 adds her to during the podcast that are not in my voice or placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, it's another Thriller Thursday story, this time I'm bringing you a chapter from a book that I'm narrating from JC Moore entitled Sourd and this is the title chapter of that book. There are a couple of brief moments where the language gets a bit rough so I have blanked out those words but they will be left intact for the actual audiobook. If you're new here welcome to the show and while you're listening be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, to visit sponsors you hear about during the show, sign up for my newsletter and our contests. Connect with me on social media. You're my other podcasts including Church of the Undead and a sci-fi podcast called Auditory Anthology. Listen to free audiobooks I've narrated. Plus you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, dark thoughts or addiction. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Frustration overwhelmed me upon entering the farmhouse. A long day in the fields left my shirt clinging to my damp skin. I looked forward to dinner but saw my wife hugging and stroking our nearly 40-year-old daughter's hair. Her apologetic look came with an irritating smile. I'm sorry darling I didn't get around to dinner yet. Grace had a bit of a hard time today so I thought I'd try to comfort her. What in God's name is wrong with her Clara? She spends all day wallowing in her bedroom snoring like an old hound. Herald, how dare you speak ill of Grace. My body flinched but I turned and looked at my daughter again. Small red bumps covered her skin as if they were trying to imitate the night sky. Her hair hung uneasily on her frail frame, coiling around her face in a menacing embrace. The torn gown clung to her body, exposing everything it should have hidden. The room was dark yet her azure eyes illuminated like two beacons from the abyss. A horse whisper uttered through chapped lips, Apa! A thunderbolt of emotion coarsed through me as I saw the grown woman before me hands trembling at an aged face instead of the small girl I remembered. Four decades had passed yet my daughter seemed stuck in childhood. My wife stooped to her every whim giving in to soothe her selfishness. It had gone on long enough I would no longer tolerate it. I roared and stomped to their rocking chair where my daughter rested on my wife's chest. I think it's important for her to learn to be independent. I said firmly, pointing my finger at them. We can't protect her from the world forever, Clara. My wife's face went ashen, her eyes avoiding mine. Herald, she whispered, the words barely audible. Don't you dare yell at our angel. She's never going to be like them, the others. She trailed off with a defeated tone, and I noticed tears glistening in her eyes. I whirled around to face, Grace. Listen, I said, my voice a low rumble. It ain't that I don't love you, but you can't keep living like this forever. It would be best if you started learning how to take care of yourself for it's too late. What you're doing right now is letting your life go bad like soured, spoiled meat. She was visibly upset and crying. My wife's embrace comforted our daughter as she spoke reassuring words. Pog just needs some time, she whispered protectively. It's okay, sweetheart. I clenched my teeth in frustration. The situation was out of control and ignored. We were spiraling into chaos and I accepted that change was necessary to escape this madness. My daughter had to leave home and start her own life. I inhaled deeply, gracing myself for the confrontation with Clara. Her face was a mask of stoic sadness as I formed the words. I apologized in a barely audible voice. Sweetheart, I hope you can forgive me for scaring Grace. We can't keep living like this. It's too much for me. While slopping the pigs in the barn the following day, I heard a clamor from outside. I darted toward the yard to see Clara and Grace dressed in their finest clothes, standing with suitcases at their feet. As the truth sunk in, my heart ached as I realized my words had finally driven them away. My voice quivered as I demanded, where in the world are you two going? Clara's reply was as dry as her voice. Relieving here, Harold, Grace needs a mama and I need to live my life. We can't do that here no more. How are you going to get there, Clara? With a smile, Grace hugged her mother. We'll hitchhike, paw, Grace said, determinately. Now stop this nonsense, Clara, and return to the house. We have our chores to do today. I tried to sound stern, but my voice was trembling with emotion. Clara rounded to me, her gaze piercing and full of anguish. This ain't no joke, Harold. She spat. Clara ain't going nowhere, not by your orders or mine. You better drop this foolishness about leaving and being angry with each other. We will stay another night, and then maybe you'll come to your senses in the morning. Clara grabbed Grace's hand and pulled her away, leaving me alone in the backyard. The days dragged on, agonizingly slowly, week after week. Clara and Grace would laugh and joke, lively conversations