Hi, everyone, Welcome to Blurry Photos. I'm your host, David Flora.
Hi. Hello, Hey, what's up? Hi? What's going on?
Ola meechu A Welcome in to the tenth edition of Campfire Ghost Stories.
Got a fun collection of Pant's crappers here for you, including the traditional pom
and a couple of riddles in story form. Before I get into the stories
proper, I've got four pieces of news I'd like to share with you real
quick here. Number one, I just celebrated my tenth year of podcasting,
officially tenth calendar year. I started back in August of twenty twelve. Well,
I remember going to the Wren Fair in Bristol, Wisconsin with Dave's Deecco
and the rest of Damascus Steele podcast we were on before we started Blurry Photos,
and then I think it was the same day we came back and recorded
either the Alistair Crowley episode or the Nikola Tesla episode, and we were exhausted.
It must have been Tesla because we had to figure out that the Crowley
episode was pretty crap because I had the microphone turned one way. Anyway,
Ten solid ass years pretty crazy. I don't think I've ever done anything for
ten years of my life. Maybe breathe, but even that suspect. Thank
you guys for listening, Thanks for supporting me throughout the years, Old fans
and new alike. I appreciate you, guys, and I hope you have
enjoyed the journey with me. Second point of order, go vote. I'm
up for two awards in the second annual Paranormality Podcast Awards. This is put
on by paranormalitymag dot com. Paranormality Magazine and Blurry Photos is up for Best
Cryptozoology Show, which I will take after ten years of miscrypted contests, and
Hysteria fifty one is up for Best Comedy Show. So please take just a
minute go over to paranormalitymag dot com, scroll down just a hair to find
the twenty twenty two Paranormality Podcast Awards voting and give our shows some love.
Now. You only have until September the eleventh to vote for this. This
isn't very long from now from when I'm releasing this episode, so if you
get this in time, please run over to paranormalitymag dot com. Vote for
Blurry Photos and Hysteria fifty one Best Cryptozoology, Best Comedy, and help us
get bona fide. Sure. Third want to remind you guys, I've got
a relatively new audiobook out. This one is called Bigfoot Frightening Encounters Collectors Edition,
Volume one through four. This is also by Tom Lyons, who did
the Living Among Bigfoot series, and these are all encounters that Tom has collected
and shared from different people's experiences with Sasquatch creatures all around the world, mostly
in the American South according to my accents anyway. But check that out on
audible dot com And if you don't have an audible account, you can get
a free audiobook if you go to audible trial dot com slash blurry just the
word blurry. You get a thirty day trial membership which you can cancel anytime,
and you get a free audiobook of your choice. It'd be great if
you guys could pick up one of those Living among Bigfoot or Bigfoot Frightening Encounters
books that helps us out a ton and I think you'll get a kick out
of them. And lastly, a quick update about the documentary. Whereabout I
would say, optimistically about a month out from releasing the film, or at
the very very least about a month out from signing a contract with a distributor
to get it on something like Amazon or Netflix or Hulu or whatever. But
we are winding down to the release of Shadows in the Desert finally, and
I will be very excited to have this go live and for you guys to
see what we've been worked on for the past fifteen years. Whatever it's been,
I don't know, sure feels like it, so I appreciate everybody's patience
on that. So that'll do it for news, which means you guys can
settle in to your log or sleeping bag or hammock, throw some more wood
on the fire, and double check that all the crane janglers are set and
the goatmen traps are laid. It's time for campfire ghost stories. Ten enjoy
look at Me. One evening, when I was in my junior year of
high school, my mom and dad went out, leaving me home alone.
I had a lot of homework to do, so I spent the whole evening
sitting at the desk in my bedroom. My parents left the house around six
pm. While I was doing homework, I put on my headphones and listened
to loud music. There was a big storm that night, and my desk
was facing the window, so I could see the rain and the lightning outside.
My parents got back around eleven PM. When I saw their car drive
up, I took off the headphones. As soon as my mom opened the
front door and came inside. I heard her shout my name. What on
earth happened in here? She demanded in an angry voice. Confused, I
ran downstairs. My mom was standing in the hallway with a furious look on
her face. She pointed at the floor and yelled, was this you?
