Episode 192 - Campfire Tales #10: In Life and Death

This week Abby is joined by Alex Goleman to read two haunting stories about grief and death. 

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

In Life and Death was written by Sam Logan. Visit samloganwrites.com and  sluggerfiction.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

Welcome And A Gentle Warning

SPEAKER_01 0:17

Hello everyone, and welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour Podcast. My name is Abby Brinkert, and I'm sitting here with Alex. Hello. We are back, the weekend update team, to two more spooky stories today. Before we get into the first story, I do want to, on a personal note, say that the first story we're gonna read isn't necessarily horror or spooky at all. It does center around death and grief. I found it when I was reading it, it struck me in a very personal way as I don't know, very relatable. I've had some loss in the last few years that felt just felt very like adjacent and represented in this story. And so I'm just going to acknowledge that A, it's not really horror, but B, more importantly, it can be a little bit heavy, maybe depending on where you might be in your grief journey, if that's relevant. So just a kind of like a very mild warning. Nothing is graphic about it at all, but it's just a little bit different for this podcast.

SPEAKER_02 1:19

Forgiving

Story One: Forgiving Amy

SPEAKER_02 1:20

Amy, red my must girl. Red by Abby Borgirl.

SPEAKER_01 1:28

You stare at the list you made, at the advice of your therapist. Play spike ball on the beach with St. Ignatius friends. Start one last Minecraft server with Nick for old time's sake. Forgive Amy, get closure. You need to do these things because one of your oldest friends died six months ago. You spoke at the funeral and gave a speech you weren't sure felt sincere enough. During the speech, you said you think he's free now. At the reception, your late friend's mom wanted to know what you meant by that. You didn't know. You really didn't mean anything. Amy was there. You all went to school together. But you didn't exchange words. Just gave each other a look of acknowledging each other's existence in your lives. At the end of the funeral, you signed the guest book. You decided that forgiving Amy is the most pressing thing on the list. You want to reach out, but you're not sure how. You lost her number. She's not on social media. She only has an inactive Facebook which hasn't been touched for years. No one uses Facebook anymore. Her profile picture is her posing with her cat that died when you still knew her. Not many posts. Are you on there? On her wall or whatever it's called now? You check. You're not. But there is something. Next to Amy's name it says remembering. Oh fuck. Is Amy dead too? How could Amy be dead? You just saw her six months ago. She's younger than you. But so is your late friend. How are you managing to outlive everyone? You eat like shit. You decide to drive to Amy's house or where she lives when you knew her. You want to get to the bottom of this. You memorize through. Northbound I 295, exit 34B. You never forget 34B. Because you think of Amy anytime you drive past her exit on your way to work. You arrive at a Victorian home in Haddonfield. You're greeted warmly by Amy's mom. Amy's mom has always loved you, probably more than Amy. It is true. Amy has died, and so has her dad. Dad died right before Amy. He died overseas in war. You weren't even aware a new war was going on. Now her mom lives alone in a house that's too big for one person, and her screeching pet parakeet. The death is fresh. It happened weeks ago. Before she bursts into tears, Amy's mom tells you how. Amy ended up in a band. You remember she loved music. She even played you a few songs she wrote herself. On that old piano you're now sitting at a few feet away. Looking back, you regret cringing at them, but you never told her that. You always told her you thought she was amazing at everything. Her band played grunge stuff, covers and originals. They played at the Jersey Shore mostly, at Asbury Park. Even the Stone Pony once. They were recording an album of new songs. But one night their tour van struck a vehicle going down the wrong way on the Garden State Parkway. Everyone was killed instantly. There was no funeral. Amy's mom says if there was a funeral, you'd have been invited. Amy wanted her ashes to be spread quietly on the beach at Asbury Park. She wanted to go out with the tide. Amy's mom is sorry that she didn't tell you. You say it's okay that you weren't owed that. You admit that you and Amy had drifted over the years, and so you understand. Her mom has burned a CD with some of the band's songs. They used to give them out for free at concerts. She asks if you'd like to listen to Amy. Of course you would. It is so nice to hear Amy's voice again. You're not used to it in this way. With this gargling new metal facade that she has put over it, but it's still soothing somehow. You ask Amy's mom if you could see her bedroom. Amy's mom wonders why you want to see it. You say you saw someone do it in a movie once. Amy's mom asks what movie? You say Brokeback Mountain. You don't find anything of yours in Amy's room. Her room seems untouched, but she has left no trace of you behind. There are pictures of the bandmates and some new guy, great, and your late friend with some other mutual friends that you both went to school with, but not you. On the way home, you find yourself getting quite angry at your late friend. When he was happy, you never heard from him. When he had a girlfriend, you never heard from him. You had to make all of the plans. Sometimes you wouldn't hear from him for months, and you wondered if you ever even crossed his mind. But you're not angry at Amy, just disappointed. You're always just disappointed by her. You crumple your list and throw it out. You never achieve any of your goals. You have nothing to talk about at therapy next week. Years later, you move out of New Jersey and drift for a while. You're surprised you haven't died yet, but you're worried you will soon, once your roaring twenties are up. One day you get painfully bored, so you look up your late friend online and find their obituary. You click into their digital guess book and see a bunch of people have signed it. Most recently. Amy's mom signed it a whole year after the other entries stop. Still thinking about you always. Amy is with you now. You wonder why she checked this so long after the fact. Who would think to frequent your late friend's guessbook, besides you, of course? Then you think about Facebook. Who would frequent that? You log on to Facebook. After resetting your password because you don't remember it, and the security question because you forgot that too. You go to Amy's page, remembering. You go to your own page, it's a time capsule. You look at your messages. There's one from Amy, sent so many years ago, and you're just seeing this now. How did you miss this before? Facebook is so foreign to navigate now. Hi, I should have said I love you more times than I did. I'm sorry I was horrible. Is disclosure? I forgive you, Amy, but could you forgive me? You message Nate from St. Ignatius. You ask if he wants to take a trip to Brigantine to play Spike Ball. And

