Episode 179 - Campfire Tales #8: Airbag

This week Abby and Alex present two stories for your enjoyment. 

In The Light of The Wisps was written by Marisca Pichette. Follow them on Instagram @marisca_write or check out their website: www.mariscapichette.com 

Airbag was written by Mike Macera. Follow Mike on Instagram and @mikemacera and check out his website: https://www.scene3.co/films

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.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:17

Hello, everyone, and welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour Podcast. My name is Abby Branker, and I am sitting here with Alex Goleman.

SPEAKER_02 0:26

Hello, hello.

SPEAKER_00 0:28

We're so excited to kick off Campfire Tales 2026.

SPEAKER_02 0:33

Wow, 2026. Can you even believe it?

SPEAKER_00 0:36

Time is going by so fast. They say that, but you don't really realize it until you get to your mid-30s, I think.

SPEAKER_02 0:43

Yeah, well, another new year of Campfire Tales. I'm very excited to get started.

Format Shift And Creative Focus

Call For True Paranormal Stories

SPEAKER_00 0:49

Yeah, I am too. And we also wanted to let you know, you know, never say never. But as of now, we are moving a little bit away from doing Lunatics Library episodes, meaning we are not going to have, again, never say never, but in this moment. The plan is not to have episodes that come out with stories that are specifically tied to each of the history themes. Again, there may be some topics that we explore that make a lot of sense for that, and we're gonna do that. But instead, we're making a little bit more room for campfire tales, which means that a lot of the writers that we love to feature have more flexibility and ability to write stuff on any topics and not just the very niche and strange and specific topics that we are. On that note, if anybody out there has any unexplained personal experiences, paranormal encounters, UFO site, whatever it is, we want to know about it. If you want your stories featured on Lunatics Radio Hour, again, true nonfiction, personal strange experiences, anything from glitch in the matrix to you might have seen a ghost or you're not sure, you can email films about lunatics at gmail.com and we would love to feature some more real scary stories this year.

SPEAKER_02 1:59

Ooh, I can't wait to see what we come up with.

Campfire Tales Purpose And Vibe

Meet Alex And Show Dynamics

SPEAKER_00 2:01

Yes. Okay, but without further ado, today we are really excited to kick off Campfire Tales 2026 with some spooky fiction stories for you. Again, just on any topic. The point of Campfire Tales is really just for everyone to gather around the fire, no matter the season, and have a forum to present something a little bit spooky for us to disappear into for a few minutes. Also, if anybody is like, who is Alex? Who is this guy? Alex has been my Campfire Tales co-host now for I think all like all of 2025.

SPEAKER_02 2:35

Yeah, I think so.

SPEAKER_00 2:36

Yeah. He also was on one of my favorite episodes of 2025, which was our deep dive into the dark side of the history of the Wizard of Oz. But think of Campfire Tales. Like, Alex is like my Amy Polar. I'm Tina Faye. Alex is Amy Polar. We're weekend update. Alan is still on the SNL cast, right? Like, we're not kicking.

SPEAKER_02 2:55

Right. He's still invited.

SPEAKER_00 2:57

Yeah, this is a sub, a sub-piece of the podcast that Alex and I are handling together now.

SPEAKER_02 3:02

I think that's the biggest compliment anyone has ever given me. I I'm honored.

SPEAKER_00 3:07

I'm someone who listens to like the same podcasts, like religiously and for years and years, and doesn't alter much from that. And recently I've gotten really into both Good Hang with Amy Polar and Smartless from her ex-husband. But I it's they're not like, I don't know, they're just celebrities interviewing celebrities, so they're not like, you know, I don't know. It's nothing like groundbreaking or relevant to this. I'm thinking about how Amy Polar is one of those celebrities that really just feels like a good person.

SPEAKER_02 3:35

She she seems so lovely. Well, and here's a fun fact we share a birthday, which I'm not saying means much, but I I already take that as a compliment anyway, right? Like she wants to share a birthday with me.

SPEAKER_00 3:48

Oh my gosh. Yeah, I don't know. I just feel like her whole brand is like being smart and nice to people and funny, and of course, all those things, but also like, I don't know, just like she's very kind and there's never drama or you know, it's just it's like a lovely celebrity. In videos of her breaking and laughing, I find them to be joyful.

SPEAKER_02 4:13

Yeah, there's something very real about her. Yeah. Oh my gosh, but flash forward like three months, she yeah, we never know.