I looked down and saw the carpet was covered in muddy footprints. I have
no idea how those got there, I said. I spent the whole night
at my desk doing my homework. I watched the look on her face changed
from anger to confusion, and then to fear. We both realized it at
the same time. Someone else must have been in the house. We followed
the trail of footprints, trying to make sense of the whole situation. They
started at the back door, which we usually left unlocked. Then we noticed
something else. The footprints started at the back door, but there was no
trail of footprints leaving through the back door. All of a sudden, we
hear something loud, a pounding noise that echoed throughout the house, then the
sound of the front door being wrenched open and slammed shut again. We all
ran into the garage and locked the door behind us. My mom took out
her cell phone and called the police. Please come quickly, She shouted,
someone's in our house. After what seemed like hours, a patrol car arrived
with two police officers, a male and a female. One officer stayed with
us in the garage while the partner went through the house, searching it room
by room. When she came back, the female officer told us there was
no one in the house and it was safe to go back in. As
we were all breathing a sigh of relief, she asked whose bedroom was upstairs
on the left. My parents looked at me. It's mine, I told
the officer. She asked us to follow her. As we walked through the
house, we could see a trail of muddy footprints leading from the back door
through the living room, through the hallway, up the stairs, into my
parents' bedroom, and then towards my room. They stopped at my doorway.
The female officer pointed at my door which had been opened the whole night.
Scrawled on it in black marker was the following eight forty seven I see you
eight fifty three you forgot to lock the back door. Eight fifty nine,
you seem focused. Nine twenty four. Turn around ninety seven. Look at
me ten fifteen, Look at me ten thirty seven, Look at me ten
forty nine. Look at me. For more than two hours. Someone had
been standing in my doorway watching me. To this day, I still shuddered
to think what would have happened if I had turned around. Public bathroom a
riddle. I was walking home last night when I suddenly needed a bathroom.
I had to use a creepy old public bathroom was down at the end of
a street full of abandoned houses. Very spooky. I went into the bathroom,
opened the door of the first stall, and peeked inside. There was
a graffiti on the walls. On the right it said this bathroom was haunted,
and on the left it said this writing will change. Pretty creepy.
I went into the stall, pulled down my pants, and set on the
toilet. While I sat there, I started thinking about the strange graffiti.
Maybe I'm superstitious, but I just had to take another look, and my
right it said this bathroom was haunted, and on the left it said this
writing will change. HM. So if the writing didn't change, that means
that the bathroom isn't haunted. Right? What was wrong with that scenario?
Standing outside the stall and looking in this bathroom was haunted was on the right,
this writing will change was on the left. If you entered the stall,
turned around and sat down, this bathroom was haunted would be on the
left, and this writing would change would be on the right. So the
writing did change. Skeleton Lake by Algernon Blackwood. Loneliness of our moose camp
on Skeleton Lake had impressed us from the beginning, and then cap back back
woods five days by trail and canoe from civilization, and perhaps the singular name
contributed a little to the sensation of eeriness that made itself felt in the camp
circle when once the sun was down and the late October mists began rising from
the lake and winding their way in among the tree trunks. For in these
regions all names of lakes and hills and islands have their origin and some actual
event taking either the name of a chief participant, such as Smith's ridge,
or claiming a piece of the map by perpetuating some special feature of the journey
or the scenery, such as long island, deep rapids, or rainy lake.
All names thus have their meaning and are usually pretty recently acquired, while
the majority or self explanatory and suggest human and pioneer relations. Skeleton Lake,
therefore, was a name full of suggestion, and though none of us knew
the origin or the story of its birth, we were all conscious of a
certain lugubrious atmosphere that haunted its shores and islands, and but for the evidences
of recent moose tracks in its neighborhood, we should probably have pitched our tents
elsewhere. For several hundred miles in any direction, we knew of only one
other party of whites. They journeyed up on the train with us, getting
in at North Bay and hailing from Boston Way. A common goal and object
had served by way of introduction, but the acquaintance had made little progress.
This noisy, aggressive Yankee didn't suit our fancy much as a possible neighbor,
and it was only a slight intimacy between his chief guide, Jake the Swede,
and one of our men that kept the thing going at all. They
went into camp on Beaver, fifty miles and more to the west of us.
That was six weeks ago. It seemed as many months, for days
and nights passed slowly in these solitudes, and the scale of time changes wonderfully.
Our men always seemed to know by instincts pretty well are them other fellows
was moving? But in the interval no one had come across their trails,
or once so much as heard their rifle shots. Our little camp consisted of
the Professor, his wife, a splendid shot and keen woodswoman, and myself.
