This week Abby and Alan present doppelgänger inspired horror stories.
Mirrored Images by Madz Smith-Ledford, read by Ashley Tam. Be sure to follow Madz on IG @MadzSmiLed.
Drowning in Sorrow by Sheldon Higdon, read by Jon C. Cook. Check out Seldon's website here, and follow him on Twitter @HigdonSheldon. And listen to the Fado podcast here.
The Illusion of Doppelganger by Duncan Overton, read by Michael Crosa. Check out Michael's newest podcast here.
And a surprise story written by Alan Kudan and read by Risa Puno.
lunaticsproject.com
Get Lunatics Merch here. Join the discussion on Discord.
Check out Abby's book Horror Stories. Available in eBook and paperback. Music by Michaela Papa, Alan Kudan & Jordan Moser. Poster Art by Pilar Keprta @pilar.kep.
This week Abby and Alan present doppelgänger inspired horror stories.
Mirrored Images by Madz Smith-Ledford, read by Ashley Tam. Be sure to follow Madz on IG @MadzSmiLed.
Drowning in Sorrow by Sheldon Higdon, read by Jon C. Cook. Check out Seldon's website here, and follow him on Twitter @HigdonSheldon. And listen to the Fado podcast here.
The Illusion of Doppelganger by Duncan Overton, read by Michael Crosa. Check out Michael's newest podcast here.
And a surprise story written by Alan Kudan and read by Risa Puno.
lunaticsproject.com
Get Lunatics Merch here. Join the discussion on Discord.
Check out Abby's book Horror Stories. Available in eBook and paperback. Music by Michaela Papa, Alan Kudan & Jordan Moser. Poster Art by Pilar Keprta @pilar.kep.
Hello everyone. Welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour podcast. I'm Abby Brinker, sitting here as I always am with Alan Kuan. Hello. Today we have a Lunatics Library episode for you rounding out our crazy exploration of doppelganger with three modern horror stories that use this trend to illustrate all of the things that we've been talking about in the last two episodes.
Speaker 2:I, I'm really excited for this one.
Speaker 1:I am too. I'm really excited. I am so grateful to the voice actors, to the writers who all brought this together because this is like my ideal lunatics library episode. I'm gonna come out and say it right now.
Speaker 2:I wanna say I'm more excited for this one that I have been in a very long time.
Speaker 1:No discredit to anybody else. It just feels like we have a very robust offering today.
Speaker 2:I'd say we do.
Speaker 1:Yeah. Why don't we just jump right in then? Sure. So, the first story, first time that this writer is being featured on Lunatics Radio Hour, which we love a debut. It was written by Mads Smith Ledford, and you can follow her on Instagram at mads. S m i l e d. Mads is a remote post-production coordinator and freelance producer out of South New Jersey. Since 2019, she's been credited in numerous documentaries, fiction features, and shorts, most notably the Exiles, which won the Grand Jury prize for the US documentary at Sundance Film Festival last year.
Speaker 2:Dang. Yeah. All right.
Speaker 1:In 2019, she co-wrote and directed an original play called 1979, question Mark, which premiered at the Scoundrel and Scam Theater in Tucson, Arizona. She lives and breathes horror publishing her honors thesis on love, crafty, and film adaptations. She's super excited to connect with other horror fans and hopes to continue crafting spooky tales. She's like our ideal friend,<laugh>. Everything we look for in a friend
Speaker 2:That's adorable. I, that's, that's cool. I always love connecting with new people in the biz.
Speaker 1:Yeah. And this story is so good. I'm just so, so excited to, to kick us off this way today.
Speaker 2:Cool. Uh, do you want to give us anything about what we're gonna expect?
Speaker 1:No. Go on and blind as we always do.
Speaker 2:Okay. Here we go.
Speaker 3:Mirrored images, my man Smith Red by.
Speaker 4:It used to be a game between friends, an observation murmured under their breath, a snicker or a deer, but always in good spirits, an exchanged word that really wasn't supposed to mean anything, especially miles away. You really need to meet her. Janie, you'd really get along. I glanced up from the stack of notes thumbnail between my teeth, even miles away with our phones propped up against books and cheap desk lamps. Amy and I studied together. It was a safe, familiar rhythm we'd created in high school. Her tiny image was washed out in the light of the phone screen, her own pen scratching into a workbook. I swear she's your double. That's definitely not weird. I hoed turning back to my textbook. No, really? You have that same sort of, Amy leaned her head in her hands, lips drawn together. She clicked her teeth. That quick humor, you know the kind that you least expect and takes you a second to get that. Sure. But it doesn't mean we're twins. I argued Amy scoffed brushing her long hair from her neck. She fidgeted twisting the strands into a messy braid and then letting it fall free. I didn't say you were twins. I said double. There's a difference. And that is she's like a copy. Amy twisted her hair up again. It's almost like I can have you here with me. You know, I felt a stone drop in my stomach. I shot up my veins. I scolded my expression quickly and forced my lips into a half smile. But the anxiety had already seeped into my skin. Amy and I had been friends since diapers. We grew up together and shared everything. Food, clothes, dreams. I'd been through her worst breakups and proudest achievements, and she was my rock through mine. I recognized this sick feeling. It was the same sick feeling when she decided to apply to a school halfway across the country. It was the same gut-wrenching anxiety when my test scores only got me into the next state over. Jealousy could be explained away in romance, but our relationship was deeper than that blood of the covenant. Right. Or at least I hoped. So James, you good? I tapped the phone with my pencil and forced the smile wider. Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. It's getting light over here. You get like three extra hours of sunlight. Amy snorted. Yeah. Yeah, sure. I'll let you go. Power nap her fingertip. Hover over the screen. It curled slowly. You know I'd never replace you, right? You're my sister. I know that. Say hi to what's her name for me. Maybe I'll have to come visit in Assert dominance. I teased my own finger posed over the red button. I pitched my voice down in Octa. There can only be one nerd. Love you. Love you Ames. The screen went black. Our next study date went from quiet dorm room to busy tea house, low conversations cutting through Lo-fi house music. I was propped up on a couch like a cat, laptop, balanced on my knee. I flipped through social media lingually. There's a high-pitched ding that drew my eyes to the screen. Amy is calling. I clicked the call button. Amy's face appeared on the screen behind her blonde ponytail. A large palm tree rose out of the lawn. There were distant shouts over the wind as students enjoyed the warm weather. Must be nice. Hey, I didn't leave you waiting, did I? Her voice was thin, like she had been running her cheeks red from exertion. I shook my head quickly, setting aside my phone. Not at all. It's not too crowded. Today I scooped up some fruity concoction and took a long drag from the straw. How's that bio exam? Well, with the curve. I didn't fail. She groaned. She hurriedly propped her phone up and dug into her messenger bag. After a moment, Amy turned her big, bright green eyes to mine and puckered her lips. Please trade me. She was playing hardball. She knew I couldn't resist that face. Not a chance. I managed. Ignoring the heat, pulling under my eyes. I'd take an essay over a biolab any day. I tapped my homework assignment window, obscuring her video as she settled into our old rhythm. I wasn't through the first line when an unfamiliar voice broke through the screen. Hey, Ames. I thought you'd be at the library. Amy let out a melodious laugh. Hey, it's such a nice day. I thought I'd claim my little pocket of grass. I quickly minimized the window as her camera reappeared. Beside my best friend was a woman with cropped brown hair, dressed in a tight fitting Henley in jeans. Even in the winter, she must be burning up. She bent down next to Amy and waved at the screen. You must be the infamous Janie, the woman beamed front teeth slightly crooked. Amy told me so much about you. Only the scandalous fits. I hope I offered back an uneasy smile of my own. My stomach roiled, goosebumps studded my arms hidden only by the grace of my thick sweater. It was like looking into a mirror. There were little differences. Her crooked teeth, short side, never dared to wear no visible tattoos, but there were undeniable similarities or short brown hair that curled at the tips, our soft jawline, our broad nose that I always hated when we played that game in high school. We never actually meant it. Hushed conversations around the lunch table as we dreamed up scenarios that were never supposed to come true. I found your doppelganger. The woman's attention was squarely on Amy taking out her own book. Did you get our Cal homework last night? I was confused about is she joining us? The words escaped my lips before I had time to temper them into something softer. Amy and the woman's s gazes snapped to the screen. Amy had the decency to look embarrassed. Cheeks, pink. The woman only looked annoyed. Would that be okay? She's in my calc one section. Amy asked Meekly, the woman straightened hand on her hip. Her eyes narrowed. If I'm interrupting something important, you could have just said something. Ames. Amy startled eyes blown wide. Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. We just like hanging out while we study. Right, Janie, actually, I could really use your help on this one problem. As she murmured out excuses, all I could see was Amy silently. I didn't wanna be the not to Amy, so I cleared my throat. Uh, no. No problem at all. The more the merrier, the woman's stance relaxed as she sank into the Dewey grasp beside my best friend. Great. And he'll be like, I'm not even here. I very much doubted that. But I turned back to my own homework. As she and Amy opened thick textbooks. Despite the comforting lull of Amy's voice, I couldn't finish a page. I adjusted the screen and kept my eye on the tiny image of Amy and the double my smartwatch buzzed jerking me from my pacing. I drew it up to my eye, some department wide email. I swiped it away with a huff and continued along my path. My heels clicked along the wood floor of the dorm. Amy was 30 minutes late. We were heading into finals in a week. The stress was only building as deadlines approached and answer. Keys were swapped. Every year, Amy and I would call to de-stress and catch up. It was the last time we would speak before finals forced us to study. Eat, sleep, rinse, repeat. It was a standing date since we were covered in acne. Where was she? I tugged out my phone, shooting her a quick text. We still on for tonight. I collapsed onto the broken common room couch. The wood creaked under my weight. I stared blankly at the phone screen. Come on. The minute began to pass. Still the phone was inches from my eyes. Come on, Amy. No red receipts, no nothing. The blue light stung my eyes, but I kept staring. A million scenarios raced through my brain. Vivid images flew by like a stock market ticker. Amy's splayed out over a crumpled car. Amy trapped in an elevator, gasping for air, blood dripping from a cracked skull. Amy colliding with the light rail bike wheels flinging toward the sky. I bit hard on the inside of my cheek to chase the images away. She was fine. The dizzying mental colors bled into another image. I know that woman was standing in front of a mirror. Water dripped from a sink, punctuating the uneasy silence. Her short hair was tied at the base of her neck and slick. She pressed her palm against the glass. The mirror shimmered and undulate under her touch. Her lips parted crooked teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her fingers sunk through like water. I felt fingertips tracing the hairs along my neck. The phone slipped from my grasp and collided with my nose yelping. I shot up from the couch. Tears began to stream down my cheeks, and I moaned in pain. My sleep schedule had been shot for weeks. Balancing homework in my blossoming career as a barista. Long hours, restless sleep. I probably just passed out the moment. I was still for too long. I gingerly probed the side of my nose. No breaks, just a whole lot of ego bruises. The Judas hunk of plastic dinged. I screwed up my face, reaching down to scoop up my phone. Nearly an hour had passed since I checked in with Amy. I unlocked my phone with a click. Hey, I'm so sorry. I forgot. I'm actually going out tonight. Can we talk later? Tears still dripping off my chin. A lump cemented in my throat. Forgot. How could she have forgotten? I swiped my sleeve under my eyes swiftly. I was relieved that she wasn't dead in a ditch, but righteous anger replaced the rolling anxiety. She never canceled. Not in 15 years of friendship. I closed her message and quickly swiped over to social media. I needed to calm down. This was ridiculous. I wasn't my best friend's keeper, but the betrayal felt thick on my tongue. I flipped past pictures of other friends from high school friends that I'd been close with, kid who smoked joints outside the theater, building the track star who was my partner in Model Un, the girl we invited to our birthday parties every year. Every single one of them seemed to drop off the face of the earth. Miles apart. Our interests split. Our lives separated. No longer were we tied down to friendships of convenience. Amy and I weren't like that. We had promised we wouldn't be. I forced myself to suck down a deep breath. Inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4. Hold. 1, 2, 3, 4. Exhale. 1, 2, 3, 4. My vision began to clear. I scrubbed under my cheeks. I pushed the remnants of the anxiety back into place, pushed them down as deep as they would go. It was just lack of sleep. I let my shoulders sink into the thin fabric of the couch. I let my eyes linger over the brightly colored images swiping past and tapping like almost at random. My thumb ran up the edge of the screen. It was a hazy picture, dimly lit along the edges. It was barely recognizable as a bar. Two girls were pressed cheek to cheek center frame arms draped around each other's waists. One girl balanced a brightly colored drink in her hand. The other flipped off the camera. One blonde with puppy doll eyes. One brunette with crooked teeth. It was timestamped. 10 minutes earlier, I closed the app quickly and hurled my phone towards the wall. I am so sorry. Amy's voice crackled out of my phone. The screen had a long crack down the center from the abuse before finals week. I'm surprised it was even usable last minute. There was a stance night happening and we, I get it. Okay. It's not a big deal. I tried to brush it off. I stuffed another sweater into my bulging duffle bag. Amy's side. But it is, I swear, I totally spaced. By the time I got your message, we were already at the bar and I couldn't have called you if I wanted to. Her voice sounded shrill. I tugged open a drawer a little too quickly and cursed as it jumped to the track. I said, it's not a big deal. And then you didn't text me back. I'm such a bad friend, Amy. I'm over it. I snapped. I nearly dropped the drawer. I get it. You wanna spend time with other people. I'm just your best friend, not your wife. Silence Ames. I wasn't trying to be. You're mad about her, aren't you? Amy's shrill. Panic had dulled, almost monotone. I managed to wrestle the drawer to the ground with a curse. I darted over the phone, scooping it off the bed and pressing it to my ear. No, that's not what I'm saying. It's not like you're my only friend. Janie. Amy continued. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but you didn't have to make me seem like an. I'm not. I tried. No, that's what you did. You're jealous, aren't you? You're jealous of her. The world spun my free hand curled in the comforter, Amy. It's, it's not a big deal. You know you've always been like this. A laugh ripped through with a crackle. You've always been so possessive. We didn't fight in all those years. Not once had we fought. Not over a toy, not over a crush. Never. The words coming from the speaker dripped with vitriol. My voice stuck in my chest. My grip tightened. Knuckles turning white. I felt fingertips brushed the back of my neck. Amy's rant poured through piercing the fog of my anxiety. My world doesn't revolve around you, Janie. I can spend my time with anyone I want in any way I want. Just because you don't have any other friends. I couldn't fight back if I wanted to. The anxiety bubbled up, tightening my chest. It felt like my head was expanding, inflating like a balloon. I was weightless, transparent. Nothing existed except the dread. The phone dropped from my hand. The clutter of tile silenced Amy. Minutes passed. I hunched over the bed, hand pressed against my rocketing heart. Quiet sobs escaped my trembling lips. The phone laid still and quiet. It felt like drowning, floating towards the surface, but never able to reach it. I clawed upwards. I tried to catch my breath, but the lump widen. My vision went white. Those horrible images returning with a vengeance. Amy crumpled under a bus. Amy trapped in a flooding car, bloody broken the mirror rippled. I stood before it. The water punctuated my panicked breath. I reached toward the glass tears streaming down my cheeks. My fingertips brushed against her neck. Finally, a small voice whispered. Chanie, have a good winter break. I croaked reaching forward and hitting end call. Breaking up was easier than this. The message is filtered in every day, sometimes multiple times a day. First, they were apologetic, begging that I forgive her for the cruel words. She was my best friend. She didn't mean a word of it. She loved me and missed me. I didn't have the energy to answer. Then they were angry, demanding that I answer her cruel words, saying I was paranoid. I was nothing like the woman, the woman who seemed to always be there. I was nothing like her. I silenced my phone. Finally, there were messages from the woman, Amy's phone, but the words so twisted and wrong that it couldn't be from her decreeing that I should stay away from Amy if she didn't need me anymore, had been replaced. I deleted my social media accounts. It was more than a breakup. I was in mourning. I stayed shut in my parents' house, huddled under childhood quilts. I couldn't bear to look at the pictures spread across the wall. Happier times of a bubbly blonde and her shy best friend. I picked up my food, eating enough to silence the hunger. I couldn't sleep whenever I closed my eyes. I saw the mirror. The news dropped. Not a week later, my dad had flicked on the TV to check the scores. When the ticker raced across the bottom of the screen, co-ed from West Coast University found dead. His thumb hovered over the remote. Browsed, furrowed. Hey Janie, doesn't Amy go to that school? My eyes lifted from my laptop. A half-assed attempt of a paper. What are you talking about? My dad changed the channel. The cameras focused on a police officer hat tucked under his arm. Thick bulbous microphones nearly obscured his face. Reporters burst into a loud barrage of questions. He lifted his hand to try and calm them. At this time, the killer has been identified and is in custody. No motive has yet been determined. I pushed the laptop aside and slid forward. I strained to hear over the reporter's clattering voices. Amy went home for winter break. I murmured. My dad didn't respond. Hand settling on my back. The suspect was taken into custody yesterday. At 1400 hours, he continued. We have lifted the shelter in place, warning at the university, but asked that all students contact their family members. The image faded on screen beside the podium. A woman with short curled brown hair, a broad nose and crooked teeth drawn back into a snare. My dad's grip tightened on my shoulder. Man, that's uncanny. I couldn't breathe. Amy went home for winter break after interviews with known acquaintances. The suspect was not enrolled at the university and was living in an apartment complex just outside of the main campus. We have taken her phone into evidence and at this time we can confirm there are multiple pictures of the victim. We have reason to believe that the suspect had been following the victim. For some time, my fingers lifted and traced the hollow of my throat. They settled on the back of my neck, squeezing firmly. Amy went home for winter break. Sources close to the victim said they had been close friends. So it is unknown what triggered this particular act of violence. The woman's picture cross faded into another. I recognized it immediately. It was the summer before we parted ways, pressed together tightly and beaming like we had nothing to lose. Amy's hair was tied back, bright blue eyes shining with tears. My face was blurred past recognition. Amy didn't go home for winter break. My dad lifted his arm, but I caught his wrist. I had to see it. I had to know, excuse me, excuse me. Have you determined a cause of death? A reporter asked, lifting a microphone into frame the victim's throat was slit. The officer confirmed gravely and the murder weapon, my lips formed the words as the police officer leaned forward into the microphones. A broken mirror,
Speaker 2:My goodness. Layers on layers
Speaker 1:Like an onion.