about the most mundane topics bubbling from their lips. But when I entered the room, all the light and laughter dissipated like fog in the sunlight. Those cold eyes stared daggers through my soul. Cruel words formed with ease that always pushed me away. A seemingly eternal winter lived in my heart as their icy indifference defined my existence. I dragged my tired body back into the farmhouse, aching from another day of backbreaking labor. However, the sight that greeted me was not the welcoming embrace I yearned for. Clara and Grace huddled on the couch, whispering secrets in each other's ears as if plotting something sinister. They didn't glance at my arrival, their body's tense with hidden meaning. Listen here, Clara, I said in a firm tone. Grace needs to go to the church social tomorrow, and I set up her meeting with Earl Mitchell's son James. I hear he's well off and has his own business. He'd make a fine, proper husband. Unexpectedly, they both agreed to my demand. Their expressions were polite, yet their eyes seemed untrusting. I cautiously traversed towards the kitchen, keeping them in my peripheral vision. Our dinner starkly contrasted the usual tense atmosphere in the house. Clara praised me by saying I deserved more than life had given me for working hard. Even Grace looked at me differently, her blue eyes filled with mirthful mischief instead of their typical coldness. I knew this could be my chance to get her out of the house for good. If she and James hit it off at the church social, I'd finally be free of my burdensome daughter. That night the bed squeaked and groaned under the weight of our empty years apart. But our reunion was as warm and powerful as the day we married. I sighed, nestling my chin into her shoulder, comforted by her embrace, though tinged with a hint of anxiety about our daughter never letting go of my wife's hand. I can't help thinking this way, even though it may be wicked. I jolted awake, with a screaming agony in my guts, Pete surging through my veins and dizziness and confusion fogging my brain. Sweat coarsed down my forehead as I attempted to sit up, yet the suffering was too overwhelming. Clara sat aside from me, her eyes twinkling with delight beneath her wrinkled face. Her red hair was slick and stuck to her skull. Blood and mud smeared across her cheeks. Don't worry, Harold, she comforted, her voice trembling, you're going to be okay. We'll take care of everything from here on out. I fought to push myself up, but the agony was too great and I crumpled back onto the mattress. I snarled, a tortured growl. Woman, what are you talking about? Clara's expression turned from concern to malice. She sneered, grace is not like the other kids, she's special. My heart raced as I tried to comprehend what she was saying. Clara, she ain't a kid no more, she's a grown woman. A glint in her eyes revealed her long planned and determined scheme. I understand how you feel, Harold, she said soothingly. Our daughter is always a part of us and we need to make sure she is safe and happy. Please relax and take it easy, I just gave you some medicine, similar to what you used on the horse when it was injured. You will feel better soon. Clara, what in the hell are you mumbling about? I was shaking with fear, the pain was excruciating. Grace suddenly walked into the bedroom with blood on her. Flies swarmed around her face. I felt vomit rise in my throat as disgust washed over me. She clutched my beloved bucket in her hand, caked in filth. Ah, don't worry, I completed all your chores this morning. The torment was unbearable now. My legs wouldn't move an inch. They were as still as stone. There seemed to be blood splatters everywhere I looked on the walls and floor. My head swam dizzily, spinning with a million thoughts. Help me get up, Clara, I need to go to town for feed. While bending down to help me, Clara had something on her hands. It was blood, unmistakably red, fresh and dripping. What have you done? Why is there blood on your hands? Clara's expression hardened and her nails dug into my arm like claws. Don't you fret, she hissed. Those pigs of yours are getting plenty to eat. We have been taking great care of them. She stopped for a moment and turned to Grace. They smiled at each other. She then turned back to me. Now, Grace, can you please bring me that bucket? Harold, we just took a bit of you for now, just like a piece of that raspberry pie you like so much. Grace joyfully bound it over and handed the bucket to her mother. Clara, I said sternly, no more of this talk. Help me up. What's wrong with me? I can't move my legs. Well, Grace and I concluded we had to resolve your issue. The one about how you said you could no longer want her here. I winced in pain, running out of patience. What on earth are you babbling about? I spat. It's going to be just like this. She snarled. Grace ain't going nowhere, Harold. She's staying right here, just like so. And I'm going to keep taking care of her. We were thinking that it's you who's the problem. Agony clawed at my insides, and I cringed against the pain. I took a labored breath and tried to rise again, but