We had a guide a peace, and hunted daily in pairs from before
sunrise till dark. It was our last evening in the woods, and the
Professor was lying in my little wedge tent, discussing the dangers of hunting alone
in couples. This way. The flap of the tent hung back and let
in fragrant odors of cooking over an open wood fire. Everywhere there were bustle
and preparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nose
pointing southwards. If an accident happened to one of them, he was saying
the survivor's story when he returned to camp would be entirely unsupported evidence, wouldn't
it, because you see in order? And he went on laying down the
law after the manner of professors, until I became so bored that my attention
began to wander to pictures and memories of the scenes. We were just about
to leave Garden Lake, with its hundred islands, the rapids at a round
pond, the countless vistas, a forest crimson and gold in the autumn sunshine,
and the starlit nights we'd spent watching in cold, cramped positions for the
wary moose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voice
and time grew more soothing. A nod or a grunt was all the reply
he looked for. Fortunately, he loathed interruptions. I think I could almost
have gone to sleep under his very nose. Perhaps I did sleep for a
brief interval. Then it all came about so quickly, and the tragedy of
it was so unexpected and painful, throwing our peaceful camp into momentary confusion.
And now it all seems to have happened with the uncanny swiftness of a dream.
First there was the abrupt ceasing of the droning voice, and then the
running of quick little steps over the pine needles, and the confusion of men's
voices, and the next instant, the professor's wife was at the tent door,
hatless, her face white, her hunting bloomer's bagging at the wrong places,
a rifle in her hand, and her words running into one another.
Anyhow, quick, Harry, it's rushton. I was asleep and it woke
me. Something's happened. You must deal with it. In a second we
were outside the tent with our rifles. My god, I heard the professor
exclaim, as if he had first made the discovery it is rushed in I
saw the guides helping dragging a man out of a canoe. A brief space
of deep silence followed, in which I heard only the waves from the canoe
washing up on the sand. And then immediately after came the voice of a
man talking with amazing rapidity and with odd gaps between his words. He was
rushed in telling a story, and the tones of his voice, now whispering,
now almost shouting, mixed with sobs and solemn oaths and frequent appeals to
the deity. Somehow or other struck the false note at the very start,
and before any of us guests or knew anything at all, Something moved secretly
between his words, a shadow veiling the stars, destroying the peace of our
little camp and touching us all personally with an undefinable sense of horror and distrust.
I could see that group to this day, with all the detail of
the good photograph, standing halfway between the firelight in the darkness, a slight
mist rising from the lake, the frosty stars, and our men in silence.
That was all sympathy. Dragon rushed and across the rocks towards the camp
fire, their moccasins crunched on the sand and slipped several times on the stones
beneath the weight of a limp exhausted body. I can still see every inch
of the paired cedar branch he'd used for a paddle on that lonely and dreadful
journey. What struck me most, as it struck us all, was the
limp exhaustion of his body compared to the strength of his utterance, and the
tear and rush of his words. A vigorous driving power was there at work,
forcing out the tail, red hot and throbbing, full of discrepancies and
the strangest contradictions. And the nature of this driving power I first began to
appreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of the firelight, and I
saw his face gray under the ten terror in his eyes, tears too,
hair and beard awry, and listen to the wild stream of words pouring forth
without ceasing. I think we all understood then, but it was only after
many years that anyone dared to confess what he thought. There was Matt Morris,
my guide, silver Fizz, whose real name was unknown, and who
bore the title of his favorite drink, and huge Hank Milligan, all ears
and kind intention, and there was rushton pouring out as ready made tale,
with ever shifting eyes turning from face to face seeking confirmation of details none had
witnessed but himself and one other. Silver Fizz was the first to recover from
the shock of the thing, and to realize, with the natural sense of
chivalry common to most genuine backwoodsman, that the man was at a terrible disadvantage.
At any rate. He was the first to start putting the matter rights.
Never mind telling it just now, he said, in a gruff voice,
but with real gentleness. Get it by deed first, then let her
go afterwards. But I have a horn of whiskey too. It ain't all
packed yet, I guess good, need to drink a thing, cried the
other. Good Lord, don't you see, man, I want to talk
to someone first. I want to get it out of me so someone can
answer answer. I've had nothing but trees to talk with for three days.
I can't carry it alone any longer, those cursed silent trees. I told
it to him a thousand times. Just see here. It was this way
when we still looked fearfully about him, when we realized it was useless to
stop him, the story was bound to come, and come it did now.