Author Spotlight And Next Warning

SPEAKER_01 6:46

that story was written by our friend Mike Macera, who 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 and check out his website, scene three, the number three.co slash films. Before we read the next story, we're gonna give a content warning from the writer. The story includes domestic violence. Stated and implied detailed descriptions are not included.

Story Two: A House That Feeds

SPEAKER_00 7:26

My house is filled with invisible tendrils of a violent past that strangles the walls and suffocates any warmth that tries to seep in. Every house has an ethos that embodies its essence, its oeuvre. Anyone can feel it when they enter a residence for the first time. A fingerprint unique, residue of a personality from its past inhabitants. This house, my house, is no different. It all started with my grandfather, Albert. He built this house in the 1950s. A single-story, two-bedroom craftsman with long vertical windows, low-pitched roof, and wooden steps that lead to an open porch with large piers for support. I inherited this house because there is no one else left. I am the last namesake of my family. A granddaughter. Albert was a real piece of work. A railroad man all his life. Days were long and hard. He drank to mass the disappointment of failed dreams and took it out on my grandmother, Florence. She married Albert at 19 years old. My mom was born 10 months later. Grandma was a sweet woman who doted on her children and grandchildren, but walked on eggshells her entire life because of Albert's red-hot temper. My grandma shielded us from Albert's darkest torments. She was strong and she took what she could, but the house suffered and took the rest. Over the years, the house became a living and breathing entity, a parasitic host that mimicked Albert's vile and infectious temperament. Insults my grandfather spat out over the years were absorbed into the drywall and soaked through to the timber frame. The house craved more once it got a filthy taste of violence and repulsion. It devoured every spiteful word spoken, every condescending dismissal, every shove against the wall. Hostility grew in the house like a pit bull that reflects their owner's abusive personality. It's not the dog's fault, but it doesn't lessen the danger of letting them off-leash. The temperature inside the house never reached above 59 degrees Fahrenheit, even on the sweltering days of summer. Albert never seemed to notice while everyone else shivered under shawls. Floorboards creaked where no one walked. Wind whistled against windows when the air outside was still. Albert and the house connived against its inhabitants and visitors. Most nights they conspired together in secret whispers long into the black night. As a child, I made the mistake of glancing at myself in the large arched mirrors in the hallway, and when I passed by in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. The image reflected was an inside-out version of my twelve-year-old self. Bones were exposed through my translucent skin, organs pulsated in rhythm with my heartbeat. Arteries, veins, and capillaries were lassoed and twisted around my sinewy strands of muscle and meat tissue. My own smiling skulls stared back at me with deep sunken eye sockets. I never left the bedroom again when I slept over. Grandma was the only reason I visited it all, and our conversations over Earl-grade tea were worth the risk. I entered the house for the first time in almost 20 years after all the paperwork was settled and I received the key. A bone-cold breeze bristled my skin when I crossed the threshold into its domain. The inside was covered in a palette of colors that haven't been popular in decades, but I remember them well. A mothball mustiness nestled in my nostrils, a mixture of old spice cologne, stale beer, and death. The scent triggered a flood