Speaker 1: Nine Story Studios Gain Story a Voice.
Speaker 2: My name is Erica Sanderson and this is the Wicked
Library Warning.
Speaker 3: The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for
a mature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal,
and inhumanity. Monsters win, people die, and hope is often shattered.
There is also beauty, heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear
may be deeply personal, but we all share it. If
at any time a story takes you to a place
too dark, turn on the lights, press pause or press stop,
and always remember that, unlike in the real world, these
nightmares and your participation in them, are under your control.
Welcome back to The Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytech, and
as always thank you for listening. A sincere thank you
as well to our supporters on Patreon. Without your continued
support and generosity, this show would not be possible. We're
thrilled the kickoff season thirteen with a tale from returning
author Lindsay Goddard, A story of unfinished business, haunting, grudges,
and one very unlucky poodle, told with wit and charm
by Addison Peacock. Future a custom score by nikov dz
of the Inky.
Speaker 4: Pop right Almost Finished Business by Lindsay Goddard. Yes it's true.
I am the loser ghost who haunts Alma Gentry's poodle,
causing it to poop in her living room. I'm the
pathetic spector who buries treats in her garden so that
the empty headed little fur ball named Marshmallow will dig
holes in her petunia bed. I'm the one who gathers
water making mud puddles in hopes of staining the curly
white fur of Marshmallow's spindly legs after a visit to
the groomer. And I'm here to explain to you, the
Ghost Council, why this is a productive use of my time.
I know, I know the earth is overrun by wondering
spirits with unfinished business. You're only doing your jobs by
guiding them toward the light. But calling me here has
been a big waste of time, because haunting Almah j
Entry's poodle and causing it to poop in her living
room is exactly what I must do with my afterlife.
She's got everyone fooled with her plastered smile and fake
tan blonde hair pulled up into a neat bun atop
her head. But underneath that prim attire is a sinful,
hell bound soul. I'm simply starting her punishment early. And
I promise I get no joy from spooking the dog
or hearing it squeal as it skitters away from a
disembodied whisper in its ear. Almah shaking her head and saying,
what has gotten into you? I would never cause Marshmallow
any pain, And if I manage to drive Almah to
the point of violence, I'll knock her on her ass
before she touches that poor furball. I guarantee you that
haunting the dog is only a means to an end.
Almah must suffer the way I suffered in life so
that I can move on. She must fall to her
knees and admit she isn't perfect, and that she doesn't
have all the answers, So many answers, answers to questions
I never asked. I never wanted a dog. I know
that's impossible for dog people to understand, But what did
you ask? Who are dog people? You know the ones
I'm referring to, the ones who crouched down on all
fours to get a better look at their dog's stool
rated on a scale of one to ten, then raise
their brow at a person for admitting they'd rather not.
Why would I have wanted to do that. I could
barely take care of myself, much less a life form
that can only express its needs in grunts and howls.
But then I met Travis, and for one sweet but
fleeting moment in time, I was smitten and thought I
could change. I made it clear on the dating website
that children would never be in the cards. Travis accepted
that without debate. He said he liked my freckles and
my limp brown hair, and all the mundane characteristics that
had marked me as a plain Jane in my entire life.
There was just one little catch. Travis worked at the
gentry rescue center and loved dogs. No big deal, I
told myself, I can adjust. If I had known Travis
would die and abandon me with phineas a mischievous terrier
mixed with perpetual crust in its eyes, rotten farts like
the sulfurs of hell, and a skin condition which required
expensive medicine, I would have hide tailed in the other direction.
But Travis was different. He intrigued me. I never thought
I'd fall for a blue eyed guy with sandy blonde hair.
Usually I was attracted to brown skin and dark eyes,
but Travis pursued me in messages, and the smile in
his photo drew me in a smile that proved even
better in person, not a flawless one. But when he
flashed it, I turned to puddy. I know that sounds corny,
but if it's any consolation, this doesn't end well for me.
About two years into our relationship, I realized Travis didn't
love me. I should have done sooner, but I'd spent
my entire life pretending to receive love that was never
really there. My degenerate parents had left me alone with
an outdated TV set during most of my childhood, and
as it turned out, Travis wasn't much different, often abandoning
me at home to care for the dogs while he
went out for some strange What does that mean you ask? Oh?
