Episode 187 - Campfire Tales #9: Only The Dead

This week, Abby is joined by Alex Goleman for a double feature of eerie campfire tales, the kind that feel a little too real once the lights go out.

“Only The Dead” by Marisca Pichette and “Trash Talk” by Sam Logan.

Find more from the authors at mariscapichette.com and samloganwrites.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.

Transcript

Horror Book Club Catch Up

SPEAKER_02 0:18

Hello, everyone, and welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour Podcast. I am Abby Brinker, sitting here with Alex Bullman. We are back with two more spooky stories to share with you today. Speaking of spooky stories, I was thinking this morning how, Alex, you are an active participant in horror book club.

SPEAKER_01 0:38

Oh, yes, of course I am.

SPEAKER_02 0:40

And we're overdue for to have a book in a meeting. I think we should we should pick something.

SPEAKER_01 0:45

Oh yes, I know. I I feel like the last one we read was last summer.

SPEAKER_02 0:50

It's been a while. Oh, the last one we read was uh what's the name of that one? The Victorian Victorian Psycho. Oh yeah. I think that was the last one.

SPEAKER_01 0:58

Oh, I didn't read that one. Oh well I need to read that one, yeah. Yeah.

SPEAKER_02 1:03

Um but I was thinking about because the what my train of thought was that was that's what one of the stories today reminded me a little bit of that book that we read. There's two books we read. One was September House. Yes. Not that one. The other book that sort of takes place in a house.

SPEAKER_01 1:20

Yep.

SPEAKER_02 1:20

And it's a family and a haunting.

SPEAKER_01 1:23

With mommy.

SPEAKER_02 1:23

With mommy and other mommy.

SPEAKER_01 1:25

Oh, yeah, and other mommy. Yes. Okay, that's a great question.

SPEAKER_02 1:31

Incidents around the house.

SPEAKER_01 1:32

Incidents around the house, yes.

SPEAKER_02 1:34

Oh, interesting. Wait, I just went to look this up. The way I searched for it was Other Mommy Book.

SPEAKER_01 1:39

Yeah.

SPEAKER_02 1:40

Other mommy is a film that's based on the novel Incidents Around the House that came out in 2024.

SPEAKER_01 1:46

Oh my gosh. Wait. I hadn't heard anything about that.

SPEAKER_02 1:51

Okay, it says it's upcoming, so I guess maybe it was shot in 2024. It was directed by Rob Savage. Interesting. Okay, so we'll have to. But the book itself was written by Josh Malerman. And I thought it was good. I thought it was spooky.

SPEAKER_01 2:04

Oh, definitely. I know even the concept of other mommy is is certainly spooky and freaks me out to this day.

SPEAKER_02 2:11

Yeah, and having like spirits mimic, you know, because especially when there's like little kids and they can be easily tricked into maybe not tricked, but like they're more vulnerable to that kind of stuff.

SPEAKER_01 2:23

Yeah, and I thought sort of the metaphor of what it stood for will ended up being pretty strong. Yeah. Which, you know, sometimes that's where things fall flat is especially in in these horror books, they try to they try to make the idea um bigger and they don't necessarily end successfully. And I thought that this one did.

SPEAKER_02 2:43

Yeah, I agree. Okay, I one of my favorite pastimes is to pit things against each other. September House for you personally, right? For you, not to say one is better or worse, but September House or Incidents Around the House. Which one did you like better?

SPEAKER_01 2:59

Oh, incidents around the house.

SPEAKER_02 3:01

Same.

SPEAKER_01 3:01

I think I think pretty solidly. Yeah. Yeah. But both were, you know, haunted house stories that were similar. Yeah, and I liked I liked September House, but I actually felt that that one I liked the sort of tone of it and the beginning of it a lot more than the ending, and I sort of like got into Incidents Around the House and felt like it ended stronger.

SPEAKER_02 3:22

Yeah, it also felt scarier to me the whole time.

SPEAKER_01 3:24

Oh, it w it definitely was scarier, I think.

SPEAKER_02 3:27

I was like a little bit nervous.

SPEAKER_01 3:29

Yeah. And maybe on purpose. I don't think the September House intended to be as scary as Incidents Around the House was intending to be. I think that's right. Yeah.

SPEAKER_02 3:39

Well, on that note, we have a story to kick off today's episode that again reminds me of Incidents Around the House.

SPEAKER_00 3:55

Red Bial!

SPEAKER_01 3:59

Thought or feeling, but we feel it all. We think still of escape, an end that could be a new beginning. Rest at last. They call us fossils. We have no food, no warmth in the halls they built to hold us. Reduced to minerals, we have only each other. Deadline marble halls, plexiglass stands declaring the names that they gave us when they cut us from the land, exposing our bones to the world. We are cold, so cold. Under LED lights and controlled air systems. This is where the dead pretend to walk. Wired into approximations of heritage, mocking the lifeways we lost. Plaster displaces our absent parts. AI reassembles our faces. Some of us lie as we fell, pinned to walls like art we can't afford to buy. We are outsiders in this realm. Nights never truly dark. Days never truly day. A cycle of artificial light and gawking faces shambling past. Peeled apart, spread through departments and eons. Our ghosts gather to mourn the names we used to have. When the doors close and they leave, we hug our fragments close, dreaming of a chance, a chance to go back, a chance to escape these walls, these displays, these stubborn cards speculating on what we once were. Our dreams are green and lush. Our dreams span ages, collected like bones. We remember millennia when we gather in the not dark, events keeping us at precisely the right temperature. In these hours we share our true shapes, we recall our true names. We remember the myths, the homes, the world that existed before they came, before we left, before they found us, and we were exposed to a realm dug into the skin of the place we remember. Please we whisper to the fabricated night. Please take us away from this place, this place where only the dead can live. Our bones are trapped, but our ghosts break the seal. Our memories set us free. Until light flickers back, driving our remnants into cases and cards, and displays none may touch ungloved. They wander in, flesh still growing from their bones. Gravel has yet to displace their blood. Silt has yet to settle over their lungs, bury their nests and suffocate their unborn. We wait through stares, murmurs in languages too new for us to learn. What will come of us? We will never walk back through time. They have secured us too well to their walls. So we stay. We stay until the walls collapse, until their world folds as ours did. Fire covering the ground and smoke clouding the sky. When they find themselves sinking into oblivion, we sink with them. Wires will rust and break. Plaster will crumble at last. Stone will erode, and our bones will rest again.

Author Spotlight Mariska Pichette

SPEAKER_02 7:14

That story was beautifully written by Mariska Pichette. Mariska is a queer author based in Massachusetts. She has published more than 300 pieces of short fiction and poetry, appearing in various publications. Her collection, Rivers in Your Skin, Sirens in Your Hair, was a finalist for the Brahm Stoker and Elgin Awards. Their eco horror novella, Every Dark Cloud, is now out from Ghost Orchard Press. And you can follow Meriska on Instagram at Meriska underscore right, bluesky at Meriska.bsky.social on X at MeriskaPachette. We will also leave a link to their website in the description of this episode. But without further ado, we have one more spooky story for you today.

SPEAKER_01 7:57

Ooh.

The Garbage Man Knows Too Much

Author Spotlight Sam Logan

American Girl Doll Aftertaste

SPEAKER_02 8:11

The garbage man knew all about me. He emptied my trash bin every Tuesday morning with those mechanical arms that reached out from the side of the truck. The familiar hissing and clanking pierced the otherwise typical soundscape of the suburban neighborhood. Children walking to the bus stop, dogs barking, and cars pulling out of driveways as people left for work. Have you ever thought about the people you interact with during the mundane routines of daily life? The same cashier in the same checkout line at the same grocery store each week? Little details revealed about your personal life through casual conversation. Oh, I work remotely for a marketing firm. My family's back east and I moved out here on my own. I'm totally a cat person, but I'm allergic. One peek at the address on your driver's license when you bought a bottle of wine, and they know where you lived, alone, with no pets. You might think that the garbage man would be different, given the cold distance between the cab of his giant, grassy green truck and my front porch, where I spend most mornings typing on my laptop. A space heater kept me warm for an hour or so while I answered emails. But once a month, he climbed down from his mighty perch and emptied with ease the blue bin container filled with glass recyclables, a quick conversation here and there. He already knew where I lived. And what other facts and idiosyncrasies did he know about me? Cinnamon toast crunch, my favorite cereal, a vegetarian diet, credit card statements that showed a borderline obsession with buying American girl dolls. I never told him any of this before, but one look through my weekly rubbish and he'd figure it out. The first night, the garbage man drove past my house several times before he left the neighborhood. I was a light sleeper, and the rumbling truck was enough to rattle me awake. I stared out my second floor bedroom window that faced the street and looked down at the truck. The brake lights flashed a bright red as the truck paused each time it passed my house again and again. I shut my eyes with an intensity that produced specks of dancing light behind my eyelids. Upon opening them, I saw a final blink of red as the truck hesitated before it turned out of the neighborhood. The second night, the garbage man idled in front of my house, but did not get out of the truck. I sat up in bed and flicked on the reading lamp on my nightstand. It was no use trying to hide. We both knew about the presence of the other. With my jaw clenched, I refused to allow my eyes to blink because I was determined not to lose sight of him until he left. Stinging with dust, my eyes watered. An occasional tear crawled down my cheek. I looked down at the garbage man, mostly obscured in the driver's seat, except for his prodigious paws that grasped the steering wheel and were visible through the windshield. The house was quiet, besides the pulling and releasing of my short breaths. Stale hot air, with a metallic scent pumped through the vents. The air filter needed to be replaced, but that was the least of my concerns. After nearly an hour the truck rumbled away. I shuddered with the release of tension from my near ketatonic posture of staring. I called the waste company the next day. No, ma'am, there's no trash runs past five PM. Are you sure it was one of our trucks? The polite receptionist asked. I was a little miffed at being called ma'am when I was only in my mid thirties. Of course I'm sure, I replied. Do you know the truck number? It's on the back bumper, she asked. How was I supposed to get that? No way was I going outside while that truck creeped around my house, I said. I'm sorry that I can't help you. We need to confirm the truck is ours before we can look into it, she said. Okay, well thanks anyway, I replied. The third night the garbage man stood beside his idling truck in front of my house, under the fingernail of a luminous indenture yellow moon. His silhouette was backlit from the residual radiance of street lights and celestial bodies from above, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, tinted of midnight black and hulking, square shoulders that rose and fell with each blast of foggy breath in the dead cold air of winter. My heart hammered in my chest. A floorboard creaked from the hallway, a common occurrence, but in my sweating state of surveillance, it strummed my nerves raw and startled me. The garbage man's olive colored coveralls blended into the green background of the truck, but the shape of his body and posture confirmed that it was my garbage man. The usually well kept brown beard had filled out and blended into the unruly tuft of chestnut chest hair that exploded out of his collar. Mouth slightly agape, and white teeth glistened in the moon glow. I swore I saw a