gasser of Kuto Basin was just getting started. Well, my spookies, here's a little advice before I let you all go home tonight. If you wake up to an open window you swear you closed... strange footprints in the house, or a sickly sweet smell drifting through the night, maybe don't convince yourself it's nothing.

Maybe don't sniff the mysterious canister. Just lock your windows, check the shadows, and sleep tight. And thank you all for joining me for this scary story that I know will scratch that Halloween itch just right. I really do appreciate you spending your time with me, and of course, I'll be back here tomorrow for a brand new Thursday Thrills, where you'll learn all about the newest things in the world worth being afraid of and talking about. And I want to say thank you all so much for heading to weeklyspooky.com slash join and supporting us for as little as $ 1 a month.

It really does make a huge difference for the show. There are over 90 Spookys supporting us. And now's a great time for you to join up as well. And speaking of, I want to say an extra special thank you to our Patreon podcast boosters. Those are folks who pay just a little bit more to hear their names at the end of the show. And they are Johnny Nix, Kate and Lulu, Jessica Fuller, Mike Eschewy, Jenny Green, Karen Weemet, Jack Kerr, and Craig Cohen. Thank you all so much. And if you want to hear your name at the end of every episode of Weekly Spooky, just head to weeklyspooky.com slash join and sign up at the $ 15 a month or higher tier.

It really makes a difference and means a whole hell of a lot to me. But now it's time for me to get back to work because as October approaches, we'll be publishing more than just once a day. We'll have special novellas, extra stories, all kinds of goodies for you to enjoy right here, so make sure you're subscribed. You've been warned. So for myself, for my executive producers, Bobletopia.com, and Rob Fields, my producer, Dan Wilder, and my composer, Ray Mattis, I'll talk at you tomorrow. Heh heh. Thank you for listening. Make sure to find your way back next week.

But for now, you are safe. Trust me.