Forgive me? I forgot that Most members of the Ghost
Council died so long ago they don't understand my slang.
Let me put it this way, Travis would have sex
with just about any woman but me. I think all
along he just wanted a caregiver for the dogs. All
the gentry asked him to foster. There was a slew
of misfit mongrels in and out of our home. While
Travis attempted to kiss Alma's ass and become her right
hand man, the second best paying position at Gentry's rescue center.
Once the honeymoon was over and I was all moved
in scrubbing piss out of the carpet while my man
was out doing god knows who, I became stuck in
a prison from which I could not escape, not even
when he died, Even with all his faults, it broke
my heart. Losing Travis the car accident is something so
sudden and shocking, but the fact that he died with
another woman in his passenger seat hurt me even more.
I spent weeks sulking around in my pajamas. I wished
I had never met him, never traded the freedom of
my tiny apartment for the prison sentence of this suburban
split level house only a two minute walk from Alma Genter. Yes,
that Alma, who, instead of dropping by with a fresh
baked casserole or kind words to ease my grief, dropped
by with advice on flamds for Phineas, and nagged me
to schedule a check up with the vet. Tell me this,
If I'm such a menace and that woman is undeserving
of my harassment, why couldn't I get just five minutes
of sunshine without her shadow falling over me, her twangy
voice asking are you blinding to treat the grass? One minute,
I'm watching Phineas poke his snout through the weeds looking
for rabbit turds to eat. Sorry for all the talk
about excrement, but from what I can tell, that's half
of owning a dog. The next minute, I'm closing my
eyes and angling my face toward the sun, only to
have its warm rays blotted out by Alma Gentry's shadow.
Her voice had been like a noose around my last
nerve this time of year, the poisonous mushroom sprout, She'd said,
as if I hadn't just closed my eyes searching for
a moment's piece, Phineas will eat them and get six
So Travis used a pet friendly we'd killer on the
law this time of year, taking note of my disinterest
but casting it aside. As always, she added, do you
need me to write down the brand. I don't know
why I tolerated Almah some days, going so far as
to invite her inside so she could nitpick over the
bones I gave Phineas. Not being raw hide free, I
kept telling myself that eventually she'd consider me a friend
and stop with her ceaseless bitching. Gentry. Rescue Center had
paid for the house in which I lived, after all,
and besides, where else could I go? My parents were dead,
and after five years together, all my friends were Travis's friends,
and they were all Rescue Center people, dog people. No
one thought to ask how I was coping with Travis's death. Nope,
all they had asked was how is Phineas doing? What
about me? I would think, don't I matter? He's such
a special pop they would often add. If by special
they met so physically mutated and mentally affected that not
a single person had wanted to adopt him, forcing Travis
to rescue him out of pity, then yes, Phineas was special,
one big, special problem who relentlessly stuck his nose up
my ass, chewed holes in my furniture, and destroyed my possessions,
right down to the last gift Travis had given me
before dying a cashmere sweater I found strewn across the
floor in thirty seven pieces. When I vented about the
ruined sweater to Almah, I noticed a semblance of sadness
on her face and felt like she'd finally understood how
lousy Phineas was making my life. But then she had said,
I bet Phineas could smell Travis on that sweater. You
never wore it, so it smelled like him from when
he wrapped it. Be patient. A dog's bomb with its
owner is so strong. Do whatever you must do to
keep this dog, is what you might as well have said.
Much more important than your own happiness is that our
rescue center succeeded in saving this mongrel's life and placing
him in his forever home. But it wasn't about the
welfare of the dog. It never was. Almah only cares
about Almah's image. Last week, when I framed Marshmallow for
chewing open the shoe box tucked away in her closet
by tearing at the cardboard, then covering the one hundred
dollars bills from inside it in ectoplasm and laying them
in wet trails across the floor. Guess where Almah had
gotten all that money from cash charity donations to the rescue.