of memories, such as the only occasion that Albert laughed in my presence. My grandma tripped on one of my toys and broke her collarbone. A long hyena howl cackled and crackled from his malicious maw. Albert lived a long and miserable life and died at 94 years old. He was still here, years after his death, because the house soaked up his spirit like a sponge. Hate poisons like a drop of blood in water that turns it pink, easy to contaminate and impossible to remove. I'm convinced that powerful acts of hate or love follow the law of conservation of energy. Its consequences do not dissipate simply because the words or actions cease to exist, but rather their afterglow must end up somewhere. I knew I had to do something to honor my grandma's legacy and take back the power this house held. I could sell the house and be done with it. But I don't need the money. I'd also feel too guilty for the next owners. They would get themselves into an untenable living situation that would only make them unpleasant to be around. Each occupant would gradually grow irritated at first, then find themselves lashing out at anyone who crossed their paths. The hate cycle would continue. With no children of my own, it will and must end with me. I could burn the house down, pour gasoline methodically over every baseboard that lines the inside of every room, and leave its smoking charred remains for someone else to deal with. That would be too easy though. I want this house to suffer for much longer than it would take for flames to lick and consume it. A house needs people to become a home. An empty house is soulless, a black void. I'm going to die here and make sure this house remains starved for attention. It can have me, but I won't be pleasant company. I'm sixty-eight years old and in good health. I have plenty of time to plot and execute the slow destruction of this house. It will be beyond repair by the time it goes to probate and the state takes ownership. They will be forced to tear it down after I'm dead and gone. In the meantime, I'll paint the walls in blood red paint like a child in trouble at school, and force to write on the blackboard. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. Albert was a piece of shit. I'm coming for you. A razor blade will scar the hardwood and slice through carpet. Electrical wires will be severed. A small ball peen hammer will crack every window. Tap, tap, tap. Every mirror will be smashed into a million fragments. Sewage pipes will be disconnected. The crawl space underneath the house will be flooded until the lumber swells and cracks. Water will spray the walls like a garden in spring until black mold blankets every surface. Maybe this is what the house wants. More rage and destruction to feed its hate cycle? Am I becoming more like Albert with each moment that passes in this house? It doesn't matter. This house will haunt no one else. I'll die in the same bedroom where Albert spent his final days. He will not have the last word. I will haunt this house for as long as it stands.

SPEAKER_01 14:45

In life and death.com. He is also a co-founding editor of Slugger Magazine, and you can check that out at SluggerFiction.com. You can also follow Slugger Fiction on Instagram and Sam on Blue Sky at SamLogan52.

Two Kinds Of Grief Goodbye

SPEAKER_01 15:30

All I'm gonna say is that those are two very different takes on grief.

SPEAKER_00 15:34

Oh, absolutely.

SPEAKER_01 15:36

Or not even grief, I guess, just like death of those around you.

SPEAKER_00 15:39

Yeah. Yeah, it was definitely interesting uh perspectives, you know, losing losing a friend versus you know your generational grief from from your grandparents and your parents, your trauma for sure.

SPEAKER_01 15:54

Yeah. Well, as always, thank you, Alex, so much for being here.

SPEAKER_00 15:58

Yeah, thank you for having me. We'll talk to you soon. Ta ta.