Speaker 2:Uh, more so, more, even more than an onion.
Speaker 1:What's more layer than an onion?
Speaker 2:This story,
Speaker 1:<laugh>. It's so good. I love it. And there's so many social moments of social cringiness that I really relate to. Like, like when you like are so mad about something and you just say something, you know, it's like I could see myself in some of these moments and I, I connected to it a lot that
Speaker 2:Way. Also, Ashley Tam, that's a voice we haven't heard in a while.
Speaker 1:Ashley Tam was on one of the very first episodes of Lunatics Radio Hour. She is a wonderful near and dear friend and she did an excellent job with this story. So good. Like I love pairing the right reader to the right story and I, I will pat myself on the back for this one, cuz I think we did it.
Speaker 2:I think it worked out great.
Speaker 1:Yeah. Thank you so much, Ashley. It was excellent.
Speaker 2:I think this was a very good classic doppelganger story.
Speaker 1:Absolutely. Okay, so based on the categories we talked about in the last episode, which were psychological mm-hmm.<affirmative> paranormal. Yes. Science fiction or just, so how would you classify this? I have my opinion.
Speaker 2:I think it's somewhere between paranormal and just so I
Speaker 1:Ag I agree verbatim.
Speaker 2:That's because we have recorded a lot of Doble Ganger stuff. Uhhuh,<affirmative>, and now we know.
Speaker 1:Yeah, I think it's, it's very much just so the part that I think is a little paranormal is that the Janie character seems to have like premonitions or you know, kind of some kinda like visions of what's going on. She feels the fingers on the back of her neck. Like there's something a little paranormal happening.
Speaker 2:Also, I love the imagery of the
Speaker 1:Mirror. Yes, I do too. And I love that. That was the murder weapon at the end. Very satisfying
Speaker 2:Spoilers for anybody that jumped in. Jumped in, jump. Jumped ahead. Yeah.
Speaker 1:Yeah. I hope that Mads will write more for us. So Mads reached out about writing a story, which I was so excited for, kind of based on the premise of what we've talked about, Alan, when you're on campus and you're like, oh, I just saw your doppelganger. You know, and so that's kind of the inspiration that started the whole thing.
Speaker 2:It's a good one.
Speaker 1:So good. I'm so impressed. Yeah. Follow ads on Instagram. We'll put her Instagram handle in the description.
Speaker 2:Yeah. Click the link
Speaker 1:Below. Yeah, let's keep tabs on what she's up to. You know,
Speaker 2:Indeed.
Speaker 1:<laugh>, shall we move on to our second story?
Speaker 2:Sure. What's up next?
Speaker 1:All right, Alan. Second story of the day. Also the first time we're featuring this writer on Lunatics Radio. Hour two for two. Two.
Speaker 2:Okay. Great.
Speaker 1:Sheldon Higdon's work has appeared in publications such as Room or Magazine, the Portland Monthly Magazine Tales from the Lake, volume four Writers on writing Volume four Madhouse and in Darkness Delight, fear The Future among others. His contemporary fantasy horror, middle grade novel, the Eerie Brothers and The Witches of Autumn, arrives in 2023 this year from Scary Dairy Press.<laugh>, I love that. Sheldon is also an award-winning screenwriter and has an MFA in writing popular fiction from C Hill University. He is a member of the Horror Writer Association. To keep tabs on him, you can check out his website@sheldonhigdon.com or follow him on Twitter at higden sheldon. And of course we'll pop all this in the description so you don't need to memorize it.
Speaker 2:All right, I'm gonna roll the tape.
Speaker 3:Drowning sorrow. My Sheldon Red, my shorts hook.