SPEAKER_00 4:21

Anyway, that's just my random thought for the day. Okay, well, without further ado, shall we read some stories?

SPEAKER_02 4:27

Let's do it.

Hunt In The Meadow

SPEAKER_00 4:39

Heliconia lives in the willow boughs. Her face sways between the leaves, green in the summertime and golden in the fall. She is falling now, her willow switch dress snapping against air. When she hits the ground, the moss accepts her, tugging her fingers and toes down into the moist. Where she touches it, mushrooms grow. Heliconia keeps falling through the moss and the soft soil underneath. She is still falling now. I can feel her under the soles of my feet, falling and falling, under her willow tree. She never liked to be still, even in death. Hers is a different kind of death. When fates die, they keep on existing, out of sight, like a sneeze. Drops falling and falling for yards. Heliconia has travelled miles. Still I feel her through the moss. I still feel her under the willow. I drag my hands through her branches, and caress the leaves that adorned her cheeks. What does it mean that I'm closer to her now than she ever allowed before? There's something funny about it, something tragic, and that makes it beautiful. Her beautiful. She was always the beautiful one. As the sun is rising, I climb her tree, my claws carving scars in her precious bark. I don't stop at the middle of the willow, but keep climbing, going higher than she ever dared. She was too big to light on the uppermost boughs. These will become my bower. The sun rises, I look down at the spot where Heliconia fell. Circles of mushrooms curl out of the fractal of impact. The moss is unnaturally green within their hold, shining under a thick coat of dew. Eighty mushrooms total. I counted them before venturing further. I wanted to know that she mattered, after everything. I wondered how many mushrooms will spring up from the place I fall. Heliconia's willow sits on the corner of a meadow. Behind me is an ancient apple tree, almost all magic withered from its fruit. There is a well to my left that no one visits anymore. To my right, a great stone that looks important, but isn't. And in front of me, Heliconia's mushroom rings. I sleep through the day, the sun soaking my fur despite the shade of the willow. When it sets at last I venture back down the tree. Daytime was for my sister, for the fates. Darkness is for me and my kind. Puka's work best at night. The wisps begin at the edges of the field and work their way inward. I sit in the crook of a bough and watch them illuminate the night. Heliconia trapped them in lanterns and used them to adorn her hair. She hung them from the willow and painted her lips with luminous blood. The wisps respected her until she fell. I found them clustered around her mushrooms after, bobbing in the twilight. Wisps will keep me fed, but they are not my goal. I open all my eyes, searching the deeper dark for my sister's murderer. He also hunts at night. The first wisp vanishes by the apple tree, sucked into the dark. I turn my head in a circle, vertebrae stretching and realigning to accommodate the motion. I scan the meadow in the well for absences before settling back on the twisted shadow of the apple tree. As I watch, another wisp is swallowed by the night. When the third vanishes, I see the glint of needles. Pine stalks the wisps, his body slung with points. Now I've glimpsed him. I track him across the meadow, following his hunt. His lips glow as he snaps a wisp between his teeth. His hands silhouette themselves against the brief light, clawed larger than mine. Then he dissolves back into darkness, another hunter in the night, being hunted by me. I climb down at the base of Heliconia's tree. The moss accepts me without sound. Through the soles of my feet I feel Heliconia falling, falling, falling. It may be years before she falls far enough to emerge back into the world. By then her willow may be old or gone. I, though, will be here. Pine makes his slow way across the meadow, needles falling down his back over his tail. Now I can see him without the wisps, starlight shining on his points. He is many times taller than I am, but he is confined to himself, pinned in place in a way I have never been. My fur slides away, leaving skin in its place. My eyes coalesce into two, my ears slipping down to the sides of my face. I grow taller, and the starlight finds me just as pine turns. Heliconia? The wisps drift towards me, drawn to my sister's body. Pine stares, his eyes wide, his mouth agape to reveal stained teeth. Impossible. My sister's voice slips between my lips. I finished my fall. I've come back for you. Pine doesn't move. It's too soon. Come with me, Pine. I hold my hands. Heliconia's hands out. He backs away. You can't be back. It's supposed to take centuries. Aren't you happy? I step towards him. He trips over his needled tail, one arm raised to keep me back. Get away. Aren't you happy to see me? You should be dead. I stop advancing. He draws to a faltering stop, breathing heavily. I smile with my sister's lips. Don't you know that fates can't die? Sitting in the top of the willow, I clean under my claws. The sun has risen, but I have found a way to escape its rays. A needled pelt casts shade on my bower, keeping me cool as I wait for Heliconia to finish her fall. That story was written so beautifully by Mariska Pichette, who is a queer author based in Massachusetts. She has published more than 300 pieces of short fiction and poetry, appearing in Strange Horizons, Bestarian, The Deadlands, Nightmare Magazine, and many others. Her collection, Rivers in Your Skin, Sirens in Your Hair, was a finalist for the Brahm Stoker and Eligen Awards. Their eco horror novella, Every Dark Cloud, is now out from Ghost Orchard Press. If you want to keep your tabs on Mariska, you can follow them on Instagram at Mariska underscore right at bluesky at marisca.bsky.social or on Twitter at MariskaPachette. And we will, of course, link all of that and the link to their website in the description of this episode, plus on social media. And without further ado, we have another story for you. Just a little bit of a content warning on the next story. It does center around a car accident and it has a moment of brief violence near the end. So just a heads up on that.