That's where I repeat on the gentry is not a
good person. Do you see now? Do you see how
this woman has earned every minute of her haunting? One
of you is nodding. That's a good sign. Look, I
know who filed the complaint that has landed me here
before the Ghost Council. It was the shackled, hooded wraith
who haunts the creek bed beyond Alma's backyard fence, the
one who cannot leave the spa where he died. You've
put on your best poker faces, but I know it's
true that sad soul burns with envy as he watches
me kick up dust. He doesn't have the strength to
break his chains and wonder free like I do. I
gotta ask why does he get any say in how
I find my light? I mean, talk about the blind
leading that not blind. He'll never find his light. If
that guy was any more rooted to the earth, he'd
be a tree stump. Listen, I don't know why old
clatter chain McGee can't summon the strength to affect the
living world. That's not my problem. But I'll tell you
why I can. I'm mad. I'm mad at my parents
for never loving me enough. I'm mad at Travis for
never loving me at all. But they're all dead now,
which leaves one target for my angst. And do you
know what Alma Gentry said at my funeral? Do you
with that Southern bell lilt? She turned to all our
mutual friends and said, I still can't believe she would
do something so selfish and leave poor Phineas behind like this.
She then proceeded to use my suicide story to guilt
three perspective families before adopting Phineas out to the fourth.
I martyred myself for that dog, and that's all she
had to say about me. Despite the complaint you received,
my haunting of Alma Gentry has made the beam of
light in the sky grow brighter, drawing nearer. I think
once I break her, I feel satisfied enough to move on.
I've seen those poultrygeists who throw dishes from the kitchen
cupboard and stack the dining room chairs. I don't see
the point of it. Deflating Alma Gentry's huge head is
the only retribution I seek, and I'm so close instead
of unfinished business, we might as well call this almost
finished business. So can you let me go?
Speaker 3: Now?
Speaker 4: Almost? Do to let Marshmallow outside any minute? If I
don't spook the little bugger every time he squats down,
he might end up pooping in the yard instead of
holding it until he eventually lets loose all over almost
green colored carpet, which turns browner by the day. And
if that doesn't break her out, what's up? I'm pretty leave.
No need to plead my case any further, and you
ghost elders, much respect to you and yours. But before
I go, can I ask one favor? Maybe I don't
deserve any favors, since I'm a loser ghost who frames
a poodle for my high jinks. But for whatever it's worth,
I was a good person. I was the kind of
person to return a lost wallet. I kind to give
up my last few dollars just because somebody needed it.
This bitter entity you see before you was not always so.
She was a human who cared and loved. I have
no doubt where I'll go when the light reaches me,
or when I reach it however that works. It's just
that maybe it would come sooner if I knew that
Travis's punishment fittest crimes. I have a suggestion for the
big guy downstairs, if I may. Travis must be down there.
No way he could cross the pearly gates with that
trail of broken hearts behind him. I wasn't the only
one he heard. His icy blue eyes, his styled hair,
and handsome smile were a mask that hit a monster
who lied and cheated to get whatever he wanted. Not
to mention the stolen charity donations he knew damn well about.
We all know he's down there, So may I make
a request. Half of having a dog is dealing with
the poop, just like I said before. But Travis never
dealt with any of it. We fostered a dozen dogs
at least, and Travis never lifted a finger. He left
me to shovel the yard, me to collect samples for
the vet, me to scrub the carpet. He left me
at home to waste my life while he went out
and lived his. I hope he is scrubbing poop. I
hope he is shoveling it, wallowing knee deep in it.
I hope steam rises from the endless piles of it
all around him. I hope it's under every step he takes.
I hope the stench is all he can breathe did
you possibly pass that along? Thank you, Ghost Counsel. It's
been an honor meeting you today. I really must be
going now. I think I heard almost door slide open
and the pitter pattern of Marshmallow's paws across the porch.
I must get back to my almost finished business.
Speaker 3: Thank you for listening to episode thirteen oh one. Today's
story was Almost Finished Business by Lindsay Goddard. Our storyteller
was the incomparable Addison Peacock. To discover more dark Tales
and other shows from Ninth Story Studios, visit the Wickedlibrary
dot com and ninth Story dot com. Do you have
your own tale waiting to be told? Submissions for thirteen
are now open. Visit our website for details on how
to send us your story. If you enjoy what we
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