Speaker 5:The writhing worm struggled to slip free from the hook. Its Bulbus ends curling, fighting to escape its inevitable end as though it knew what waited in the cold abyss of the Androscoggin River. As the water flowed by Simon pierced the hook through the worm and then wrapped it over, skewering it once more for good measure with a crude fishing pole he had made from a long, thick stick. He tossed the fishing line into the river and watched the bobber battle the current as the worm weighted out its fate below, he placed his homemade rod into a Y shaped branch. He had plucked from the thicket behind him, shoving it into the ground as a makeshift holder. Simon wished it was the one his dad had, the one he used to use. He dug into a brown paper bag and pulled out a sandwich that was jacketed and wax paper on it. A heart had been drawn in green marker with the words, I'm sorry, sweetie. Love you printed beneath it. Simon unwrapped the sandwich his mom had made No note would make up for what she did. You ruined our family. He shook his head and leaned back on his elbows beneath the shady shelter of a poplar tree and forced the bubbling resentment back down. The grass was lush and green beneath him, he wiggled his toes and smiled as the blades tickled his skin. A cool breeze skimmed across his hair, slaying strands across his forehead, and with reluctance, he bit off a morsel. From his butter and grape jelly sandwich. The sun reflected off the river like thousands of crystals dancing about its surface. Simon shielded his eyes from the gleaming river that sparkled in his face. The bobber went under and popped back up. Simon sat up dumping his half eaten sandwich back into the brown bag and took a hold of his fishing stick. The bobber went under and stayed under before he could jerk the line back. It shot straight across the river, droplets of the androscoggin dripped from the line as it drew taut to the other side. He yanked his stick back and felt it arc giving a little but not breaking from the pressure. Simon hoped he hooked whatever had taken the worm into its mouth. He felt the line tug and dart upstream and then shoot directly back across from him to the other side. He dug his heels into the green grass, readying himself for the fight. His mind flipped through images of salmon or trout he'd caught in this river with his dad throughout his 13 year history, but this was bigger, stronger. His dad once told him how he caught a northern pike in the skain, but it had snapped his line and got away. Maybe this was that fish. The thought of his dad brought a memory of when he'd learned to cast his first line when he was nine, warm and bright. Like today, he wore his clam digger's dig muck shirt, the one his dad had picked up at the annual clam bake that occurred at the end of October. Simon had stood at the river's edge with his pants rolled up into cuffs wide-eyed as his dad gripped his large hands over his and guided him casting the line into the river. Remember Simon, his dad had said, fishing is not about the catch, but the time we have between casts. He had flashed a movie star smile and ruffled Simon's hair. We only have so much of it. The thought faded to last year when he overheard his dad and mom arguing her voice screaming. The words get out, which forever impaled themselves into Simon's consciousness while he sat on his bed with with his knees to his chest and arms wrapped up over his head, tears flowing like the androscoggin. The man he loved was gone with him. That fishing pole he learned to cast on because of her. Simon would miss out on future memories, such as learning how to drive the truck in the parking lot of Hanford's grocery store, learning how to throw a solid punch or how to be a gentleman. On his first date, a snap brought Simon back to his battle, but instead of a fight, the fishing line fell into the river. The bobber floated downstream. Well, the heavy sigh. He pulled in the remaining wet line and tossed the makeshift rod down next to him. He sat wiping his face with the back of his arm and plucked his remaining sandwich from the brown paper bag. The shade from the poplar tree had grown in size and now had covered the rest of the bank and spilled down into the river a cooled breeze. Prickled Simon's skin. He shivered as he ate the remains of his sandwich. He gazed out across the river wondering what he had lost, but no fish came to mind. We only have so much of it across the river at its edge. Simon's eyes fell on a spot where bubbles began sprouting to the surface. Even in the river's continuous flow, they could be seen distinctly. They were rapid like boiling water. He leaned forward, knitting his brow and caulking his head to the side, trying to figure out what it came from. Up above the sun slid behind a gray cloud, cloaking the river in darkness. Simon lost sight of where the bubbles had been popping and bursting in succession. A large splash came from the water. He studied the river and waited for another, and just as fast as the sunlight disappeared, it returned squinting from the now bright light. He scanned down the ska and and saw nothing. No fish lept into the air. There was nothing except for a wet boy who stood on the other side of the river, staring directly at him a sense of sadness. Entangled Simon, like a backlash, a fishing line. He shielded his eyes to get a better view, only to see that the young boy had disappeared. He rubbed his eyes. Maybe the glare of the sun reflecting off the river caused him to see something that wasn't there. Maybe the boy jumped into the bushes that lined the river. Maybe it was all in Simon's head, even though he stood on the other side of the river. Far from Simon's view, the boy looked familiar in some odd way and hopelessness. The feeling of hopelessness swathed him when he looked at the boy, but it was one with no reason. Simon wanted to cry. He put his head into his hands and drew a deep breath releasing a sigh. His thoughts crashed around like rapids smashing over jagged rocks. He pictured himself being carried away down the endra and heads slipping below the surface, hands following and disappearing into the cold water. The voice reeled Simon's thoughts from the river. It was a voice he'd never heard before, but yet was somehow familiar. It came from over his shoulder. A drop of cool water splashed on top of Simon's head. He turned around to the wet boy standing before him. It's like looking into a mirror, ain't it? The sudden boy said Simon lost his breath and the feeling of water trickling down his skin gave him a chill that ran deep into his bones, burrowing itself into the marrow. As Simon slowly stood, the familiarity came into pinpoint focus. The boy looked just like him, except the boy's appearance seemed darker as if covered in constant shade. His hair wasn't blonde, but an ash and gray. His eyes were like the color of burnt charcoal. Bruises and infected lacerations covered his skin, which was slimy and milky like the bottom of a dead fish floating belly up down the river and the boy's shirt, just like when Simon wore that shirt the day his dad taught him how to cast his first line. Clam diggers, dig, muck. Even his pants were rolled into cuffs. Nauseousness swept over Simon causing his head to swim and his belly to sour like a twin. The boy said, leaning against the poplar tree and swatting at a fly that circled him. Simon took several steps back. He forced what little saliva he had down his dry throat. Might wanna watch yourself. The boy said, plucking a leaf from the tree. The fly landed on his forehead and then darted off. Don't wanna fall in now, do we? Who? Who are you? I mean you. Simon rubbed his palms into his eyes trying to clear away what he hoped was the after effect of a bad sandwich. You already know the boy said. Taking a step closer and examining the homemade fishing rod that lay on the ground. Simon glanced down and saw that the boys, every step left a brown footprint in its wake green grass dying. It's not the same as the one we learned on, but it works. Simon glanced at his rod. Fishing is not about the catch. Miss him. Huh? The boy asked. But the time we have between casts, Simon still wasn't sure if this was a daydream or if he was lying in the shaggy grass, sleeping in the shade of the popular tree. Tears bubbled in Simon's eyes as his dad's image floated back to him. He swore he felt his dad's hands over his. The confusion and fear he felt earlier now swirled sadness back into the whirlpool of his emotions. We only have so much of it. Yeah, Simon wiped his eyes clear with the back of his arm, but the soaked boy smiled, revealing, chipped black teeth, jagged and sharp like the protruding rocks of the river. But what? Simon Sniffled, but he never came back for me. He thumbed his eyes clear. The conversation flowed between them as if they had spoken to each other a thousand times before, but it didn't squelch the emptiness. Simon felt the loss or was it lost? The weather turned again and the blue sky gave way to gray clouds, thick and dark plump clouds that looked like they were about to burst into a torrential downpour at any moment. Why is that? Simon? He sat on the ground, the green grass turning brown beneath him. The fly was now on his hair crawling across it. Why didn't he come back for us? Simon turned and faced the river. The water rushed past. For a moment, he ignored the question and thought about the worm. He had baited earlier how it struggled between his fingers flipping its ends to break free from its demise. I don't know. Said Simon. Cold rain began to fall from the laden clouds. What about mom? The boy said, who cares? Simon spun toward the boy. Why didn't she leave? Instead? Tears fell from his eyes and intermingled with the rain. She's the reason he left. If she is the boy stood up and took a step closer to Simon, then why'd you come here? Simon turned back to the river. It was a question he'd thought about a hundred times since his dad left. A question he never answered aloud, but one he had an answer for. The rain fell harder. Now large drops splashing into the river. The androscoggin roar carrying dead branches down its wide throat water crept up the side of the grassy bank licking his toes. What would you say if she were dead? The boy asked from behind and then chuckled, piercing Simon's ears as if his words were a crack of thunder. Simon wins hunching his shoulders. He's never coming back for us. You so who cares, right? She told him to leave, remember? And if she were dead, then he'd have to come back for us. You Simon took a step toward the rushing water and looked downriver at the sharp granite rocks sticking out the water, cascaded over them, creating a white, angry waterfall. I can't I know, said the boy. What else do you remember? Nothing. Just
Speaker 6:How could you and with her, with that, that get out,
Speaker 5:The rain fell harder. Thunder rolled lightning, sparked overhead, causing the hairs on his neck to stand. His heart pounded like fists against the door of his chest as more of his mom's words revealed themselves to him. Yes you do. The boy said you blocked it out as you cried in your bed. Arms wrapped up over your head. Why do you think they argued Simon's mind raced for more images, another memory, anything to bring back his dad Happiness but nothing emerged. His dad left that day because? Because Why? Simon? You know, because you heard the screaming the boy poked the air at him. The words Because why? Simon turned back to the boy and said, because he loved another lady. The boy splashed a grin across his face, his broken teeth glistened in the rain. Yeah, that one he worked with. Several flies crawled across the boy's face and he brushed them away. Marta, the red-headed lady. He chose her over mom over you. The broke and suppressed memories flooded Simon with his dad's large hands over his guiding him. They had cast the line into the river. Remember Simon fishing's? Not about the catch, but the time we have between casts. We only have so much of it. Speaking of time, Marta said she was curvy and wore red lipstick that matched the color of her bra that peeked out from her loose blouse. Her high heels and tight skirt completed her ensemble. Let's take that walk we talked about. She leaned against the poplar tree with a blanket over her arm and a bottle in her hand. You sit here and catch whatever's in the water. All right, kid. Simon balled his hands into fists and pressed his fingernails into his palms at the reverie. I'll be back. Simon, stay here. Maybe you'll catch a big one. I know I will. The red-headed lady had giggled. He held his hands out and saw Crims in half moons carved into his palms. He snatched the homemade fishing rod from the ground and flung it into the river. And with it he screamed with his whole body, tensed muscles corded. He released the memories, the moments, the words. I hate you. It wasn't directed at the boy or at his father for that matter, but at himself for refusing to accept what he always knew. Deep down at a lost boy who loved his dad so much that he had no love to offer his mother. Once his dad left for the first time, Simon accepted the painful truth that was inside him. All along, he let go of his dad. He let go of himself. I couldn't face, face it, said Simon bawling into his hands. I wouldn't be believe it. How can I face mom now after how I've treated her regret? Claude. Its way up. Simon's back and perched itself on his shoulders. She wasn't the one who gave up. You know, she won't understand now, said the boy. Not after what? You put her through the anger toward her. I did. Simon continued to cry. The androscoggin competed against him as it howled in the falling rain. The river now splashed around his ankles, cold against his skin. He looked up at his doppelganger and bellowed. I wish I were. I know it's why you came here. It's why I came here to help you. The boy leans towards Simon flies buzzing at his ear. The damage has been done. You can't go back home. The boys' words sank down into the pit of Simon's stomach, never having the chance to rise back up into a crying fit of shock and misery because Simon had taken a step and splashed into the river. The water was cold. Its current swirled him under and around and its murky depth. He fought to the surface and took a deep breath. The rain poured from the darkened sky pelting his face through blurred vision. He saw no boy on the riverbank, only the poplar tree. You made him leave. Simon rushed down river toward the crashing falls to the jagged rocks. He arrived in the water with his head above the surface, gasping for air and flailed his arms grasping at dead branches That drifted along with him. I wish you weren't my mom then. Like a bobber. He went under and popped back up. I, I wish I were. He quickly inhaled as much air as he could swallowing river water as he did so dead. He held his breath. I know you don't mean that, sweetie. I love you. Keeping his mom's words with him. Simon stopped fighting the strong current and exhaled, letting the endra skogen take him under to where he faced his fate, just like the worm.
