Speaker 1: Calarugu Shark Media. Welcome to ghost Scary Stories and the
October Records, a month long Halloween nightmare. This is episode
eighteen the.
Speaker 2: Priest, October eighteenth, nineteen seventy four. Silas Crane. I'm recording
this from inside Saint Mary's Rectory. Father Morrison is God
help me. He went to bless the Henley House, the
family that died on October ninth. No one found their bodies,
just their clothes soaked through, arranged as if they were
still wearing them. Morrison thought he could cleanse the house.
He took his Bible, his cross, his holy water. I
watched from across the street. He entered at noon for
ten minutes nothing. Then the screaming started, not from him,
from the house itself, every window, every door screaming. He
stumbled out at twelve forty seven and his face, his
teeth had turned black, his tongue had split into three.
He tried to speak, couldn't. Walked straight to the church
and began burning everything Bibles, crosses, vestments. As they burned,
they screamed two little voices trapped in the pages. He's
barricaded himself in the bell tower. Now every hour on
the hour he rings the bells, but it's not the
normal pattern. It's names. He's ringing names in morse code,
the names of everyone who will die before Halloween. I've
decoded seventeen so far. Mine is number twenty three. There's eighteen.
Margaret Blackwood, not this Margaret, the one fifty years from now.
He says, Wait, he's coming down. He's walking toward the rectory,
toward me. His feet aren't touching the ground, They're inside
the ground, walking through the floor like its water.
Speaker 3: He's I should have known Davidson would act after yesterday.
Should have known he wouldn't let me keep the vial,
wouldn't let me reach Halloween with a weapon against him.
I was playing the recording when the library doors exploded inward,
not opened, exploded wood, becoming water, splashing across the floor,
then reforming as something else, as Davidson. He hasn't aged
a day in two hundred and fifty one years. But
now I could see why his skin wasn't skin. It
was millions of tiny scales, each one a year, layered
so perfectly they looked human until he moved. Then they rippled,
revealed depths, showed the creature he'd become through centuries of
feeding on its children. Sarah, he said, and his voice
was my death rattle from seventeen seventy four. You found
the good doctor's solution. How quaint He moved toward me,
but not walking, flowing, his body elongated, stretched, became liquid
while maintaining form. I ran, but he was already at
every exit, not multiple versions, the same Davidson, existing in
all doorways simultaneously. You think you understand, he said, through
every mouth. Six times. You've tried, six times, you've failed,
but you never asked the right question. I clutched the
vial Christopher had given me. Davidson laughed, a sound like
drowning in reverse. Drink it, he encouraged, Become Sarah completely.
See what happens. Something in his eagerness made me hesitate.
He wanted me to drink it. Why the phone rang impossible?
The library's phones had been dead for days, water logged
like everything else, but it rang, I answered, Margaret, father
Williams's voice, but wrong talking through liquid. Don't trust the doctor.
Come to the church. See what Morrison found. See why
he burned the bibles. Davidson smiled, wider, his mouth extending
past human limits. Yes, go learn. You have thirteen days left,
might as well know the truth. He dissolved into water,
soaking into the floor, but his voice remained. The vial
isn't poisoned, Sarah. It's the final ingredient. Christopher Ashford has
been preparing you, perfectly, tenderizing you. When you drink that
vial and I kill you, it won't vomit, it will feast,
and the transformation of Millbrook will be complete. I ran
to Saint Mary's through streets that were wrong. People walked normally,
but their shadows swam. Children played in puddles that reflected
different skies. The town was shifting between states, unable to
decide if it was land or lake. The church doors
hung off their hinges. Inside. Father Williams stood at the pulpit,
but he was different from the nineteen seventy four recording.
This wasn't possession, This was revelation. His body was partially
inside out, not gore, but inversion. His spine was external,
branching like a tree. His ribs opened and closed like gills.
His heart beat outside his chest, connected by veins that
spelled words incursive. Morrison found it. He wheezed through a
throat that was now exterior in the Henley House nursery.
The real Bible, the one written before humans learned language.
He held up a book that hurt to perceive. Its
pages were skin, living skin, every word written in scar
tissue that healed and reopened as I watched. Genesis is different,
he said, opening to the first page. In the beginning,
there was water, and the water was God, and God
was hungry. So God imagined food and the food. Believed
it was real, believed it was separate, believed it was creation,
but it was always just God's dream of something to eat.
Pages turned themselves, showing illustrations that moved, the rise of
land from ocean, the evolution of life, all of it
depicted as a vast mouth imagining its meal. We're not real,
Father Williams, continued mill Brook, humanity, Earth, We're all just it,
dreaming of dinner. But dreams can become real if the
dreamer believes them enough. And it is starting to believe,
starting to think we exist separately. That's why the pattern
it's not feeding on us. It's waking up remembering that
we're all just its hunger, imagining itself. Satisfied, I backed away,
but He grabbed my wrist with a hand that was
all bone, no flesh. Where he touched I saw through
my skin to something underneath. Must not blood, water all water.
I was already liquid, just maintaining the illusion of form,
the thirty families. He gasped, his lungs external, now expanding
like wings. Aren't its children, They're antibodies, the universe's immune system,
trying to wake it up before the dream becomes real,
before we become real, because if we become real, if
it fully believes in us, we'll have to be digested properly, permanently.
The church bells rang thirteen times, then spoke not Morse
code words. Sarah Blackwood is in the church. The witness
has arrived. The feast begins. Father Williams smiled with a
mouth that had too many corners. You were never the witness, Margaret.
You're the appetite, the hunger that makes it remember to eat.
Every time you investigate, you make it hungrier. Every time
you die, you make it bite. And this time he
pulled out a knife, the knife, the one that had
killed me five times. This time, Davidson, isn't your killer.
I am the priest must make the sacrifice, must prepare
the meal, must say grace before the feeding. I ran,
but the church was changing, walls becoming throat, windows becoming teeth.
The door was so far away, then too close, then
gone entirely behind me. Father Williams crawled on external bones,
faster than anything should move. The knife scraped against the floor,
leaving trails of my deaths seventeen seventy four, eighteen twenty four,
eighteen seventy four, nineteen twenty four, nineteen seventy four, all
leading to now. I burst through a window that became
water as I passed through, fell into the cemetery. But
the graves were all open, all full of water, all
reflecting the same thing, me dying over and over in
every grave, a different death, but always the same result.
Sarah Blackwood murdered, giving birth to something that should never
have been born. And in the distance, Davidson stood laughing
because he knew what I was beginning to understand. There
is no solution, no poison, no reversal. There's only the feeding,
and I'm the appetizer. Tomorrow, I'll play October nineteenth if
I survive tonight. The knife is still following me, crawling
on its own now, using its handle like a hand.
It knows where I am. It's always known. Thirteen days
until Halloween, thirteen days until I die again. Unless I
can find what Morrison really discovered in that nursery. Unless
the burned Bibles were hiding something else. Unless Father Williams
was lying, unless everyone is lying, unless I'm lying to myself.
Speaker 1: Ghost Scary Stories is a production of Caloroga Shark Media.
Some elements of AI may have been used in this production,
but it was written, edited, mixed, and produced by Real
Live People. Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott