 Ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are 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. If you're new here, welcome to the show! And while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, to enter contests, to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. 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. This happened to me a few nights ago. I can't explain it, but from my research I think I had an encounter with the black-eyed kids you've been talking about. Please share my account with others. Last Sunday, I headed out to mow my lawn. In front of my house, I have a large garden. To my horror, someone had been by and stepped all over my roses. I was very angry and upset, but resolved myself to putting some work in and fixing my garden. The next day, I saw two kids walking down my road. Keep in mind, my road has several houses, so we all know each other quite well. It's a very nice community. These kids looked to be around 13 or 14 years old. At about 11 p.m. I felt tired, switched off the light, and went to sleep. I woke up two hours later because I heard some strange noises near my front door. The next thing made me jump out of bed. It sounded like someone was trying to force entry into my house. I grabbed my cell just in case I had to call the cops. I ran to the kitchen to check who was at the front door. The only problem was that there was nobody there, and I still could hear the noise. I locked the doors up and down again and left the key inside just to make sure that nobody could get in, and I went back to my room. I always sleep with the curtains open because I like to watch the moon as I go to sleep. Only this time there was no moonlight. There were three children outside my window and they had totally black eyes and peel-looking faces. I felt an absolute and overwhelming sense of terror. I think they were all about the same age, but I sensed that they were very old. Don't ask me how I knew that. One child was repeating, let us in, let us in, and tapping on the window. I knew that I couldn't do what he asked. I could sense danger as it had a smell attached to it. I don't know how else I could explain it. Anyway, the child was repeating, let us in, let us in, let us in, constantly, and I jumped into my bed shaking and crying. Every time I heard the knock and the request, I was shivering like crazy and crying. It went on for the next few hours, and I don't know whether I finally fell asleep or they just left. I don't even know if they got inside my house. What I do know is that I woke up absolutely drained of energy. I can't stop my thoughts from going back to that night, and I was praying that this will never happen to me again. What the hell are these things? Periodically, we hear about religious icons that display some supposed supernatural, paranormal or downright miraculous activity. Statues that cry tears, open their eyes, move around, smile. You must have read at least one such story. In fact, we have another such story later in this episode. However, I promise you that you have never heard about the statue of the Virgin Mary that caught a thief. First to the Church of St. James the Grader in the old town of Prague may not actually notice the severed arm hanging from a meat hook as they enter the church. After all, it isn't actually the sort of relic you would expect to see in a church. However, there was a 400 year old mummified arm hanging from a hook as you enter the church, if you look carefully. How did it get there? The story of how the arm got there is that one night a would-be thief broke into the church to steal what he could along with the jewels from the statue of the Virgin Mary. As he was attempting to remove the jewels, the statue of the Virgin Mary grabbed his arm and held him with a vice-like grip. No matter how hard he tried, the would-be robber was held fast in the Virgin's grip. The next morning, as people began to enter the church, they found the robber in the grip of the stone statue and marveled at this miracle. Try as they might, no one could free his arm and in the end, they were forced to amputate it to free him. As soon as they did so, the Virgin Mary statue went back to its natural pose. The arm was hung as a warning to other would-be thieves. He was an experienced climber, but what he saw and felt terrified him so much that he never returned to the mountains alone. He was not the only person to experience something very strange. Several other climbers share a similar, scary story. The Scottish mountain, Ben McDewy, is located at the heart of the Cairngorms on the eastern side of a pass called the Lerigra. Ben McDewy is the second highest mountain in the British Isles. The mountain has become well known not because of its beauty, but rather due to a number of unexplained incidents that have occurred here and in the mountain's vicinity. According to early reports, the first encounter with an unknown entity took place back in 1890. In 1925, Professor Norman Colley described his unusual experience at the annual meeting of the Cairngorm Club. He said the event occurred 35 years earlier, one day when he had been descending from the Ben McDewy. There was a mist and the weather conditions made the climbing difficult. On his way back, Professor Colley suddenly heard something more than just the sound of his own footsteps. For every few steps he took, he heard a crunch and then another one. He was under the impression someone was following him, taking three steps or four times the length of his own. Eventually he became seized with terror. He started running as quickly as he could, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles until he reached the Rothy-Mercus Forest. Whatever it was that had been following him was now gone. Dr. A. M. Kellis, a chemistry teacher and climber, experienced something similar while accompanied by his brother. The two men had been chipping for crystals late one afternoon on Ben McDewy. Suddenly they noticed a giant figure descending towards them from the Cairng that had vanished out of sight. They awaited its reappearance, but it did not take long before fear overtook them and they fled. During the summer of 1904 a man called Hugh Welsh spent some nights on the summit of Ben McDewy. According to Mr. Welsh, he and his brother heard the sound of slurring footsteps as if someone was walking slowly through water-saturated gravel. They heard the same sound during the day, but saw nothing that could explain it. Welsh said that he and his brother were frequently conscious of something near them. They had an eerie sensation of apprehension. Over the years there have been a number of reports from climbers who have experienced something odd in the vicinity of Ben McDewy. In June 2006 Stephen Peddler and his father Roy set out to climb Skor and Lacheyne Uang, the Angels Peak, and Briarack in the Cairngorms. After about five minutes Stephen stopped to put plasters on his heels which had developed blisters. Meanwhile his father continued climbing. When Stephen started climbing again about twenty minutes later his father was about a quarter of a mile ahead of him. Stephen heard shuffling sounds behind him, but when he turned around there was no one there. Stephen continued walking and finally he caught up with Roy who waited for him at the plateau. Roy had heard the same strange sounds and thought it must have been footsteps. There was a very strong wind that started blowing from the south. For a moment Roy and Stephen thought the wind could have moved some of the stones and it would explain the sound they had heard. However both men realized the wind could not have caused the footsteps like noises. The sound was too regular. Roy and Stephen could not explain what had happened. When Tom Robertson, a Scottish ghost investigator visited the place in 2004 he said that he and his companion Derek Blake heard footsteps and strange noises. They also saw the outline of a dark shape against the moonlight. It seemed to be ten feet tall. A huge arm allegedly reached over their tent which then collapsed on Blake's side. The flysheet of the tent was torn off and Robertson saw what looked like a huge grey gorilla. Then the attacks stopped and the huge creature vanished. However fearing the creature would return Robertson and Blake decided to abandon the tent and leave the place as soon as possible. On their way back they took photographs of very large footprints in the gravel. Similar reports have come from other regions which are not confined to the Cairnghorns. In May 2009 a walker was traversing some hills a few miles to the east-south of Atnishine in northern Scotland. After he entered a cloud of 400 meters everything was still and eerily quiet. He could not see more than 50 meters ahead. The man heard footsteps and breathing behind him. He felt someone was following him. Whenever we started walking faster the footsteps behind him seemed to speed up. When he stopped the invisible pursuer stopped too. The walker decided to pause briefly at the summit Cairngh of Milan-Nanhuon and waited to see if someone would emerge from the mist. But nothing happened. People often say they experience unexpected feelings of apprehension in the region. In many cases they are aware of an eerie silence that is almost supernatural. Stories of this kind have led people to believe there is a big grey man living in or near the Ben McDowee mountain. Some think it is Bigfoot roaming the Scottish mountains. Locals call the creature Ampere Leithmoore and it has become known as the Big Grey Man of Ben McDowee. Some believe the legend is based in an atmospheric phenomenon known as a broken specter. This is when the sun casts shadows of hikers on nearby mists making it look like a shadowy giant is lurking in the fog nearby. As for the footsteps, some attribute the sound to cryo seismic activity on the oft frigid mountaintop. Maybe one day someone will finally manage to photograph the creature and we will know the truth about what is causing the weird sounds at Ben McDowee. Weird Darkness continues in just a moment. Nothing goes better with chocolate than vanilla and nothing goes better with the darkness than vampires. So we have combined all of them into a new blend of weird dark roast coffee called very vampilla. This bloody good blend combines a medium dark roast coffee with hints of chocolate, vanilla and just a tad bit of dried cherry too. So good you'll want to sink your fangs into the fresh roasted bag itself. Weird dark roast very vampilla, the only thing at stake, sorry, not sorry, bad pun, is your dissatisfaction with your old coffee. Sip it while the sun is down if you are one of the undead or when the sun is up if you just feel dead and need a bit of a boost. Get your weird dark roast very vampilla at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. People who visit Scotland often ask where they can find the mysterious and beautiful village of Brigadune. It's a place where the passing of a century seems no longer than one night. The village is hidden somewhere in the Scottish Highlands and it appears every hundred years for just one day. The enchantment of the village of Brigadune will only last as long as no citizen leaves. If the enchantment is broken, the village will disappear forever into the Highland mists. A long time ago, the village fell under an evil magical curse and as part of an agreement made with God, the village must remain unchanged and invisible to the outside world except for one special day every hundred years when it could be seen and even visited by outsiders. That particular day is a moment of joy and celebration, but none of the villagers are allowed to leave the place. If anyone does, the enchantment would be broken and the village and all its inhabitants would vanish forever into the Highland mists. It is believed the village of Brigadune disappeared in 1754. Bob Curran writes in his book Lost Lands, Forgotten Realms, Sunken Continents, Vanished Cities and the Kingdoms That History Misplaced that the spell that was cast over Brigadune was put in place to protect it from advancing English redcoats during the Jacobite Rebellion. The village still exists, but it is stuck in some kind of time warp and has not appeared since 1754. Those who have researched the myth about Brigadune have reason to think the legend does not originate from Scotland but Germany. There was an old German legend of a cursed village named Girmelhausen. It was said that the village's bells were so loud that they could be heard ringing out across the Bavarian Mountains. These tales were recorded by the brothers Grimm in their collection of ghostly tales. Curran explains that those who followed the sound of the bells and entered the village were never seen again. They tried to return to the mortal world, but all of their attempts were in vain. Girmelhausen was allegedly inhabited by dark and evil forces that only desired to harm humanity. The evil village of Girmelhausen is said to still exist, hidden somewhere in the Bavarian Hills. Unseen by the human eye and ready to draw the unwary traveler into its curse, anyone should avoid this place at all costs. So while Girmelhausen is associated with evil forces, the village of Brigadune reflects joy and Scottish romance. Today, many people associate the name Brigadune with a musical written by Frederick Lowe in 1947. The musical is world-famous and its plot centers around the chaos which unfolds when a pair of traveling Americans stumble upon the village right before a wedding is going to be celebrated. The village of Brigadune is a myth, but there is a medieval bridge south of Allaway that is called Brigadune. Allaway is a former Scottish village that is now a suburb of ire. It is best known as the birthplace of Robert Burns and the setting for his poem, Tamal Shantner. Some people believe that the musical was named for Brigad, a Celtic goddess, and others have suggested it may also be a compound of the Celtic words Brigadune for town and Dune for fortifications, suggesting a fortified or sheltered town. The Brigadune musical was written during a period when German themes would not have been popular on the British or American stage due to the recent World War. Many think as a result, Lerner retooled the story, setting it in Scotland so that he could use the distinctive sounds of traditional Scottish music and the lush setting of the Scottish Highlands. Whatever the truth might be behind the village of Brigadune, it is a wonderful tale. It has been a while since I've submitted to Weird Darkness. When I recount these events, it takes a lot out of me. Here is a real event I've teased and talked about, that blessed mother statue that was in my home in Cloverdale, the statue that moved around by itself, that felt alive. Here is her story. Not sure where my grandmother got it from, but she swears it can smile and it can cry, something that always scared me when I was younger. A few years after the Cloverdale House events, but not before I went back to Cloverdale, I lived on Arlington Court in Hanover Park, Illinois, about a year after moving out of Spring Street. My grandparents ended up back living with us. We had a nice bar in the basement so that's where we hung around. And no, we did not underage drink, but we did film some movies down there. My uncle also lived back with us and he lived in the only bedroom in the basement. I honestly did not ever go into that room, nor was the door ever left open. Months and weeks after moving on, I never went into the room. But it did feel weird. I felt an energy from the room. I just figured it was my relative's smoking pot. I was wrong. In a turn of events, my extended family moved out and they left something, something in that room. The day I finally went into the room, guess what was staring at me? The statue of the Blessed Mother. I've always had weird feelings from this statue. Always. Even before the events in the Cloverdale House. It felt alive. When I opened the door, I didn't feel scared or creeped out for once. I was in a home that wasn't haunted, although it was directly in front of those same woods we saw a red-eyed creature. The road this house was on directly parallel to Cloverdale Road. The very spot a child's body was found in Mallard Lake could be seen through the trees in my very backyard. Well, the cliff, the kid fell off at least. We were Roselle ghost hunters at the time, and I had equipment. No car yet though. But I figured now we have done some investigating, I want to prove once and for all something supernatural was going on with this statue. Myself and co-founder of RGH Andre set up my night vision camera on a tripod. It was late. No one was home and we recorded the statue in the dark room for five hours. I wanted to know all these years of weird feelings around this statue, all the things that happened with the statue. I wanted answers. We slept for over six hours, waking up dazed and confused, forgetting the camera was still set up. We went into the room and nothing seemed unusual. We began to upload the footage in my office. No one home Andre eventually had to leave, but I finally get the footage uploaded and I begin to watch. I stop watching. Why? Because nothing happened. Every frame of footage it felt like we were recording a real person sleeping, but nothing happened. Nothing moved. That is while we investigated. I returned downstairs to prepare a second attempt. To my surprise the statue was now facing the opposite direction. Again no one was home. That same statue was knocked over at my Cloverdale house. The same statue my uncle said moved. It had moved. I got as close as I could and I swear the face was different. Like it thought it was funny I wanted to capture it on camera. But I finally experienced something strange. Besides the feelings it gave off. It moved. She let me know she was aware. That was it. To this day after we moved from that house I am not sure what happened to the statue. But strangely I miss it. I feel like it protected me many times. I felt like she was guarding whatever house we lived in. All I can say for sure is the statue never felt dark. But it sure was weird. My imaginary friends paid me a visit tonight. Don't go near this black locus tree they said and pulled me to a second story bedroom window. Outside it was dark. The front yard barely lit by a sliver of moon. Why not? I asked them staring at the large tree. It's a fibber tree. He wants to hurt you. They guide me back to my new nursery bed. I sit crisscross applesauce with my canary yellow nightgown pulled over my knees. No one can see my imaginary friends but me. Not mama, daddy, big brother Timmy, or babysitter Margie. Why does he want to hurt me? I ask. My friends tousled my curls. Dear child, sometimes fibber trees get hungry for little ones. And that one is starving. Those roots peeking up from the grass will grab your ankles and break your little baby bones snap in half. And then it'll gobble you up in the trunk where you'll live forever. Broke and bruised in the trunk of a fibber tree. I can ask daddy to chop it down. Oh no, you can't fool a fibber tree. Sometimes we play outside by the tree. Margie makes me and Timmy just stay out of the shade away from the tree. We're done talking about fibbers. Now mind us and settle back to sleep, dear one. The next morning Margie watched us as mama went into town. Outside you too, Margie barked. She wasn't allowed to smoke in the house. I trailed behind her dragging a blanket and a bag of toys. Margie set up a lawn chair under the black locus tree. I sat on the front steps. Come on down here out of the sun, she hollered. I walked to the edge of the shade and spread out the blanket, tipped the dolls from the blanket. For Pete's sake, move closer so you'll be out of the sun. Margie didn't want to bother with sunblock. She was lazy like that. Timmy, fly your airplane over here under the tree. Shading my eyes, I gazed at the fibber tree, at the monster on my front lawn. Its shallow roots peaked up like toes out of the grass. Long black pods, like wrinkled fingers, dangled on crooked branches, beckoning at the faintest breeze. Timmy ran under the tree, tossed his toy plane in the air. He jumped, grabbed a branch, pulling it until leaves scattered and it snapped. I flinched. Timmy, Margie yelled, your dad don't like you breaking off those branches. She settled back in her chair, pulled a cigarette case from her sweater pocket. Timmy whacked the branch across the tree trunk. Timmy, stop! I cried out. Make me. The tree won't like it. Oh, I'm hurting the tree. Stop being such a baby! He whipped the branch across the trunk again. Timmy, knock it the hell off! Margie shouted. She tapped a cigarette from her pack. I set up my dolls in seated positions. Could a tree tell the difference between a doll and a real live kid? I wondered. I choose Lambie, the doll with cotton white, curly hair and dimples on each cheek. Cradling her in my arms, I stood and faced the fibber tree. The soft clicks of Margie's lighter filled my ears as I ran to the tree and laid Lambie at its trunk. I whispered, fibber tree, take this here, girl. Her name is Lambie. Placing my palm against the trunk, I felt the bark pulse and beat. I jumped back as I heard Margie groan. Christ's sake, this damn lighter ain't working. Going in the house for matches, neither of you move. Hear me? Timmy? Just sit in my chair until I get back. Keep an eye on your sister. Timmy plopped sideways in the chair, legs hung over the arms. I raced back to my blanket in the sun. Timmy, move your chair by me. Why, you scaredy cat? He tossed his plane straight into the air near the branches. My eyes were on Lambie. She was slumped forward, face down in the grass. A gnarled tree-root inched through the lawn, seized her, and in a blur of white curls was sucked into the bark. I covered my face. It had worked. Ow! You threw this at me! Timmy hollered. I looked up, gasped. He stood in front of the chair, holding Lambie. I'll snap her head clean off! He threw her on my blanket. It can't be. It can't be. I picked up Lambie. Her head was shrunken like an old apple. Hair singed from her head, arms and legs dented, dangled at strange angles. You can't fool a thiber tree. A gust of wind shook the tree. Margie's lawn chair flipped over. Timmy whipped his plane in the air and it glided into the tree trunk. He sprinted to the plane. Timmy, I shouted, come back! He tripped over a root, fell down. Timmy looked at me. His lips pulled back and panicked as a branch bowed low and scooped him up, flattening him into the tree trunk. Brittle cracks like the sound of mama and her shiny butcher knife carving through the back of a whole chicken echoed in the yard as he melted into the tree. Wetness spread from my big girl pants, soaking the blanket. The soundless scream froze in my mouth, swirled and sucked at my baby teeth. Timmy's airplane lay crushed on the ground. My hands were wrapped around Lambie's neck when Margie slammed open the screen door. Who tipped over my chair? She grumbled, righted the chair and settled in. I watched as she scratched a match until a flame popped. Her lips sucked and puffed until the cigarette lit and the smoke billowed and faded away. She sighed, picked fuzz off her sweater. Where the hell is Timmy? She finally asked. More stories still to come when Weird Darkness returns. When Salem Roanoke took a job near his family's new home as a hired hand in the Texas Hill Country, he anticipated learning the rancher's trade, but a series of strange events, shocking murders and unholy revelations divert him down another path. This terrifying trajectory puts him directly into the middle of a struggle between monsters, magic and men. Armed and backed by a militia of ranchers, Salem attempts to combat the creeping tide of evil that threatens to engulf his new home and destroy the people most important to him. Will Salem manage to save his home or have his actions condemn everyone he hopes to save? The Witch Trials, A Summer of Wolves and Season of the Witch by SR Roanoke, available in paperback, kindle and audiobook versions. Look for The Witch Trials by SR Roanoke on Amazon or find it on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash audiobooks. In the year of our Lord, 1587, celebration filled the spring air for the good people of Roanoke Colony. Winter had been stubborn once again and threats of war with the Spanish had severed much-needed replenishment of goods and supplies. As one of England's earliest attempts at the establishment of a permanent settlement in the Americas, they were truly isolated. Tested was their resolve of heart and faith in God. Eventually the days grew longer and the last of the snow had melted. Come spring, none of the 117 colonists had perished, and in fact the valiant people were thriving and prospering in this brave new world. Memories of hardship and trials were absent from tongue and thought this warm day. Today was about triumph and victory. The rugged and savage land had not overcome their determination of will and manifestation