Episode 196 - Campfire Tales #11: Shadow Man

This week Abby and Alex present two original works of horror fiction.

Shadows was written by by Jon Adcock. Find more of Jon's work at https://linktr.ee/jonadcock.

Family, Like Branches was written by Marisca Pichette. You can find Marisca at www.mariscapichette.com, on Instagram @marisca_write, on Bluesky @marisca.bsky.social, and on Twitter/X @MariscaPichette.

Turn down the lights and enjoy two unsettling tales from two talented writers.

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 Back To Campfire Tales

SPEAKER_00 0:18

Everybody, and welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour Podcast. We are sitting here with my friend Alex Goleman.

SPEAKER_01 0:26

Hello, hello.

SPEAKER_00 0:27

And today we have another installment of Campfire Tales for you, which means we are presenting two spooky stories for your enjoyment today.

SPEAKER_01 0:37

Ooh, can't wait to sink my teeth into this batch.

SPEAKER_00 0:40

I feel like one thing that sort of bonds these two stories in different ways is this child-father relationship. Different versions, obviously, and different, totally different plots and storylines. But I'm just going to plant that seed before we read these two stories so that we can see how we feel about it after. Nice. Yeah.

Father Horror And Movie Touchstones

SPEAKER_00 1:01

I'm just thinking about other father horror type things. I guess the thing that comes to mind. Oh, The Sixth Sense. I was gonna say The Shining.

SPEAKER_01 1:08

Oh, and The Shining, yeah.

SPEAKER_00 1:09

But different Oh, yeah. Different again, different, totally different tellings.

SPEAKER_01 1:13

Or or even uh Signs.

SPEAKER_00 1:15

Uh Signs is one of my favorite movies of all time.

SPEAKER_01 1:18

Oh, I I think I agree with you there. Yes.

SPEAKER_00 1:21

I just feel like it's a perfect film. Like that sounds dramatic, and I there's a lot of people in that movie that I don't love as actors, like on a personal level. Like their acting is fine. But it's just like this, it's so it like the metaphor works so well. It's legitimately scary. It has heart, it has humor. I just think it's like a perfect package of a movie.

SPEAKER_01 1:41

Yeah, a home run.

SPEAKER_00 1:42

It's a home run. Yeah. And that's relevant to someone. Totally. Man. All right. Well, without further ado, Alex, will you read the first story?

SPEAKER_01 1:52

I'd love to.

Story One Begins In A Storm

SPEAKER_01 2:08

Daddy? Yeah, honey? Jason briefly glanced at his four-year-old daughter, Sarah, while scrolling through his newsfeed. The shadow man is back. It's just me she's seeing, his wife said as she got ready for work. I always check on her when I get home at night. I still think a night light is a good idea. She'll at least know it's you. If I remember, I'll buy one on my break. Becca gave him a quick kiss before grabbing her car keys. Tonight's the night I'm staying to help with inventory. I won't be home until after two. Love you. Love you too. Drive safe. The storm is supposed to be bad. He had just finished feeding Sarah dinner when the storm broke. Its arrival heralded by a sudden drop in temperature and a deep rumble of thunder that rattled the windows. They stood in the doorway watching the rain cascade down in torrents. Gusts of wind made the trees shiver and sway, and lightning tore the night sky apart. Each flash illuminated the world with a brief, eerie glow. It was like a glimpse of war raging in heaven. With each growl of thunder, Sarah moved closer to him, and when the lights flickered briefly, she clung to his leg. Okay, time for bed, he said. Read me a book first, please. Yeah, but just one. Go and get your pajamas on and pick a book out. The lights flickered again. After she went upstairs, he went into the garage and searched the cabinets. He found two electric lanterns in one of them, and toggled their on-off switches to ensure they worked. As he carried the lanterns into the house, the lights flickered once, p twice, and then went out completely. His daughter began calling for him. It's just a power outage, Sarah, he called up the stairs. Stay in your room. I'll be up in a few minutes. Brief flashes of brilliance lit up the windows and spilled partway in. Once each strike faded, the darkness pressed around him, thick and smothering. The house was quiet and still. With only the sound of rain drumming against the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder breaking the silence. He placed one of the lanterns on the dining room table and turned on the other. Cocooned in its soft glow, he made a slow circuit through the downstairs. Only darkness and shadows fled from him. Nothing else. When his daughter called for him again, he went up the stairs. So what book did you pick out? Jason placed one lantern on her dresser and the other on top of her toy chest. The wild things. She held the book up. Sarah climbed onto his lap after he pulled the rocking chair closer to one of the lanterns. He quickly and perfunctorily read where the wild things are to her, pausing briefly at each page so she could look at the pictures. The sound of the rain had lessened, but gusts of wind caused the tree branches to tap and scratch at her windows, as if something wanted to be let in. Okay, time for bed. Jason slid her off his lap after he finished the book. You didn't howl. What? At the wild rumpus part. You always howl at that part. Sarah stared at him, her brow furrowed. I guess I forgot, he said, walking toward the bookshelf. I'll leave the lanterns here so you don't have to worry about the shadow man tonight. I'm not worried. I like him. He's nice. Mommy said you told her that. Has he talked to you? He paused as he put the book back on its shelf. His voice was neutral, but his knuckles were white from how tightly he held the book. He tries, but I can't understand him. His voice is too soft. Well, maybe I'll wait here and meet him. He turned toward her with a smile that had been quickly slipped into place. He sat in the rocking chair, gently swaying back and forth while Sarah lay in bed, cuddling her green dinosaur. When he could tell from her breathing that she had fallen asleep, he pulled the rocking chair around until it faced the hallway. His smile was stored away like the costume it was. The lanterns had noticeably dimmed, but there was still enough light for his needs. He sat motionless, staring into the darkened hallway. After a long wait, he began to perceive movement at the end of the hall. A shadow, vaguely the shape of a man, and darker than the surrounding darkness, approached him. There wasn't a word to describe its colour. Because it wasn't a colour. It was the absence of color. The figure stopped outside the doorway, just beyond the pale semicircle of light cast by the lantern. You're persistent, I'll give you that. Jason stood and leaned against the door frame. The child must be pulling you back. My life, the figure said. It's voice like the faint rustling of dried leaves. Yes, it was your life. But I'm trying it on for a while. What are you? A little of this and a little of that? The question should be what do we do? We visit in the dead of night and feed on your fear, pain, and despair. We hold each of you closer than lovers as we drink our fill. And sometimes, when the despair is great, we can find a small crack to wiggle into. A toehold, so to speak. But there are rules. For me to be here, someone has to be there. Hence your predicament. By the way, your wife appreciates the change. She mentioned the other day how long it's been since my last bout of depression. The figure lunged forward. As his arms entered the light, they dissolved, quickly dissipating into a dark mist. He yanked them back. Stings, doesn't it? Now what to do about you? Daddy? Sarah was standing at Jason's side. Get back to bed, Jason shouted. The shadow knelt, tapped its chest twice, and extended its arm as if offering something to her. It was a game her father used to play with her, symbolizing that he was giving her his heart. Sarah stepped into the darkness and grasped the shadow's hand. As she did so, the shadow began to solidify, taking on a distinct shape. The changeling lunged, trying to pull Sarah back into the room, but its hands and arms were dissolving. It threw back its head in a silent scream as the rest of its body disincorporated. After the transformations ended, Jason held his daughter tightly as the last traces of the changeling drifted away like smoke. Afterward, there were still times when a deep dark sadness would rise from within him. On the worst days, when he sensed a distance scrabbling at the edges of his mind, Jason would stand in his daughter's doorway and watch her sleep. As he did so, his love for her would weave into an unbreakable cord, keeping him tethered to her Becca and the world. Author's note for my daughter, Lauren, who came up to me when she was three and said, The Shadow Man is back. Five words that made me shiver on a bright and warm summer's day.

Author Note And Where To Find Him

SPEAKER_00 9:21

That story was written by John Adcock. John says that writing in the third person always makes the author feel like he's writing his obituary. But here goes a lover of alt rock, Akira Kirosawa movies, and craft beer, the author lives in Northern California with his wife and two kids. His beautiful wife definitely could do better, but luckily for him, she hasn't caught on to that fact yet. Rage Against the Machine, the Black Keys, and the Warlocks are on heavy rotation on Spotify for writing inspiration. And I'm gonna add John's link tree in the description of this episode so that you can find all of the wonderful places where he is. Okay, so that's Take on Dad Horror 1.

SPEAKER_01 10:00

Wow.

SPEAKER_00 10:01

Let's get into the second one.

SPEAKER_01 10:03

Let's do it.

Setting Up Story Two

SPEAKER_00 10:04

I just want to say before we start that this story was originally published in Necessary Fiction in 2023.