Speaker 2:Hot. Dang. That's good.
Speaker 1:Such a good story. So good. And, and I love that it was a little bit different than some of the horror stuff that we, you know, tend to feature. It was a little more familial and rooted in trauma that I think a lot of people can relate to in some way.
Speaker 2:And, uh, another very traditional doppelganger story.
Speaker 1:Exactly.
Speaker 2:This was psychological.
Speaker 1:Very good, very well categorized. Yes. And kind of the other version of yourself leading you to a conclusion that you need to get to.
Speaker 2:I love this story. Yeah, I mean also incredible writing. Uh, I certainly hope that, uh, Sheldon will grace us with more of their writing because this is incredible.
Speaker 1:I agree. He did such a good job. The story was so good. It pre-existed before our call for stories for this episode, but another wonderful debut. Two
Speaker 2:For two. Two for two. Is this like part of a short story collection? Do you happen to know?
Speaker 1:I don't happen to know, but I do know, which we read in his bio that he has a book coming out this year, like a novel that tracks, it's called again, the Eerie Brothers and The Witches of Autumn.
Speaker 2:Uh, also another bang up narration by John Cook.
Speaker 1:As always,
Speaker 2:I loved his
Speaker 1:Effects. I was gonna say I loved his effects. I was excited to see your reaction to them.
Speaker 2:Love when they sprinkle him in<laugh>.
Speaker 1:So again, you can follow Sheldon on Twitter at higdon. Sheldon will link everything in the description below. John Cook's podcast, famously is the Fido podcast. We collaborate with him often, but if you haven't yet listened to Fido, we cannot praise it enough. So please go check that out as well.
Speaker 2:I thought you say we cannot endorse it.<laugh>. Yeah, I mean that is a good one. Do can we go three for three?
Speaker 1:So three for three. We have not a debut writer, but a writer that's only been featured one time previously, very recently, and we loved his work. Okay. Duncan Overton debuted on lunatics Radio Hour in our last lunatics library episode on the found footage Horror stories. Okay. And today he is back with a doppelganger story for us. Oh.
Speaker 2:Oh, I'm sorry. Was that the asylum story? Yes, that was a good one. I like that. Yeah, we got'em again.
Speaker 1:We got'em again. Heck yeah. Before we jump into this one, I do wanna say that this story is dedicated to Trent Simon, his wife, Alicia, and his parents, Tim and Nancy Trent was a dear friend of Duncan who unfortunately passed away recently, and Duncan wanted to dedicate this story to his friend, which we are very, very happy to do. Without further ado, our final doppelganger story,
Speaker 3:Illusion of Dopel by Duncan over Red by Michael.
Speaker 7:When you think of something you look at every day, what comes to mind? Your phone. Your car. A loved one. Your own face. Features on our own face are familiar by nature. We see them in every reflection. We know every contour, zit and wrinkle whether we want to or not. Close your eyes and picture your face. You know what it looks like, feels like, but what if you don't recognize it? What if you don't recognize others? How disorienting might that become for you? For anyone? Capris syndrome named after Joseph Kares in 1923, is classified as a psychiatric disorder in which one believes that family close friends or others in their life have been replaced by doppelgangers clones or identical imposters. It is a very real syndrome, but it's only been diagnosed since 1923. What about before then? May 18th, 1917 to November 14th, 1917, the world had been engulfed in conflict. When John Redding sought to enlist, John knew he was destined for greater things. In escaping the coal mines of West Virginia was the beginning of his grand adventure. John could barely read, but had heard the stories his grandpa told him about the western frontier cattle drives and killing those savages. John had romanticized these stories and the thrill of adventure always called to him. His days would be spent in the minds dreaming about riding across the planes many times, almost costing him or others their life with an errand pickax swing. After the Eccles Mind disaster in April, 1914 and Leland Mine explosion in 1915, John had been looking for other employment. Sadly, nothing was forthcoming in West Virginia, especially for someone who never finished fourth grade and knew nothing but laboring in the minds day in and day out. When the war broke out in 1914, John saw his opportunity but had to wait another three years for the United States to enter. His mother was against her baby boy going overseas to fight for some foreigners, and his father didn't believe that John would survive a minute in a war zone. However, in May, 1917, John made his way to Charleston, West Virginia by jumping on a freight train in Wheeling West Virginia at the northern tip of the state. John knew he wasn't that smart, but it heard from a friend that the recruitment office in Charleston would sign up anyone and ship them out. Three of John's friends joined him and helped him through the draft process. The four were shipped off together to Camp Mills in Long Island, New York. The training was grueling and brief because they joined a group of expeditionary forces that were initially used to bolster depleted ranks of French and British soldiers. John saw immediate action from the moment they landed in France. His friends cut bullets, mortar shells and mustard gas, but John survived one day. After a few months of slogging through the trenches in the western front, John was assigned the unenviable task of a new wiring party. His commanding officer recognized John's pension for securing the tunnels in the trenches and assigned him this new role. Under the cover of Night, John and the new party dug tunnels repaired their own barbed wire and sabotage the enemies barbed dwyer and defenses. John excelled at this work. Not a single of his tunnels collapsed and he and his platoon were responsible for a significant push into enemy territory. Then one night John and his squad of sapers emerged from a tunnel and came face-to-face with another squad of enemy sapers. Both squads were caught in no man's land and didn't want to risk fire from either side. They all laid down their pistols, drew knives, clubs, and brass knuckles. The following five minutes of fighting was the most brutal John had been a part of since arriving in Europe. He had never taken a life up to this point. Sure, he had shot at the enemy, but he wasn't a sniper and had no way of knowing if his bullets ever found their mark. However, there're in no man's land. John accounted for three deaths of enemy combatants. His standard issue us Mark one trench knife found the heart of one soldier. The brass knuckles bludgeoned another until his face had collapsed into his skull and the third soldier had disarmed John. But his years of backbreaking labor had hardened his hands and forearms and John watched as the life left his enemy's eyes. This skirmish had been conducted in absolute silence. John had bitten down on his bandana to keep from screaming, but the final kill and the realization that he was the only one left alive in that crater brought forth a primal yell that alerted both sides to his position. Immediately, machine gunfire lit the night sky and John was caught by a round that was scattered and partially deflected by his helmet. Still some fragments penetrated into his skull. As John lay there looking up at the night sky, he imagined riding across the planes with his grandpa. He thought of the minds and his parents and he closed his eyes. June 28th, 1919 to November 14th, 1919, John woke up in the Wheeling hospital. How long had he been asleep? Where was he? The last thing he remembered was looking at the night sky in a muddy field in France. John bolted up in bed, rolled to the ground and scrambled to the door. The last thing he remembered was killing three men in war and this place scrubbed clean and not covered in mud, terrified him as he tried to stand at the door. John's legs gave out. He couldn't stand and could barely crawl. He was so disoriented that he vomited something he didn't recognize and lost consciousness. The next time John woke up, he was restrained with belts attached to the side of his bed. A nurse was there and after a few moments of terror and panic, she had calmed him enough to explain that he was in Wheeling hospital in West Virginia and that his family would be there shortly to see him. His father arrived about an hour later as daylight was starting to fade into Twilight, John recognized his father. At least he thought he recognized him. The person standing in front of him was not John's father. John knew his father's face, and this was not it. John's accusations that this man was an imposter turned to rage and fury when his restraints continued to hold as the strain caused John to lose consciousness, the last thought in his mind was, that is not my father. Many men returned from the trenches of the war changed. These changes ranged from the mundane to the extreme. John's father was told about these conditions, Shellshock, the papers had called it and informed by the hospital that John May never be the same again. Two months later, John was released from Wheeling Hospital into the care of his father. The shock of his mother's passing to the Spanish flu the year prior