The Lure And The Reveal

Author Credits: Marisca Pichette

Content Warning For Next Story

Story Two: Airbag Light

SPEAKER_02 11:14

You never listened to warnings because you don't think those things really are ever gonna happen to you. In high school, you were warned about this. Your psychology teacher, Mr. De Tao, said that before his prom, the class of 1967 was lectured on drinking and driving. They were shown violent images on a projector of mangled up bodies and motor vehicle accidents. This is what happened when people drove without a seatbelt or drank beer, or both. Then, on prom night, your teacher's best friend got decapitated because he went 80 miles per hour into a median rail. He was given the same presentation as the other kids, but like the others, he thought the same thing. That won't happen to me. You think about all this as you floor it 80 miles per hour on the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the dark pouring rain. But the thought doesn't linger long because tonight you like the feeling of going fast and almost losing complete control over your vehicle, over your whole life. At this speed, you're both God and at your most vulnerable. Your mind drifts to other variables that you act like you have no control in. Weight gain, well, that's on metabolism. Infidelity, well, that's on girls. Then you see that pesky airbag light pop up again. It's a bright heartbeat red and it's flashing in front of you on the dashboard. It's always in your field of vision, no matter how much you try to forget about it, and it feels more distracting than it should be. You laugh to yourself thinking that if the airbag suddenly went off, it'd probably be less of a distraction than the bright light is being right now. What a stupid joke. You think back to earlier today how much has changed since the daylight. That was when the airbag light was brought to your attention. Your wife had borrowed the car to go to Shoprit to make a taco mix you really like. She came back and remarked, A light came on in your car. It looks like a stick figure getting squished by a circle. Hmm, that's the airbag light. You two debate over what the symbol could mean. You think it means that the airbag could go off at any minute. Your wife thinks that it means that in the case of an accident, the airbag won't go off, and you'll fly through the windshield. She thinks you guys should wager a bet on it, and then you take it to the mechanic and find out and get it fixed. You both bet$20, which doesn't make much sense because you both share income, but it's fun to do. Part of you has a giddy pit in your stomach feeling about going to the mechanics. And you know why. You say out loud to your wife that you don't really want to drive over there and stand around waiting for the car to be fixed on your day off. But this is to simply keep up appearances, because a much larger part of you is in love with the woman that services your car. You've known this for many years now and you've come to a dull acceptance of it over time. You won't do anything about it. For instance, you don't make up things wrong with the car as a reason to flirt with her. You're proud of yourself for that. You see her once a year or so when the car needs to be inspected, which is more than enough. However, you still do these little shameful things. Like take your wedding ring off when you head over there. Or you both make these little playful physical gestures to each other that would probably make your wife cry if she saw. But you keep things professional, mostly. You wouldn't even begin to know how this woman truly feels. Girls are tricky like that, you think. Some girls are nice to be nice, and some girls are nice and then they become your wife. You never pin this one down. For instance, in her cubicle, there is a framed photograph of her with a young child that has not been changed since you met her. Through the years, you have watched each other age and wither away slowly. But this photo is timeless. And no mementos or memories of husbands or boyfriends have ever taken the place of this photograph. She never talks about married life, and of course, you never bring up yours. For obvious reasons. So today, you head over there with anticipation of seeing her, because it hasn't been that long since the last inspection. So this is like a little treat of sorts. You bring your car in and let some guys prop it up and look at it with flashlights. You explain what's been going on, and one of the sweaty guys remarks, those damned Chinese airbags. They bring you to the waiting room and you sit there, bored while they work. But you hold your breath because the best part is coming. Because soon she will take you back to her cubicle to discuss the work they've done for about fifteen minutes, and then bill you a lot of money. This is when you can glance at her chest and make her laugh and get lost for a while. These little fleeting moments have become highlights of your fleeting years. Like an old friend you haven't seen, but you're able to pick right back up, or like one of the holidays, always waiting to be