The story itself was nothing out of the way. Such tales are told
by the dozen round any campfire, where men who have knocked about in the
woods are in the circle. It was way he told it that made our
flesh creep. He was near the truth all along, but he was skimming
it, and the skimming took off the cream that might have saved his soul.
Of course, he smothered it in words odd, words too melodramatic,
poetic, out of the way, words that lie just on the edge of
frenzy. Of course, Two, he kept asking us, each in turn,
scanning our faces with those restless, frightened eyes of his, what would
you have done? What else could I do? And was that my fault?
But that was nothing, for he was no milk and water fellow who
dealt in hints and suggestions. He told his story boldly, forcing his conclusions
upon us, as if we'd been so many wax cylinders of a phonograph that
would repeat accurately what had been told us. And these questions I've mentioned,
he used to emphasize any special point that he seemed to think required such empa
fact was, however, the picture of what had actually happened was so vivid
still in his own mind that it reached hours by a process of telepathy which
he could not control or prevent. All through his true false words, this
picture stood forth in fearful detail against the shadows behind him. He could not
veil much less obliterated. We knew, and I always thought he knew that
we knew. The story itself, as I said, was sufficiently ordinary.
Jake and himself and a nine foot canoe had upset in the middle of the
lake and had held hands across the upturned craft for several hours, eventually cutting
holes in her ribs to stick their arms through and grasp hands lest the numbness
of the cold water should overcome them. They were miles from shore, and
the wind was drifting them down upon little island. But when they got within
a few hundred yards of the island, they realized, to their horror that
they would after all, drift past it. It was then the quarrel began.
Jake was for leaving the canoe and swimming rushed and believed in waiting till
they actually had passed the island and were sheltered from the wind. Then they
could make the island easily by swimming, canoe and all. But Jake refused
to give in, and after a short struggle and rushed and admitted there was
a struggle, got free from the canoe and disappeared without a single cry.
Rushed and held on, proved the correctness of his theory, and finally made
the island canoe and all, after being in the water over five hours.
He described to us how he crawled up onto the shore and fainted at once,
with his feet lying half in the water. How lost and terrified he
felt, upon regaining consciousness in the dark, how the canoe had drifted away,
and his extraordinary luck, and finding it caught again at the end of
the island by a projecting cedar branch. He told us that the little axe
nether bit of real luck, had caught in the thwart when the canoe turned
over, and how the little bottle in his pocket holding the emergency matches was
whole and dry. He made a blazing fire and searched the island from end
to end, calling upon Jake in the darkness, but getting no answer,
until finally so many half drowned men seemed to come crawling up out of the
water and onto the rocks and vanish among the shadows. When he came up
with them, that he lost his nerve completely and returned to lie down by
the fire till the daylight came. He then cut about or replaced the lost
paddles, and after one more useless search for his lost companion, he got
into the canoe, fearing every moment he would upset again, and crossed over
to the mainland. You roughly the position of our camping place, And after
paddling day and night and making many weary portages without food or covering, he
reached us two days later. This more or less was a story, and
we, knowing whereof he spoke, knew that every word was literally true,
and at the same time went to the building up of a hideous and prodigious
lie. Once the recital was over, he collapsed, and Silver Fizz,
after a general expression of sympathy from the rest of us, came again to
the rescue. Now, mister, you just got to eat, drink,
whether you've a mind too or no. And Matt Morris cooked that night,
soon had the fried trout, bacon, and the wheat cakes and hot coffee
passing around a rather silent and oppressed circle. So we ate around the fire
ravenously, as we'd eaten every night for the past six weeks, but with
this difference that there was one among us who was more than ravenous, and
he gorged in spite of all our devices, he somehow kept himself the center
of observation. When his tin mug was empty, Morris instantly passed the tea
pail. When he began to mop up the bacon, grease. With the
dough on his fork, Hank reached out for the frying pan, and the
can of steaming boiled potatoes was always by his side. And there was another
difference as well. He was sick, terribly sick before the mill was over,
and this sudden nausea after food was more eloquent than words of what the
man had passed through on his dreadful foodless ghost haunted journey of forty miles to
our camp in the darkness. He thought he'd go crazy, He said.
There were voices in the trees, and figures that were always lifting themselves out
of the water or from behind boulders to look at him make awful signs.