to his waking had caused some concern for John, but his refusal to admit his father was his father with each visit was what kept him restrained to the bed. John finally realized that the only way to get out of the hospital was to play along with the charade, and he did. Of course, this man is my father. He would tell the nurses and doctors at the second to last visit. I would know my father's face anywhere, and this is the man who saw me off to war. John proclaimed that day his father visited. The doctors were glad to see John leave and were astounded that in the two months since waking, he had apparently recovered almost 80%. John was celebrated as a war hero for the next week by the entire town. He was thrown his first party and everyone wanted to shake his hand and hear about his time in the war. John was overwhelmed by all of this, avoiding many of the stories, especially the last night he can remember he told of the mund and the marvels of Europe, he regaled everyone with fictional tales of other soldiers lives he had encountered. All the while he kept an eye on everyone's faces. All of these people, friends and neighbors. He had known all of his entire life, people he had worked with in the mines, all of them had the wrong face. John thought their faces were similar, close, almost identical, but they were wrong. He knew they were wrong. Everyone was wrong. He was surrounded by the wrongness of every face he looked at, but he couldn't let it show. If he let it show that he knew they would know and he would be strapped to that bed. Again, John grin and beared it, but he knew. They knew. He knew that their faces were wrong. He could see them whisper and talk behind his back. After the party was over, he could feel their wrong stares every time he stepped outside. John's behavior quickly became reclusive and erratic. His father knew something was wrong, but did not have the time, energy, or knowledge of how to help his son. He talked with the Wheeling steel corporation foreman, thinking that maybe getting John back down in the mines would do him some good. Get him into a routine. It took a few weeks of negotiating, but eventually John's father succeeded and got John a position at the mine inspecting the tunnels for structural integrity. During this period before he went back to work, John visited his mother's grave overlooking the Ohio River, a small church cemetery in Moundsville. West Virginia was her final resting place and John thought it would bring him comfort to talk with her. The first visit was nothing spectacular. John brought a sandwich he had bought at the five and dime in town and split it in two ham sandwiches were her favorite, at least he thought they were. He left her half on the gravestone as he talked about the war, talked about that night, talked about the faces and how everyone was wrong. The next week when he visited, John heard voices on the wind. He heard his mother and other voices telling him that they were below. He didn't understand what this meant. He knew the dead couldn't speak to the living, could they? He cried out for more, more information, more knowledge, more time. But all he was met with was the wind sweeping down the Ohio River. John visited his mother's grave a few more times. Each time there were no more voices, but he heard in his head a chant of below. After a few minutes, the wound below his ear and his eyes would start to throb and John had to leave on returning home. After each of these occasions, John would not recognize anyone's faces. It wasn't that they were wrong, they were just not there. This was marginally better than the faces being wrong to John, but he knew something had to be done. These imposters had to be stopped and the people of the town had to be saved. They must be below underground in the mine. John had to figure out a way to get into the mine. Monday, April 28th, 1924, 1:00 AM John had been at work in the Benwood mine for five years. He had walked every tunnel, touched every seam, and knew every board in track. Late underground. The structural integrity of the mine could not be questioned because John was good at his job. He had been good in the trenches. John had lived his life and minds even in the war. He found himself underground and the familiarity and darkness did wonders for John to everyone at the company who was a stellar employee, a war hero, and a hard worker. John had explored every old tunnel and prospected and oversaw the digging of three new shafts that produced at 10% yield over any other shafts open during this time. When asked how he did it, he just said the ground, spoke to him and told him where to dig. John didn't want to tell the wrong faces that he heard the cries and screams of the real people, the right people, and that is how he knew how to dig. He knew what that would get him, and there was no way he was going back to that hospital bed. Each time John would get a tunnel close to where he heard the right people, they stopped. He couldn't figure out why, but it happened. At every tunnel he oversaw, they must be moving them. The wrong faces know I'm getting close and they move the right faces just before I can rescue them. John knew this was true, but didn't know what to do about it. How could he get them to stop moving the right people? How could he bring an end to the wrong faces everywhere? The solution was simple. It had been a solution in the war. John would blow open every tunnel at the same time, nowhere to hide, nowhere to move the right people anymore. The right people would be free and help John stop the wrong faces. John had moved out of his father's house a couple of years back. He couldn't trust that face, that wrong face, that imposter. He had been stockpiling dynamite for a year, and tonight was the night he would free everyone and stop the wrong faces. He had to because the cries and screams had told them they were dying, that they would leave him all alone if he didn't do it tonight under the cover of darkness, with only a fingernail moon to watch his actions, John made his way to the benwood mines. Getting in was easy enough he knew the guard would be asleep, and a wrong face is easy enough to fool you. Just smile and nod. It took John five hours to set the dynamite and run the line. He was transported back to the trenches and running cable for the radios, the mud, the wetness, the smell of death and rotten. He made quick work of his task and emerged from the entrance, running the final length of his cable, attaching it to the plunger. A bright light, blinded John for a second. His night vision was shot to hell, but he could make out the silhouette of the night guard. No one can stop me. No one can prevent me from freeing these people. I brought my trench knife from the war. I know what has to be done. The guard can't stop me. I've done this before. Slide the blade between the fourth and fifth ribs upward towards the throat. Quick soundless. Instant. This guard is putting up more of a struggle than I thought. But if I sweep under his leg and roll there on top, cover the mouth with my hand and thrust the knife there, that's done. Why am I crying? That's not the right face. That's the face of my father. Why is my father a night guard? Why is he here? He has the right face, but the guard was the wrong face. Why is his face right? John's father had began working the night guard position two weeks prior. He couldn't bear to see his son in the ridicule that he faced from the other miners. John's father was also getting older and couldn't work in the mine forever. He knew John was up to something, could see him sneaking things off the site each day, but he could never have imagined what his son was planning. He had tried to talk to his son, but each time it wasn't him. It wasn't his son. The war had done something. The injury had done something, but there was nothing that he could do as a father except watch. He heard something as the son was creeping over the mountains investigating. He was startled to see his son there with what? A detonator. He had to stop John. He didn't know what John was doing, but he knew he had to stop him as the blade slipped between the ribs. He knew this wasn't his son. This was the wrong face to be. His sons. His son's smile was never that big. Monday, April 28th, 1924, 7:04 AM I placed all the dynamite at the ends of each tunnel. I heard the voices. They told me this was it. I ran the cable far enough away, but I couldn't set it off before the wrong faces got there. I found my father. He was lying next to me and the detonator a wrong face must have killed him. I tried to save him. That's why there's blood on my hands. I'll get those wrong faces for what they have done. I'll free everyone and everything will be fine again. Monday, April 28th, 1924, 7:05 AM an explosion in benwood mines ignited methane gas and coal dust. All morning workers in the mine perished in the explosion. 119 Coal miners lost their lives. May 30th, 1924. Weston State Hospital in Weston, West Virginia. We have a new patient for you today. This one was picked up over in Moundsville. They apparently survived the explosion. Be prepared. This is a weird one. They keep saying that everyone's face is wrong or sorry, still wrong. Please sign here and he's all yours clipped the officer handing a form to Dr. J g Petit, superintendent of Weston State Hospital. Oh, don't worry about us officer. We have plenty of beds and strong restraints.