the blistering ache from within froze me in place. She continued, So we know your pigs and chickens must be fed. Don't fret, we'll take care of everything. You rest and let us do the work. Now, Grace, please hold that bucket again to do the scooping. Be careful not to get too much on the floor. I don't want to be cleaning up another mess. Yes, mama, she said, and leaned toward her mother, reaching down. That's the moment it happened. The pain was excruciating, tearing through me like a tornado. I couldn't hold back the scream that erupted, a mix of agony and despair. My head rose enough for me to see the horror they had unleashed. As I lay there, my daughter's hands dug deep into my guts, tugging and extracting fragments of me and dropping them into the bucket. I could feel the ropes biting into my skin as they dug further into my stomach. I could barely keep my eyes open as I screamed for mercy. Clara lurched close, her fetid breath reeking of rum. With a sinister sneer on her lips, she hissed at me, Harold, I recall you said that you didn't like your meat to go bad. We ain't going to let it go bad on you. Now the pigs can feed on a nice, fresh meal. Nothing will ever turn sour again. Please don't do this. I'm begging you. Oh, Harold, please don't whimper like that. It's not like you're going to die right away. After that, you'll be a part of your beloved pigs. You won't have to worry none about Grace leaving now, Harold. God will make you pay for this. Do you hear me? Grunting, Clara extracted another chunk of my flesh. Grace continued her task, smiling gleefully as she dug into my guts. Clara halted abruptly and loomed over me. Listen up, Harold. We have to feed them pigs now. I'll give you more of the medicine later. All this pain will be a distant memory, okay? Their footsteps thotted away on the wood planks, leaving me alone. The sunlight penetrated the window, hurting my eyes. Clara! I groaned. Despite the pain, I forced my head to turn slowly. All I saw was horror, no matter where I looked. My waist and blood made the air smell pungent. My body writhed in agony, my intestines hanging out like grotesque macabre decorations. Clara and Grace had ripped me open and what remained of me lay in a pool of life's essence on the bedsheets. Then I heard it. Despite the hog's gut-wrenching squeals as they ate, I could hear my wife and daughter's cheerful laughter coming from outside. While I lay in bed, tormented by fear, I could still sense their happiness. Like a knife through my heart. Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories. True crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me and follow me on social media through the Weird Darkness website. WeirdDarkness.com is also where you can find information on sponsors you heard about during the show, listen to free audiobooks I've narrated, get the email newsletter, find my other podcasts, including Church of the Undead and a sci-fi podcast, Auditory Anthology. Also on the site, you can visit the store for Weird Darkness t-shirts, mugs and other merchandise. Plus, it's where you can find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression, addiction or thoughts of harming yourself or others. And if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell of your own, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. All stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction and you can find links to the stories or the authors in the show notes. Sourd is from the book Sourd, a collection of short horror stories, Dark Intrigue's Book 1 by JC Moore. Weird Darkness is a registered trademark. Copyright Weird Darkness. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. A bit longer text this time, but it does involve pigs, so I thought it'd be appropriate. Matthew 8, verses 28-34, And when he came to the other side into the country of the Gadarenes, two demon-possessed men confronted him as they were coming out of the tombs. They were so extremely violent that no one could pass by that way. And they cried out, saying, What business do you have with us, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the time? Now, there was a herd of many pigs feeding at a distance from them. And the demons begged him, saying, If you are going to cast us out, send us into the herd of pigs! And he said to them, Go! And they came out and went into the pigs. And behold, the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters. And the herdsmen ran away and went to the city and reported everything, including what had happened to the demon-possessed men. And behold, the whole city came out to meet Jesus. And when they saw him, they pleaded with him to leave their region. And a final thought. Some of us think too highly of ourselves. Some of us think too lowly of ourselves. But all of us think too much about ourselves. Colin Smith I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. This video is 7 days a week. And while you're at it, spread the darkness by sharing this video with someone you know who loves all things strange and macabre. If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com.