drip of saliva fall to the asphalt. I thought about calling the cops, so I grabbed my iPhone and tapped 911, but hesitated before I hit the green icon. What would I say? The garbage man is at my house and it's not even trash day? Well, no, he's actually not doing anything but standing, just standing there. Oh, that's a good point. I should go ask him what he wants. Neither of us broke our sight line with the other. I wondered what my neighbors thought about the standoff. Surely someone would have noticed by now. Then again, maybe not. It was the middle of the night after all, and my house was at the end of a street with an empty lot next to it. All I could imagine was my murdered body getting tossed on top of the neighbor's refuse, rotted food, used hygiene products, and shoveled roadkill. My lifeless flesh bag steaming its last warmth in the frigid air and mixing with the foul stench, bones crushed and compressed into fragments in the compactor, then eventually being dumped into the local landfill. Why did my mind think like that? I had no reason to believe the garbage man intended any harm. Maybe he was lonely and just wanted to talk. A couple of hours passed and I couldn't take it anymore. I looked down at my phone and tapped the green icon to make the 911 call. The worst thing that could happen was a little embarrassment if the dispatcher laughed at me. When I looked at the window again, the garbage man was gone. Just gone. The truck idled. I jumped to the window, and my iPhone slid out of my hand and fell into the small space between the wall and the bed. Pressing my face against the glass, I scanned the sidewalk and street for any sign of the garbage man. I saw nothing. My bare feet padded on the carpet. At the top of the stairs I heard the slow turn of the doorknob. Breath held, I waited in silence. The front door threatened to open, but I was sure I locked it, doubt creeping along my spine like a thousand legs of a centipede racing upwards. Clink, clink. A rush of relief washed over me, the lock held. Sprinting back to the window, the truck was gone. A wispy fog rolled through the street like a military convoy. Retrieving my iPhone, I convinced the nine one dispatcher that there was no emergency. I never saw the garbage man again. I wasn't sure of his true intentions, but I suspect his actions were a power play of sorts. He terrorized without breaking any laws, or at least not breaking them in any way that was tangible. If I pressed the issue with the police, they would have laughed behind my back and called me hysterical, I'm sure of it. Anyway, the garbage man's reign of terror only lasted a few days, but its impact was felt deep in my bones. In the nights that followed, Molly McIntyre couldn't take her eyes off of me as they reflected the dim light from the street that filtered into my bedroom. My favorite American girl doll tracked my movements, like a bird of prey. I turned Molly to face the wall, along with all of my dolls. A new guy was at the helm of the truck on the next trash day. I didn't say hi. And that story was written by Sam Logan. Sam emerged in 1984 from the depths of the Chesapeake Bay off the Maryland shore. He made it to Oregon where he is a university professor in kinesiology and teaches courses about punk and body horror. Sam lives with his partner, Kiddo, and Dune the Dog. He has stories in Mouthfeel Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine, Divinations Magazine, Major Seventh magazine, Creepy Pod, Wall Street, and Lunatics Radio Hour, among others. Find him at Sam LoganRights.com. He is also a co-founding editor of Slugger Magazine, which you can find at SluggerFiction.com. You can also follow Slugger Fiction at SluggerFiction on Instagram, and you can find them on Blue Sky as well as Sam Logan52. I have to just say one thing about that story, which was that when you're a girl and you grow up, you have a preference for an American girl doll.

SPEAKER_01 16:17

Totally. That's part of your personality. It's part of your personality. Yeah.

SPEAKER_02 16:20

Especially in the 90s. My sister's was Samantha because she was a little bit more posh and normal than me. Mine was Molly. And so I really connected to the story in that way. Oh yeah. That's also how I knew how to pronounce it so quickly at the end. Oh, I know who this is.

SPEAKER_01 16:36

Yeah, an old friend.

SPEAKER_02 16:38

An old friend. Yeah. My dad used to make me furniture for my American girl dolls out of like PVC pipes.

SPEAKER_01 16:44

Oh, I love that. Oh, I can picture that.

Thanks And Goodbye

SPEAKER_02 16:47

Yeah. Yeah. It was really cool. Anyway. Anyway, Alex, thank you again for coming back and reading some spooky stories with me.

SPEAKER_01 16:54

Oh, another good batch of them. It's always a pleasure.

SPEAKER_02 16:58

Always a pleasure. Talk to you soon.

SPEAKER_01 16:59

Ta-ta.

SPEAKER_02 17:00

Bye.