Welcome listeners to Tales, a podcast that brings your short stories to life through
narrations, sound effects, and more. These stories will be brought to you
by different authors with different writing styles, but with the same spooky vibes.
So lock your doors, check your closets, make certain there's nothing lurking under
your bed, and enjoy his table stand in under the glow of a flickering
street light, John Avery's hands shook as he tried and failed to light the
cigarette he held. With a mumble curse, The stubborn smoke finally caught,
and he inhaled deeply, the quick rush of nicotine helping steady nerves and hands
alike, while driving back to persistent urge to vomit that had until a moment
ago been so pressing. The flashing reds and blues of patrol cars shattered by
the light, yet steady drops of fallen rain illuminated the yards of yellow tape
that surrounded the building behind him. The old factory, where once countless animals
screened their last before meeting. The butcher's knife, had long ago fallen into
disuse until recently. The man who walked into the station earlier that evening had
carried an oddly shaped bag. The death sergeant was on the phone, else
he would have sooner noticed the crimson spatters, some still wet that covered the
man's face and clothes, the slow drip drip of fluid that leaked from the
bag, marking a trail behind him. The sergeant attention was only captured when
the man poured a fountain of gore upon the desk, assorting limbs and organs
intermixed in a disgusting soup of blood and oval, long ropes of intestines,
curling and twisting around livers, lungs, and here and there a sightless eye,
the only one of the few people molling about the police lobby not moved
by this unholy offering. The man had simply stepped back from the desk and
lowered himself to his knees, hands into lace above his head. He remained
there, grotesque smile, never leaving his face until the pandemonium was sufficiently controlled
and the officers on duty were able to make his arrest. He talked,
then briefly handcuffed to a table in the interrogation room. His name was Spencer
Darrabaund. The various body parts belonged to his wife, Tracy, and their
three children, all girls between the ages of five and ten. He told
the police where to find the rest of them. John had worked homicide for
the last twenty years, but even now rapidly approaching retirement, had never seen
anything like this that was saying something. Their wake was no stranger to odd,
even fantastic murders. Until a couple of hours ago. John would have
said there was nothing that could shook him, nothing that could take him back
to the short breath of heathen nausea he'd experienced the first time he'd seen a
dead body, the two bit prostitute, gutted and dumped in a back alley.
He would have been wrong. The bodies, horrific as they might be,
weren't what caused John's gorge to rise, for he'd seen many and far
greater states of decay. Neither was it the obvious tools of torture haphazardly spread
throughout the factory. Here a weald in tude kit. There, a jar
of industrial strength acid. Over there, various implements to flay, scoop and
pierce. No what had hit John hardest was the old television connected to an
ancient VCR the yellow paper stuck to its black screen, reading play me.
The scene that had unfolded in the first thirty seconds of that video was enough
to open John's perspective of just how shallow his understanding of human perversion had been.
The Poor Little Girl, a rat eating cardboard box placed next to television
contained more videotapes, many more. John knew before the investigation was over he
would have to painstakingly go through each of them for evidence, and the brief
exposure he'd experience had him already concerned for his mental health. All cases left
scars, some far deeper than others. His phone vibrated and John flicked aside
the half burned cigarette before fishing out of his pocket, checking the call id,
He sighed before flicking it open. The only reason Lisa would be calling
this late was if Paul was stonewalling her again. Leave it to a CoP's
daughter to marry a cop. Yeah, Hon, Dad, what's going on?
Paul was supposed to be home two hours ago, but says something came
up and won't tell me anything. New case heart, nothing I can feel
you in on Jeeves got him keeping an eye on the purp until we give
the scene an initial once over and hopefully get ahead of the media shit storm
sure to follow. You want more details, you can get it from the
talking heads, same as everybody else. Her voice got quiet at that.
Is it really that bad? He grimaced, Pretty bad? Okay, Just
tell him to be careful and then I love him, will do, try
not to worry too much. Won't be good for the baby. He could
hear the smile in her voice. He'll be fine. He comes from good
stock, John smiled, mostly from your mother's side. Becky's still okay with
the pregnancy. Sweet as ever. Can't wait to be a big sister.
That's my girl. Okay, Han, gotta go. I'll tell Paul to
check in when he can. Thanks Dad, Love you, Love you too.
Closing the phone, John returned it to his pocket. He shook his
head to clear it, stealing himself. Before turning and re entering the building.
He crossed over to what they were considering the center of the crime scene.