Jake constantly peered at him through the underbrush, and everywhere the shadows were moving
with eyes, footsteps, and following shapes. We tried hard to talk of
other things, but it was no use, for he was bursting with the
rehearsal of this story and refused to allow himself the chances we were so willing
and anxious to grant him. After a good night's rest, he might have
had more self control and better judgment and would probably have acted differently, But
as it was, we found it impossible to help him. Once the pipes
were lit and the dishes cleared away, it was useless to pretend any longer.
The sparks from the burning log zig zagged upwards into a sky brilliant with
stars. Was all wonderfully still and peaceful, and the forest odors floated to
us on the sharp autumn air. The cedar fire smelt sweet, and we
could just hear the gentle wash of tiny waves along the shore. All was
calm, beautiful, and remote from the world of men. And passion was
indeed a night to touch the soul. And yet I think none of us
heated these things. A bull moose might have thrust his great head over our
shoulders and have escaped unnoticed. The death of Jake. The Swede, with
its sinister setting, was a real presence that held the center of the stage
and compelled attention. You won't perhaps scared to come along, mister, said
Morris by way of a beginning. But I guess I'll go with one of
the boys are in the avant for it, sure, said Hank. Jake
and I done some biggest trips together in the old days, and I'll do
that much for him. It's deep water, they tell me. Round that
islands, added silver Fizz, we'll find it. Chure pop if it's there.
They all spoke of the body as it There was a minute or two
of heavy silence, and then rushed and again burst out with a story and
almost the identical words he'd used before. It's almost as if he'd learned at
my heart. He wholly failed to appreciate the efforts of the others to let
him off. Silver Fizz rushed in, hoping to stop him. Morris and
Hank closely following his lead. I once knew another traveling partner of his,
he began quickly used to live down moose. J'all rapid's way? Is that
so? Said Hank kind the useful sort of feller, chimed in Morris.
All the idea of the men had was to stop the tongue wagon before the
discrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take notice of them and
ask questions. But just as well try and stop an angry bull moose on
the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in midwinter by throwing in pebbles near
the shore. Out it came, and though the discrepancy this time was insignificant.
It somehow brought us all in a second, face to face with the
inevitable and dreaded climax. So I tramped all over that little bit of an
island, hoping he might somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and
always thinking I heard that awful last cry of his in the darkness. And
then the night dropped down impenetrably like a damn big blanket out of the sky,
and all eyes fell away from his face. Hank poked up the logs
with his boot. Morris seized a number and his bare fingers to light his
pipe, although it was already emitting clouds of smoke. But the Professor caught
the ball flying. I thought you said, he sank without a cry,
he remarked, quietly, looking straight up into the frightened face opposite, and
then riddling mercilessly. The confused explanation that followed. The cumulative effect of all
these forces, hitherto so rigorously repressed, now made itself felt, and the
circle spontaneously broke up, everybody moving at once by a common instinct. The
professor's wife left the party abruptly with excuses about an early start the next morning.
She shook hands with rushed and mumbling something about his comfort in the night.
The question of comfort, however, devolved, by force of circumstances,
upon myself, and he shared my tent just before wrapping up in my double
blankets for the night was bitterly cold. He turned and began to explain that
he had a habit of talking in a sleep, and hoped I would wake
him if he disturbed me by doing so. Well. He did talking asleep,
and had disturbed me very much. Indeed, the anger and violence of
his words remained with me to this day, and it was clear in a
minute, and he was living over again some portion of the scene upon the
lake. I listened horror struck for a moment or two, and then understood
that I was face to face with one or two alternatives. I must continue
an unwilling eavesdropper, or I must waken him. The former was impossible for
me, yet I shrank from the ladder with the greatest repugnance, And in
my dilemma I saw the only way out of the difficulty, and had once
accepted it. Told though it was, I crawled stealthily out of my warm
sleeping bag and left the tent, intending to keep the old fire alight under
the stars and spend the remaining hours till daylight in the open. As soon
as I got out, I noticed at once another figure moving silently along the
shore. It was Hank Milligan, and it was plain enough what it was
doing. He was examining the holes that had been cut in the upper ribs
of the canoe. You look half ashamed when I came up to him and
mumbled something about not being able to sleep for the cold air. Standing together
beside the overturned canoe, we both saw that the holes were far too small
for a man's hand and arm, and could not possibly have been cut by
two men hanging on for their lives in deep water. Those holes had been
made. Afterwards, Hank said nothing to me, and I said nothing to
Hank, and presently he moved off to collect logs for the fire, which
needed replenishing, for it was a piercingly cold night and there were many degrees
at frost. Three days later, Hank and Silver Fizz followed with stumbling footsteps
the old Indian trail that leads from Beaver Creek to the southwards. A hammock
was slung between them, and it weighed heavily. Yet neither of the men
complained, and indeed speech between them was almost nothing. Their thoughts, however,
were exceedingly busy, and the terrible secret of the wood which formed their
burden weighed far more heavily than the uncouth, shifting mass that lay in the
swinging hammock and tugged so severely at their shoulders. They had found it in
four feet of water, not more than a couple of yards from the lee
shore of the island. And then the back of the head was a long,
terrible wound which no man could possibly have inflicted upon himself. Haunted tunnel
a riddle. There was a tunnel that was said to be haunted. Three
school girls decided to go there one evening to test their courage. When they
looked into the tunnel, it was pitch black, and the girls started to
lose their nerve. They decided to hold hands and run through the tunnel.