celebrated. But today doesn't last more than two minutes. She doesn't even bring you back. She comes to you. She says that there's nothing wrong with the car. They opened up the wheel and everything. If the light came on, it could be an electrical error, but they checked the wiring and that was all fine too. So it must have been a glitch of some sort. What a relief, though not for you. She won't charge you for the labor because you're such a loyal customer. But to bring it back if the light keeps going on. Bottom line, it's safe to drive. The it's always so nice seeing you that will firmly end this brief encounter follows. That's it? You think? There's gotta be more to this double life than that. When will the next time be? The elation is deflating like a flat tire when suddenly Hey, I've always been curious about that picture on your desk, you blurt out. Is that your son? You ask quickly. She looks at you. You watch her pupils dilate. Yes, it is. The step you took here is crucial because you engaged her outside of car talk, and you opened up a personal dialogue. And from there, she gives you a tour of her cubicle. She's showing you all the little arts and crafts things on her desk and what they all mean to her. Everything ties back to her son, who is a senior in high school now. This is when you learn that she has no husband. He left her and the kid a very long time ago. Men can be very cruel, you remark. Then she learns from you that you have no wife. It's a slow day apparently, so you're given a whole tour of the place. She says you can keep her company if you'd like, and you'd say you love to. The two of you walk around the asphalt of the parking lot as she points at rusty old cars and rusty old men. The two of you wind back up inside by a water cooler. You joke about how it's like you both work there and are catching up from the weekend with office gossip by the water cooler. It's lame, but somehow she finds it so funny that she's falling into your arms. So you embrace the fantasy. Maybe they're hiring. Maybe you should work there. Then you could see her every day instead of every year. After what feels like hours or so, you're brought back out to your car, which has been parked out front for you. Grey clouds rumble and roll in from your direction home. You turn the car on and the airbag light stays off. She says she appreciates the excitement you brought into her day, and for all of the days you drop by. She hums something sad to herself, and you ask, What was that? And then she sighs. In another life, she starts to say. Then without thinking, you kiss her. Very hard and for very long. You pull back and you're prepared to jump into your car and peel out of there if she's offended. But she's not. She smiles warmly and blushes like a teenager. She kisses you back on the cheek. You should find problems with your car more often, she smirks, and she hands you her business card with as much contact info on it as possible. Her email, fax number, phone number. She probably gives this card to everyone, but you know that the gesture is different for you. You say you'll call her tomorrow. Now you're racing home in a thunderstorm with the airbag light back on, rehearsing how to leave your wife and how to tell your mechanic. You think of all the variables. You'll be happy for a while, sure, you'll destroy your marriage, but you'll get free car insurance. You think about the boy. You're ready, you think, to be the father that boy deserves. You never wanted kids before. That was always a point of contention with your wife, who dreamed of having twin girls. Now you're prepared to father the boy immediately. When there's grandkids later down the line, you imagine telling them on your lap the beautiful story of how you two met. You replay all those special little moments from today. You don't even see the road anymore, only her. You feel like a cassette with all the tape ripped out of it. Your whole life has unraveled. And then your car loses traction and you hit the guardrail. You never listen to the warnings. Your airbag does nothing but sit in its little cubby behind your wheel. So you fly forward, smashing through the windshield with so much force you won't even process that there's a bloody shard of glass in your forehead before you're killed instantly. Only three things will flash before you, like little bursts of light. The revelation, you will not survive, the photograph, and a joke, I owe my wife$20.

SPEAKER_00 20:13

That story was written by our friend Mike Macera. Mike is an award-winning filmmaker and screenwriter from South Jersey. He enjoys mumblecore, haunted house movies, and going down the shore. You can follow him at Mike Macera on Instagram or check out his website scene three with the number three.co slash films, and of course we'll put that in the description, and tag him on social media. Well, Alex, thank you so much for returning again this year to be part of another slate of Camp Firetales.

SPEAKER_02 20:42

Oh, I'm so excited to be here. Thank you for having me.

SPEAKER_00 20:45

We'll talk to you all soon. Bye.

SPEAKER_02 20:47

Bye.