They stationed large portable lights around the perimeter to better illuminate the dingy confines
of the area, where a small group of people swarmed place in number placards
and snap in pictures. Tell me what you've got, Ramirez, The lead
CSI, turned from where he was crouched in the process of bagging a piece
of evidence. John's stomach girled unhappily when he saw it appeared to be a
child's heir. Good news depending on how you look at it. Boss won't
be able to confirm they belong to Darrenmont until we get back to the lab.
But there's crystal clear prints all over pretty much every knife, hatchet,
and as sordid pointy object in here. We've got fibers, hair samples,
the whole gimmut, and Charlie's singing. Based on her initial screening of the
remains, she should be able to pull blood and seamen from a well pretty
much anywhere. Doesn't look like our boy was particularly concerned about hiding what he
was doing. John placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose as he
felt the beginning of a migraine start to kick in. Anything that might indicate
some kind of motive, a journal, anything like that. Not yet,
Boss, no telling what's on those videotapes, though, John grimmins, Ugh,
great, and what about the message? Ramirez shook his head as one
the two men turned to the far end of the crime scene, amid a
litany of other abuses. Skinned from the tors of the four victims had been
delicately removed and spread across one of the factory walls like a horrific canvas.
A word was painted in blood on each intern her red right hand. Not
sure, Boss, I took the liberty of googling it. Closest thing looks
like a paraphrase of something out of Milton's Paradise Loss. My guess is the
purpose referring to himself, although I have no idea who to her he's referring
to might be neither do I. John frowned, Okay, you and your
team finish up here. Make sure we process everything by the book. Even
though there seems to be plenty of evidence, you never know what's going to
be the thing to make it stick. This clown is a real sick puppy,
and I don't think any of us would sleep particularly well if he managed
to avoid a conviction based on a technicality. I'm going to head back to
the office, have us sit down with him, see if he feels like
tape in a confession before he has more time to think about what he's done.
Sounds good, Boss, I'll call you if we find anything especially pertinent
or though his gaze swept over the scene at this point, I'm not sure
what would qualify. John shook his head in agreement and headed for the door.
Just as he reached his car, he felt his phone vibrate again.
Hey Steve, tell me you boys have something over there. Hey John,
Yeah, we've got a little bit for you. Don't know it felt shed
any light though. Bob and I went over to the Darramont resident. The
guys in MD works in the er at Saint Vincent in town Here. No
record, nothing so much as a parking ticket, No son of a struggle
at the house. His supervisor at the hospital said, Darranmont phoned in last
week to call off for a couple shifts, just saying they were taking an
important family vacation. He apparently told the kids school the same thing. His
wife stayed at home with the youngest girl, so there was no one that
would have noticed her missing right away. We managed to track Darranmont's mom down
Ladies in her seventies and got concerned when she hadn't heard from him. Guess
he typically visits her on Sundays. She swung by the house and found a
note saying the whole family was going to be out of town for a couple
of weeks. Hmmm, seems kind of odd. Yeah, she thought so
too. It weirded her out since normally he would have called her even more
when she I couldn't get him on his cell. But the note was in
Darren Mant's handwriting. She wasn't quite concerned enough to contact the department, John
frowned. Probably wouldn't have mattered even if she had. If everything else you've
got is true, there'd be nothing to flag it even if she reported him
as a missing person. Any idea why he would have shown up here and
awake? Nothing I've found so far does it seem to have any connection to
the place in particular, far as his mom knew, he never even visited
your part of the state, John sighed, the headache now coming in in
full force. All right, thanks, Steve, appreciate the help. Tell
Chief McQuaid, I said, Hey, we'll do John. We'll keep sniffing
around over here. See if anybody at the hospital has anything more they can
tell us check if they notice him acting out of character recently. Sounds good,
although with all the evidence is looking like we've got him. I think
finding a motive will just be pure gravy. Talk to you later, yeah,
later. With much to ponder, John got in his car and started
back towards the station. It was past midnight when he parked in the lot,
the shadows dark and thrown long by the lamps lying the way up to
the path to the administrative entrance. John pulled out his lanyard with his staff
key and let himself in, handed his pistol and side piece over to Sparili,
who was on night guard as he passed through the metal detector, then
reholstered his weapons before making his way towards the squadroom, passing the everflowing board
displaying the many missing children of the wake. The bullpen was deserted. Small
wonder Arthur's wake wasn't large enough to warrant much of a police force, so
all available units were pretty much already at the scene or rest enough to start
the shift in the morning. He frowned the chief's darkening office. Lazy asshole.