They ran through the darkness and didn't stop running until they reached the end.
When they came out the other side without anything happening to them, the girls
were gasping for breath and laughing. Holding hands made it less scary, said
one girl. I'm glad I was in the middle, said the other,
Me too, said the third. What was wrong with this story? With
three girls? Only one should have been in the middle. The corpse are
Charles Baudelaire, Remember, my beloved, what thing we met by the roadside
on that sweet summer day. They're on a grassy couch with pebble set a
Loathsomebody lay the wanton limbs, stiff stretched into the air, steaming with exhalations,
violent dank, in ruthless scenic fashion, had laid bare the swollen side
and flank on this decay. The sun shone hot from heaven, as though
with chimic heat, to broil and burn none too nature all that she had
given a hundredfold return. The sky smiled down upon the horror there, as
on a flower that opens to the day, so awful an infection smote the
air almost you swooned away. The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side.
Whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream that ran along these tatters of life's
pride with a liquescent gleam, And like a wave, the maggots rose and
fell. The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife. It seemed as though
a vague breath came to swell and multiply with life, the hideous corpse from
all this living world, as music, as of wind and water ran or
as of grain, and rhythmic motion swirled by the swift winnower's fan, And
then the vague forms like a dream died out, or like some distant scene
that slowly falls upon the artist's canvas that, with doubt the only half recalls.
A homeless dog behind the boulders, lay and watched us, both with
angry eyes, forlorn, waiting a chance to come and take away the morsel
she had torn. And you, even you, will be like this drear
thing, a vile infection. Man may not endure star that I yearned to,
sun that lights my spring, Oh, passionate and pure, Yes,
such will you be queen of every grace When the last sacramental words are said,
and beneath grass and flowers that lovely face molders among the dead. Then,
oh beloved, whisper to the worm that crawls up to devour you with
a kiss, that I still garden memory. The dear form of love that
comes to this. There you go. There are your campfire ghost stories for
twenty twenty two, and one more marshmallow to roast over the fire ponds.
There was once a teenage boy who was doing his homework quietly and peacefully one
night when a notification kept popping up on his computer. Unfortunately, he was
so engrossed in his homework he couldn't see the notifications popping up every ten minutes
or so, and after two hours he realized he'd been missing messages from some
unknown cinder. And when he opened up his Microsoft Mail account, the last
five messages were all just outlook at me, outlook at me, outlook at
me. There was once a small hunting crew up in Canada who came upon
a wild eyed and frightened individual who had also been hunting not too far away.
Oddly enough, his skin was bright green, as if it had been
stained by something, although at first they chalked it up to just being frightened,
but the man kept telling of a hunting partner he had who had succumbed
to the elements at a nearby watering spot. As it turned out, the
man wasn't green from fright at losing a companion. He had actually drowned the
man in some jiggly lime dessert on an island at Gelatine Lake. That'll be
your puns, That'll be your campfire goot Stories episode for this year. Thank
you guys for listening, Thanks for hanging out and supporting the show. Don't
forget to follow on social media and get yourself an extra episode a month by
joining my Patreon and patreon dot com slash blurry Photos. And don't forget to
watch me stream some games on Twitch dot tv slash blurry Photos. I'm in
the middle of a sky Rim run right now with a few mods installed,
so it should be pretty fun. I've got an interview coming up in the
next episode, and then I think we'll be on our way to blurry Photober
for this year, lots of stuff going on. Hope you guys are staying
cool and having good times. And thanks again for listening for this episode of
Blurry Photos. I have been David the tunnel handholder Flora. Don't stop blur even