Speaker 2:I was not expecting a World War I mining psychological thriller.
Speaker 1:It was, I like, I was thinking of this piece as like the heroes, like it was an epic story, like the way that old school literature is written where it follows somebody's life.
Speaker 2:Yes.
Speaker 1:It was a callback to that literary genre, which I love. I loved
Speaker 2:That. This is, this is the Barry Linden of doppelganger stories.
Speaker 1:There you go.
Speaker 2:I loved it.
Speaker 1:Yeah,
Speaker 2:I mean, I even begins, this is not at all a traditional doppelganger horror story. No. Uh, this was like until
Speaker 1:The end there gets a little, you know,
Speaker 2:Slightly more. But this is more of like, I don't know, somewhere between, uh, ptsd d psychosis with almost like face blindness and schizophrenia mixed with, uh, just a whole heap in of good storytelling
Speaker 1:Squarely within the psychological doppelganger genre.
Speaker 2:And also Michael Kroa from the top ropes. What a incredible performance.
Speaker 1:What does that mean from the top ropes?
Speaker 2:Uh, from the top ropes is like in wrestling when someone, you know, climbs up on the ropes and just like flies across the ring and just like elbow drops them or drop kicks them or something. It's a massive, massive hit.
Speaker 1:Yes, massively talented.
Speaker 2:It's impossible to ignore the impact that a hit like that would make. Okay.
Speaker 1:Gotcha. I'm with you.
Speaker 2:Okay, great. All is to say. Michael Grossa did a great
Speaker 1:Job. Great job. Yes. And of course Michael Kroa from the Jollyville Radio podcast, but also he is a new podcast, my part of town Chattanooga, and it's so good. I think the first, as the time that this episode will be out, the first episode is out, maybe the second. Definitely check that out. It's a very, very endearing and interesting and sometimes historical and sometimes heavy hitting podcast. So far very different than Jollyville, but we love to see range on someone.
Speaker 2:Uh, we love everything that Michael does, so please check that out.
Speaker 1:Yes. And again, Duncan Overton a great, great story. We're so grateful.
Speaker 2:I'm just, I'm, there's still so much to unpack there. I just, I wanna
Speaker 1:Yeah, these like big worlds that Duncan creates. It's, it's never just like a short standalone story. It's this whole thing where you're like, this could be a novel or this could be something much, much bigger. We want more. Yeah.
Speaker 2:And I love that he survived at the end. The question is why is there some supernatural element or is he just really good at dad and explosives?
Speaker 1:What do you think?
Speaker 2:Um, the more I think about it, probably he just survived normally because he set the explosives. Mm-hmm.<affirmative>, you know, he probably wouldn't, he wasn't trying to kill himself. Right. So he probably just blew it up in a way, you know, obviously it got outta control because it ignited some extra things like the methane and the coal dust. Uh, but he probably wasn't in like the blast radius.
Speaker 1:There you go.
Speaker 2:Either. But still there was so many other, you know, unreliable narrator, slightly supernatural elements. Who knows? It could just all be psychosis.
Speaker 1:That's something we, we talked about a little bit last episode, but probably not enough for the doppelganger subgenre, which is the unreliable narrator piece, especially when you're dealing with psychological doppel gangers. And I think this story did such a good job with that. Mm-hmm.
Speaker 2:<affirmative>. Oh, absolutely.
Speaker 1:Yeah. That was so satisfying. That was great.
Speaker 2:Uh, one thing, as soon as we started talking about this was taking place in World War I, it reminded me of a great doppelganger film that we didn't touch on even once.
Speaker 1:Oh my gosh. Okay.
Speaker 2:This is Jet Lee's the one.
Speaker 1:Oh, okay. Tell me more. I'm a big fan of Jet Lee.
Speaker 2:It is the, the pre So you have not seen this
Speaker 1:Movie? I don't think so,
Speaker 2:No. Okay. The premise is that there's a bunch, there's a certain number of parallel universes and a certain Jet Lee has figured out that he can travel to the others and meet his alternate selves. Hmm. And when you kill one of your duplicates, the remaining power, if you will, gets divvied up between the remaining ones. Interesting. So if he goes to all the different universes and kills them all, he will become a God Wow. And become the one,
Speaker 1:It's somewhat similar in some ways, not in every way to everything everywhere, all at once.
Speaker 2:Uh, well,
Speaker 1:We'll need a parallel timeline episode, I suppose, at some point, right?
Speaker 2:Uh, sure, yeah. I think the, the most interesting part for me about this movie is not that there's like the evil gently going around killing everybody. It's that we get to a point where there's one remaining jet lee against the good one. Mm-hmm.<affirmative>. And that one remaining one is just a, like a normal guy<laugh>. He has no idea what's going on. But again, the power gets divvied up between all the remaining ones.
Speaker 1:So he's just as powerful.
Speaker 2:Yeah. So you have like a perfectly normal guy that can, you know, slap people around by throwing motorcycles.
Speaker 1:<laugh>. God.
Speaker 2:Yeah. It's cool. I mean, it's an action movie. Yeah. But it's a great example of just like the, the evil twin, but with cool superhero aspect.
Speaker 1:Yeah. Well, I feel like this was a fitting end to our doppelganger exploration. I think all these three stories did such a great job at illustrating the themes that we've been trying to kind of pick apart in the last two episodes.
Speaker 2:Well, hang on. Abby,
Speaker 1:Uh, Alan? Yes. Oh, what's happening?
Speaker 2:You have a fourth story in the folder.
Speaker 1:Uhoh. What's happening?
Speaker 2:Um,
Speaker 1:What's happening, Alan?
Speaker 2:Should I just play it?
Speaker 1:What?<laugh> Well, I don't like a curve fall from you,
Speaker 2:<laugh>. Okay, I'll just play it. Here we go.