The man had been mentally checked out for years now, just bidding time
to a retirement looming even closer than John's. If things had gone a little
differently. It could have been John Weir in the pants and department. But
no, that was an old gripe. No sense rehashing it now, not
with work to be done. He grabbed a pen, pad of paper,
digital tape recorder and writes waivers before heading back to the interrogation room. He
was met outsie the door by Officer Paul Shuster, who, aside from being
a solid cop, was also his son in law. Hey Paul. Chief
Holbrook checked out, Yes, sir a couple hours ago, said he needed
to get some sleep to be able to face the press in the morning.
Uh huh, And how's our guest. He's still an interrogation room, sir,
right where you asked me to keep him. John looked at the purp
through the one sided glass. The guy was fucking weird. No, I
mean, how is he? He's Well, he's odd, sir. Jesus,
how many times do I have to tell you it's John less informal setting?
Christ? What do you mean odd? I mean he's just sitting there
with that creepy smile on his face, hasn't asked for a phone call,
a lawyer, cup of coffee, nothing, Paul's face curled. Pretty sure
he pissed himself, even though Sperili and I have given him plenty of opportunities
to hit the head. John frowned. Huh, he said, anything more?
No, now, since the initial intel where we could find the bodies?
Sir John, I mean the scene. Did you find a wife and
kids? What was left of them? John chewed his lip dolefully. All
right, let's go try to talk to this son of a bitch. Paul's
eyed widen, Sir, do you think that's such a good idea? The
chief said, yeah, right, the Chief. Look, Paul, I'm
gonna go in with some forms in the tape recorder. See if I can't
get this cycle to give me a comfort fhion before he changes his mind and
lawyers up. If you aren't comfortable, skirt in the Chief's orders a little,
how about you go call my daughter so she stops worrying. Paul pondered
this for a moment. Sorry, sir, you go in there. I'm
coming with you. The guy's chained up, and your wife is worried.
Why you haven't called her? Paul shook his head. Can't do it,
sir, it'd be a breach of protocol to allow one officer in the room
with a suspect besides Lisa, kill me if something happened to you. John
couldn't help but laugh. All right, your freaking boy scout, How you
ever managed to bag my little girl with that clean cut attitude, I'll never
know. Fine, let's go. Before Paul could protest further, John opened
a door to the room and step inside. The metal chair squeaked harshly on
the floor as he pulled it out and took a seat, carefully arranging the
materials he had brought with him to the side. He heard Paul take up
position behind him, leaning again the wall. At last, John turned his
attention to the prisoner. The room was well lit to allow for easy observation,
but some trick of the light seemed to drape the suspect and shadow.
His hair was long and matted with blood, fallen forward and hiding his face
behind it. A big man, fat with the weight of middle age.
His clothes were covered and stained with the many fluids of his victims. As
John watched, Darraband looked up at him, his eyes almost seemed to glow
with a red sheen through the curtains of his hair craze smile never leaving his
lips, John repressed an involuntary shiver. Odd was not how he would have
described a man terrifying. Maybe, John cleared his throat forced a tight smile.
So, Doctor Darraband, Doc, is it okay to call you?
Spencer? The prisoner replied with an almost imperceptible nod. Great, glad,
we're getting off on such a good foot. Now, Spencer on, Detective
Wavery, You, me and my friend, Officer Shuster here are going to
have a nice little chat about what happened to your family. Okay, again
the slight nod. Fantastic. Now I'm required to ask if you'd like to
have a lawyer present this time a small headshake. Alrighty. Now, since
there's no lawyer present, do I have permission to record this conversation? John
frowned slightly when Darrenmant shook his head in the negative. Okay. Then John
slid the recorder from the table and passed it back to Paul, stealthily pressing
the record button as he did so. Paul slipped the recorder into his pocket,
where the red light would be concealed. John turned back to Derebant,
real quick, before we get started, Doctor Darrebrant, I'm going to need
you to sign this form saying you've agreed to talk to me and that you
don't want a lawyer. John slid the form over to the prisoner, feeling
a slight moment of apprehension when Darabrann took the pen in his large meeting hand
before scrolling an imperceptible signature on the indicated line and handing it back to him.
Thank you so much. He passed a form to Paul. Throughout these
preliminaries, John has slowly become a weird that something was off about Therebon.
He couldn't put his finger on just what, but he'd interviewed enough murderers to
know that this guy wasn't right, even so far as craze killers went.