The Hungry Tree Takes Root

SPEAKER_00 10:24

My father planted the hungry tree in the crack in the driveway, assuming it would starve, wither in the summer heat. He thought it would die before the first leaves unfurled. Today I harvested six seeds from the branches I can reach. Its roots sprawl, breaking the driveway into uneven slabs. I navigate these like a polar bear on a melting shoreline. Waiting for the day, the cracks widen enough to swallow me whole. I clutch my burden close. The seeds from the hungry tree are sharp and red, thorns testing the resilience of my palm. When I make it at last inside, I put them in an empty folders can and seal the lid. I will bury these seeds in the backyard, with all the others I've taken before they touched the ground. They must never grow. There must never be another hungry tree. From the kitchen window I gaze at the tree my father tried to kill. In old age it sags, back grey as his hair where it's scattered on the lawn, all that was left by the hungry tree. It's in no guides, no wiki pages. Google doesn't have an entry for the hungry tree. Does it photosynthesize? I don't think so. I do know. Fire, weed killer, lime, tar, frost, and drought won't kill it. I know its bark feels like sandpaper, its leaves like rent steel. I also know that it hosts no birds in its branches. Its body belongs only to itself. My father brought it home in a cracked terracotta planter and hid it in the basement, hoping darkness would stop it from growing. Tendrils forced open the door, wrapped around table eggs, and climbed the sides of my crib. It was then that he decided to plant it. The hungry tree shades the front lawn, replaces the garage it knocked over a year ago. I cannot trim it back. If a twig is broken, pitch stains the ground ochre, burns the grass white. The hungry tree smells of anesthetic and papaya. It is as wide as my camry parked in the back, far from its leering branches. At night the shadow it casts is darker than the rest. I've never tried to cut down the hungry tree, watching it through my window. I wait for it to consume this house at last. Last night lightning struck its trunk. In the morning I find its girth has doubled. Currents traverse its branches. I harvest snow seeds today. My father never said where he got the tree. But though I was a child, I think I know. I remember her leaving, him following, him returning with the tree. Did it consume her? Did he trade her for it, like magic beans? Did she become it willingly, unwillingly, without a backward glance? It fed on him, the day he vanished. The day he vanished, another branch grew. I'm older than they were, him and her. I wonder when it will take me. Add a final branch to its rough trunk. I've got nothing to leave behind. No partners, no children, no pets. When I go, there will be no one left to state there will be no one left to sate it. Sun sets behind the hungry tree, and I realize I've watched it for hours. Shadows broaden the cracks in the driveway. I wonder if it will consume the house as well. As night falls, I roll up my sleeves. I drink three cups of water from the sink. I eat a handful of soil and half a sunflower seed, fertilized. I walk outside. The hungry tree is waiting. I wrap my arms around its trunk. I know at last how to end its growth. There will be none after me. Mud in my gut. I fall asleep in the arms of this starving, dying tree that once, in rivers of blood and history, was family.

Author Bio And Links

SPEAKER_00 14:03

That story was written by Mariska Pichette, who is a queer author based in Massachusetts. She has published more than 300 pieces, which every time I read, I it blows my mind, of short fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, The Deadlands, Nightmare Magazine, and more. Their eco-horror novella, Every Dark Cloud, is out now from Ghost Orchard Press, and I will leave all of the links to follow Mariska on various social platforms and uh and at their website in the description of this episode.

Dads Trees And Real Memories

SPEAKER_00 14:33

Okay, I have to say that there's something about this story that reminds me so much, and not in a bad way, even though the story is a bit dark, of my family. Oh yeah.

SPEAKER_01 14:45

Say more.

SPEAKER_00 14:46

Because there was this sycamore tree, my first, very first house that I lived in, which feels like this very ethereal, unreal place almost because it was like surrounded by cornfields on all sides. It was like a very specific place in time. But there was a sycamore tree, and my dad did not plant it, I don't think, but he would, because it was massive, but he would climb it a lot. And um eventually when we had to move houses, he like chopped down a piece of it to make our mailbox at our next house.

SPEAKER_01 15:12

Oh, cool. You took a bit of your house with you.

SPEAKER_00 15:15

Yeah, and I don't know, there's and the tree was like in the front yard near the driveway. There's just something about the way she writes about it that's reminds me of that. The other thing I'll say is that my dad was given like um a seedling for an orange tree. I think from his dad, I think what happened was my grandpa lived in Florida and like sent oranges, and in the oranges there was like a seedling for like an orange tree. My dad planted it, and every year we move it. I don't always participate because it's very heavy, but we move it like from the basement outside and inside, depending on the screen. Yeah, so I'm just like, oh, there's something about dads and trees, you know.

SPEAKER_01 15:51

Well, when I was born, my grandfather gifted my parents, well, me, I guess, a um a maple sapling to plant in our front yard. Yeah. Which was I mean, it was amazing during the fall. You could see all the leaves um changing colors, and I'd look out and be like, ah, that's my tree.

SPEAKER_00 16:11

Yeah.

SPEAKER_01 16:12

Which was there's something about you're right, there is something about fathers and trees. And yeah.

SPEAKER_00 16:17

Oh, that must have been sad when your parents sold their house. Say goodbye.

SPEAKER_01 16:20

Well, uh the symbolism uh goes further. The the tree did get sick and die before we ended up moving. So there's I mean, you know, psychotherapists, analyze this, please. But um, yeah, no, there we did have to chop it down prematurely.

SPEAKER_00 16:36

I understand.

SPEAKER_01 16:37

Yeah, it's the way of the world.

SPEAKER_00 16:39

Uh well, this was this was like a lovely um non unplanned through line between these two things.

Closing Thanks And Goodbye

SPEAKER_00 16:46

Yeah. As always, Alex, thank you so much for joining us.

SPEAKER_01 16:49

Thank you for having me.

SPEAKER_00 16:50

We'll talk to you guys soon.