Speaker 3:The broken girl by Alan, by
Speaker 8:A piercing light filtered through the bandages into dry eyes. She blinked away the sting as consciousness began to flood back. Had she been sleeping with her eyes open. She tried to remember if that's something she did, but everything felt so foggy like she was grasping at the edges of a dream. As it burned away, a numb and clumsy hand moved upward along her side toward the bandage, covering her eyes. She knew it was her own hand, but it still felt like that of a stranger. Doctor sensing elevated brain activity and hand movement. She rolled her head toward the voice and the world rolled with her. As the room slowly stopped spinning, she realized there was now someone next to her. She felt deaf hands removed the wrappings across her face, and the light intensified a man's face slowly racked into focus. He wore thick glasses just like her dad. Can you tell me what your name is? Hazel. She raed out her own voice surprised her. Did she always sound like that? That's incredible. The doctor's face radiated with a relieved sense of pride as he scribbled down some notes. You were in a hospital, there was a car accident. Do you remember that? Do you remember the accident? She took a bit to think about it, but her head was still swimming. She could picture being in the car, sitting in the backseat while her mom and dad chatted away in the front. But wait, that wasn't right. Some logic pricked at her memory in a way that only dreams can. She was in the backseat and her dad's driver, Billy was in the front. She liked Billy. He was driving her to school. When? Where's my mom and dad? Are they okay? Mr. And Mrs. Beckett are both perfectly fine. They were not in the car at the time. She looked around her hospital room expecting to see another bed with Billy all bandaged up too. But there was only one bed and lots of confusing machines. She looked around too fast and the world began to tip once again. Easy there. How do you feel? Does anything hurt? She took a few breaths to calm the walls and then realized she actually wasn't in much pain at all. Her eyes stung and her body felt floppy and stiff at the same time. But that's all. Two summers ago, she broke her arm while climbing a camp, and it had hurt so bad. This felt very different. I feel sort of weird. The doctor smiled, his kind smile. Weird is okay. You've been sedated for a while, like sleeping, so just keep resting up. Okay. The doctor tapped some buttons on a machine next to her and stood to leave a sudden warmth float into her arm from a tube she had not noticed before. The doctor opened the door to leave, but standing just outside the door was her dad. She tried to call out to him, but the medicine made her voice a million miles away. She locked eyes with her father for just a moment before her Dad's eyes darted away and the doctor hurriedly closed the door behind him. She strained to listen to the soft voices behind the door. It sounded like her dad asked about her, but it was so hard to hear. Why couldn't he just come inside? The doctor's excited voice gave a muffled reply of success, something about wildly exceeding expectations, and then the medicine dragged her back down into sleep. When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark. Various colored lights blinked and pulsed from the machines, but her attention was drawn to the little frosted window in the door. It no longer glowed with sunlight. She tried to sit up, but the world again lurched. She took a few breaths and slowly dipped her legs off the bed. Even though her feet didn't reach the floor, her joints gave little pops. As limbs began to move, her muscles felt like numb putty. But if she moved slowly enough, they seemed to do what she asked of them. Her arm caught on something and then she remembered the tube that made her sleep. She pulled out a long needle that on any other day, she knew would totally freak her out, but she needed to get out of there and find her mom and dad. She slid her small frame to the floor and planted her feet testing delicately to see if she could stand. This would be so much easier if the room would stop moving, she thought, but was relieved when she didn't immediately crash the ground. She clutched machines and furniture while clumsily making her way toward the door. She stumbled out into the dark hallway and slumped against a wall. As she took a moment, she again thought of the time she broke her arm and became so grateful that she must not have broken anything. In the car crash. She looked down the hallway. One side was a ro of moon lit windows and the other, a series of closed doors just like hers. It seemingly went on forever, and the idea made her even more dizzy. She studied against one wall for support and began to walk. Most rooms were totally dark or their doors were locked. But after turning a corner, she saw something just across a corridor. A door was slightly a jar with a soft, warm light spilling out. Something about this room called to her. She willed her slow body toward it and gently pushed it open. It was a room very similar to her own a single bed and various machines. But these machines seemed different. Before she could figure out why she noticed the figure in the bed, a small girl lay wrapped in bandages. Unlike her own though, these bandages had lots of metal rods poking out. The girls' limbs were covered in glistening metal pins and her neck was in some sort of cage. Her gaze followed big tubes starting in the girl's chest and plugged into a device in the wall. She took a step forward and looked at the girl's face under the clear mask that forced in air. The face was a bruised and broken mess. A soft snoring in the corner grabbed her attention. She glanced over. There was her mother sleeping in this stranger's room. Relief at finding her mom flooded into her and she went to her mom. She said, gently shaking her awake. Her mother stirred and looked up Hazel. Oh my God. She sprung from her chair and wrapped her daughter in a hug. Tears began streaming from her eyes. We, we thought for sure the, the doctors told us that you wouldn't. Her mom exclaimed While they embraced, then her eyes landed on the bed and the broken form that still lay there. Her mother froze, then let go, and took a step back. She stared from girl to girl before a sickening recognition overcame her. She screamed with heartbroken horror Mom. What's wrong? She cried through tears of her own. But suddenly the door flew open and a tall orderly burst into the room. He grabbed her and effortlessly dragged her backwards. She called out for her mother, but her mom wouldn't even look her in the eye. Instead, she went to the broken girl in the bed and collapsed into sobs. She was powerless to resist the large man, and soon she found herself back in her own room. The doctor with a kind smile stood waiting, but all the kindness was gone. The two men put her back into the bed, but this time secured her arms and legs down with heavy leather straps. What's going on? She cried. Why won't you let me see my mom? With no acknowledgement, the doctor produced a large needle and slipped it into her arm. The familiar warmth began to flow in once more. She cried in confusion and hopelessness. She just wanted to go home. Her eyes swept to the door and just outside. She saw her father. She called out, but the man only looked away again and snapped a harsh summons to the doctor outside the room. The two men spoke. The medicine was already beginning to take hold, and she began to slip away. While her father berated the doctor, she fought with everything she had just to stay conscious. Uh, Mr. Beckett, I assure you, the sedative should have lasted for hours. The fact that it metabolized so quickly is actually a wonderful thing. We've compensated and there should be no more surprises. How's my daughter? The father asked without once looking into the room, she's doing marvelously. The doctor beamed the last ultrasound indicates that the puncture to her liver will be able to heal on its own. So we should no longer require a transplant. Overall. She's been stable for over 24 hours now, and her chances for surviving a full heart and lung replacement are currently as good as I believe they will get. Would you like for us to begin harvesting the clone for the first time, her dad looked into the room and locked eyes with her. His face was consumed with cold sadness and guilt. Yes. Her dad said through tight lips, please save my little girl.
Speaker 1:Holy cow. I have so many questions and so many things to say. First of all, that was incredible. I loved that story. That was so good. Rea did such a good job. I have no idea of when you wrote, recorded and edited that
Speaker 2:I wrote that for you on Valentine's Day.
Speaker 1:Oh my God, that's so romantic. On Valentine's Day, weren't you working? Yeah.<laugh>. Wow. In the How did you get the idea? I thought that was so good. And so the, the girl in the room is the clone, right?
Speaker 2:The protagonist is the clone, right? Yeah. Yeah.
Speaker 1:What inspired you?
Speaker 2:I don't know. I wanted just like, there's so many opportunities to have like, like real good horror when it comes to Dole gangers, and there's nothing quite as horrific as being grown to for organ harvesting.
Speaker 1:Is this why you fought so hard in the last episode for cloning to be included,
Speaker 2:Perhaps
Speaker 1:<laugh>. It all makes sense. Oh my gosh. I am blown away by all of this. This was such a good story and I was so thoroughly
Speaker 2:Surprised. Thank you. Uh, you know, big, big thank you Teresa. Teresa for this. Yeah. Uh, she and I hopped the story extensively. Aw. Uh, she did all of my medical fact checking for me. That's so great. So some fun facts about Risa when I, you know, started, uh, talking about this story with Risa, the, the original organ harvesting was gonna be a full heart and spine transplant. But then when I was talking with Risa, she's like, well, you can't actually do a full spine transplant. It's impossible and here's why. And I'm like, how do you know this
Speaker 1:<laugh>? She's very smart.
Speaker 2:So after her eight years of medical school, yeah. One of her jobs apparently, uh, was harvesting spines from cadavers. No. So she's done quite a bit of, Theresa
Speaker 1:Has harvested spines from dead bodies
Speaker 2:Extensively. What
Speaker 8:The?<laugh>
Speaker 1:Rea.
Speaker 2:Yeah. I was, I was a little curious how that didn't come up myself. But, you know, everyone has, has their, was their secrets. Has their secrets. I just thought that was an interesting one. One. So yeah, Reese and I worked on the story for a while. Uh, just getting everything ready and I think it turned out great. Oh yeah. I think she did a wonderful job recording.
Speaker 1:Yes. Thank you so much, Risa. Thank you. A this was so fun. I am very rarely surprised and I feel thoroughly surprised. Great. Oh, so good. I'm still sort of in shock by, by this plot twist here at the end of this episode.
Speaker 2:Yeah. Well, I, you know, this, I just wanted to make sure you had a good Valentine's Day present,
Speaker 1:<laugh> Thank you. Only a month, month later or so. But thank you. I appreciate
Speaker 2:It. I mean, these things take
Speaker 1:Time. You also made excellent cookies on Valentine's Day. So I did. As always, thank you so much to all of our writers, to all of our narrators. We could not do lunatics library without everybody coming together. And it's so satisfying and fulfilling to see the, the, the series and the deep dives that we do concluded in this way with like real life examples, from real authors and narrators that we can help support their work. So thank you all so much. This was such a fun one for us. We are gonna be back next time with something totally new as we always do. Until then, stay safe, stay spooky, and please, of course, check the description of this episode to support and follow all of the narrators and writers that were featured in this episode today. Talk to you soon. Bye bye.