Whatever it was, that undefinable thing sceared him almost beyond reason. It spoke
to some ancient reptilian part of John's brain that told him to put as much
distance between him and the things sitting across the table as humanly possible. Shaking
his head to clear it, John pressed on, hoping he projected more confidence
than he felt. Beginning to think that conducting this interview may have been a
mistake. Now, Spencer, I'm an old fashioned sort of guy, so
I'm gonna be direct with you. I don't really need you to confess,
because I already have enough evidence to lock you away for a really, really
long time. So what I'm really curious about, John peered at the killer
across from him, is why why did you kill your family? The silence
pregnant with anticipation, John's perspective took on a kind of hypersensitivity. The taste
of the burgher he had for lunch caked the back of his throat, and
he could smell the faintly sweet aroma of Paul's after shade behind him, accompanied
the stench of the dark incoors staining in the prisoner's clothes to his front.
He swallowed uneasily despite himself. At last, Darrebon spoke, his voice almost
a whisper, but nevertheless carrying the sound of gravel pouring over sheet metal for
fun. His maniac grin wide and even further as the tiny hairs at the
back of John's neck stood up at full attention, and he desperately fought the
urge to wet himself. You were a family man wants to detective. I
can tell, ever, wondered how little girl's taste. Derabunt smiled lasciviously.
I know in every way you could mean. He chuckled lightly, didn't bought
her to back groceries while her family outed didn't need to just fried up little
pieces of him to feed each other. They refused at first, but I
found ways to motivate them to choke it down. He sighed, as if
remembering wife was the easiest. You wouldn't believe the things that got her to
do by promising to stop hurting her babies. Well, I guess you'll know
if you see the tapes, he laughed evily, if you live so long.
Of course, I lied to her. Saw of hope die a little
more in the bitch's eyes every time. Still didn't keep her from agreeing the
next time, or the next or the next. He licked his lips.
Dad thrill right there. Seeing her spirit chip away bit by bit was almost
as good as the pleasure I got turned in her spawns into such willing little
wars. He threw his voice higher. Daddy, I'll do anything, Just
please don't cut off any more toes. He chuckled, Dad factory got some
good memories there, Old new darkness is on the riose, Detective, Shadows
come in the woes, how the serpents is. You're gonna have to make
a choice, you all will? John stared at the man. And what
choice is that Darabont's smile, Whether to be good little meat sack who serves
his master willingly, or one who needs to be broken. I like the
ones who fight. He ran his tunnel across the front of his teeth,
makes the agony that much sweeter. Which will you choose, Detective? When
the sun goes dark and the moon falls silence, when the song of joy
echoes across on my hand, whichever will you choose? John felt frozen where
he sat, the pounding of his heart a drum in his ears. Paul
equally still behind him as Derebaun fell quiet, grinning madly. Finally, John
managed to stutter out another question. What who is her red right hand?
Who is she? From within the dark recesses of his matted hair, John
could see Dearrabonn's eye glowed bloody scarlet. No question now impossible as it was,
Why I'm the red right hand? Detective, her prophet, the one
who prepares the patch, but in discord and despair where I roam. And
as for her, he laughed. It was crazy, but it seemed to
John that Darrow Baun's teeth were lengthening, sharpening. She is the all mother,
the first, the one who leads the way. He grinned into darkness.
Abruptly, the lights in the station went out. There was a brief
moment of silence before John heard a sharp, metallic snap that his mind dimly
registered must be the sound of a handcuffed chain being broken. Suddenly, he
was thrown backwards out of his chair to the ground as an enormous black thing,
all glowing red eyes and flashing fangs flipped the heavy metal table across the
room and flew at him with a roar. He yelled and raised his hand
defensively, but the attack never came. Instead, he heard the crash and
the sound of a desperate struggle. Sir, sir, shoot him. I
can't hold him. I can't damn it, Paul cried, Jesus, damn
it. No, no, at that the voice of his son in law
screaming in pain. The crippling fear was driven out of John as as sharply
as if he'd been dunked in a bucket of ice water. Years of training
took over, and regaining his feet, he fumbled briefly to release his pistol
from his holster. Before pulling it free, he used Paul's cries to orient
himself, raising his gun towards the mouth of inky blackness that seemed even darker
than it surrounding. John pulled a trigger once twice, each shot accompanied by
a white flash and a sound of thunder, again and again until the chambers
were emptying. The gun only clicked, hollowing. As the echo of the
last shot faded, the dark mass fell heavily to the ground at his feet.
John heard the sound of rapid footsteps and turned as the door was thrown
open, the soft glow of emergency lights revealing the form of officers Varieley,
who pushed into the room gun drawn. Detective avery, what's going on?
I heard a crash and then gunshots? Is everything all? Oh? John
turned back to the room's interior. The lights leaped in from the hallway provided
Jest enough illumination as he could see Spencer Darrabond limp and lined face down when
he'd fallen on top of Paul's unmoving form. John lowered his gun to his
side. A black hole rapidly expanded in his stomach. God, oh God,
how was he going to tell Lisa he tends when darabrand shifted? Fucking
hell, Paul groaned, John, you'd think you could get this fat ass
off me. John sat at his desk, a cup of lukewarm coffee held
in his hand, a lit cigarette between his fingers, smoken inside was strictly
against the chief's policy, but fuck him. Darabann's body was still cool on
the floor of the interrogation room where he died, as John hadn't quite yet
worked with the motivation to call Ramrez to tell Charlie to come grab the stiff.
Speriley was back at his guard station. John had practically had to force
him back there, only after ensuring him that he and Paul were both fine.
He sent Paul home to Lisa. Miraculously. The kid was basically unharmed,
a few bumps, bruises and scratches, but nothing to major. When
John had asked him why he'd scream, he said the freak had been trying
to bite his neck, of all things. John angrily stuffed out the cigarette
in the bottom of an empty cup. Fucking psycho. He'd already decided he
was going to leave Paul's involvement out of his official report. John figured he'd
be able to spend the whole thing so that there wouldn't be too much trouble
brought down on anyone. He knews Fariley would back up whatever he said.
But the kid didn't deserve the heat needed. Did Lisa, John sighed,
probably did the world of favor by sanctumin Darabond the way he did. The
guy was so nuts he'd even had John seeing things at the end. There
her red right hand, psh right, good luck preparing the way for the
darkness now fucko. The morning sun was just beginning to peek its face over
the horizon when John at last headed to his car to go home. Darabond
had been bagged and tagged, his initial report had been filed, and all
pertinent parties had been notified. Chief Holbrook had been pissed, although John figured
it was as much from being woken up at three in the morning as from
learning John had shot their murder suspect. He'd been mollified when John informed him
he'd managed to get a tape confession out of Daraband. No matter that he
hadn't agreed to tape in it, it had been easy enough to forge his
signature on the appropriate form. At some point in the night, he realized
Paul must have ended up taking the tape recorder with him, along with the
rights wavered he'd handed him. Small wonder he'd forgotten them with everything that had
gone on. John would just have to swing by his and Lisa's place and
pick them up before going back to the station. That afternoon, John took
in the morning sun, almost surprised at the lightness in his heart. He'd
never killed a man before last night, but maybe this feeling was because he
had served to remove a piece of true darkness from the world. His pocket
vibrated and he fished there. A minute later, John has slapped his magnetic
slasher to the roof and was pushing the old Chevy to his breaking point as
he roared across the weight. Siren Whalen might have something for you, John
Steve had said, just got done talking to an er nurse that was on
shift for darab bonn at Saint Vincent. The last day he came to work
before disappearing. Said he treated some crazy woman, a homeless drifter that had
been shot trying to sneak into a residence. EMTs had to strap the cycle
down once they re established a heartbeat. The nurse said the patient had been
raving on and on about darkness and something about her right hand or some such
Anyway, Deloney ended up managing to give your purple solid bite on the forearm
before they sedated her and she calmed down. Claimed she didn't remember anything she'd
been doing up to that point. The nurse figure dearbaun took a few days
off to recover from the injury, but I'm wondering if he didn't catch some
kind of virus or something from John had hung up. Then he pulled into
Lisa's driveway and leapt out of the car without bothering to turn off the engine.
Running up the walk, the house dark, he drew his pistol.
As he reached the front door. He paused for just a moment, considering
whether it would be better to use his spare key to gain entry or simply
kick the damn door down. When he noticed the white piece of paper taped
to the inside of the screen, John removed a note with trembling hands and
read it twice before collapsing to his knees in complete and other despair. Hey
John, after all the excitement last night, I decided to take a few
days off and figured I may as well take the whole family for a little
vacation. Don't worry, I'll take extra good care of them, and I'll
make sure to take plenty of own videos so you won't miss the thing that
total of your sure has spirit. See you soon. He recognized Paul's handwriting,
even though the note was unsigned. This episode of Tales was written and
edited by Arthur's Shadows from A seventy seven and narrated by Dee Madison. If
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