of destiny. Today was a day of honor, heralded with a feast in which all would take part from tables placed outside along the town's edge. It was a time to congregate and make merry with their brother and neighbor. Offerings of thanks would be given to God and cups of wine would be raised to the Queen. Men bellowed and laughter, women giggled amongst themselves and children ran and played throughout the settlement. All was good in the world that day. A little boy's voice sang out from the treeline of the forest that sat east of town. The voice of Thomas called out, Mommy! Mommy! I caught him! He's mine! I caught him! At the sound of her son's voice, Priscilla's lips thinned with irritation. Once could not a single day come to pass in which the little wave could not cause me embarrassment, she thought to herself. Priscilla felt a mixture of guilt and disdain every time she looked upon the child, for she had married young and not for love but for necessity. Plucked from the busy streets of Cambridge by her adventurous husband, she despised him for the life he chose for her, given the fact that he did not even have the courtesy to remain among the living long enough to ensure his expecting wife could escape this savage wilderness. In bitterness, she alone bore the responsibility of parenthood. She held fast to the belief that never had there been a more disobedient child than Thomas. As the boy grew from an infant, he became such an odd and unusual child. No interest had he in the goings on around him and mostly dwelt in an inner world of his own making. Other than frequent outbursts of tantrums, little emotion was shown or shared by Thomas. Was it her fault that bonds of motherly affection did not form, thought Priscilla? She did not turn or even acknowledge the callings of the voice and continued her duties of setting the tables and conversing with the other women. She ignored the curious glances over her shoulder and the looks of pity that fell upon her. A scream arose from the crowd. The murmurs of talk and conversation instantly came to a halt. All attention had come to rest on the forest's edge. With a hop and a skip, the childlike figure broke through the treeline and onto the grassy field that separated the colony from the forest's edge. It grew near with long, proud skips through the grass. The people saw what approached. Mothers grabbed their children and men stood fast to protect their family. It was sickly pale and emaciated. Skin drooped and hung loosely from its bones, forming striations of sagging flesh that swayed to and fro. Ropey white hair clumped together upon its head. Patches of shiny red flesh glistened in the sun where hair had been torn from root. The eyes stretched wide and protruded from its skull and held the consistency of soup or potage gone cold. It gazed absently past the horizon with cloudy blue and white pupils that were large and dilated. As it approached, the putrid smell of its ravaged flesh intensified. Once reaching the town's edge, the creature continued its hopping from one foot to the next. I caught him. He's mine, he's mine. I won't give him back. He's mine, he's mine, he's mine. It shanted. The small creature held its two gaunt arms high above its head, with hands cupped together, much like how a child would hold a butterfly caught in mid-flight. Another scream pierced the air, and others gasped for realization had come crashing down on all who bore witness. It fell heavy on their hearts and filled each with dread. For despite its deformities and gruesome appearance, this was no spawn from Satan's seed. There was no doubt to the impossible truth this, in fact, was their very own Thomas. The sky above the forest darkened, and clouds of the deepest purple, blue and green spilled out from a single point in the heavens. It bled out from the firmament like a stab wound and gathered in ominous shapes and formations. The clouds poured out with such force it gave the appearance of a vast body of turbulent water churning above the forest. Luminescent flashes of green and white glowed from within. The silence was stunning as the clouds continued to bubble and boil. The expansion of clouds soon quieted and came to a stop. All was still, but the air was electrified with the anticipation of the approach of something. A loud crash of thunder rolled out of the heavens, frightening the masses. The echo of its rumble lingered in the air until it slowly faded. Then another clap boomed overhead. Panic gripped the people, for this was no thunder that roared overhead. This was different. The low, mournful tone was too profound to be of nature's making. No, it held the likeness of darkness and resemblance of dread at the arrival of war sounded from great trumpets. Trumpets like those spoken about in Scripture that would herald the end of days. Magnificent, splendid objects lit the air and burst through the clouds. So bright were they that no true form could be discerned of its body. Only rings within rings of light did they have an appearance. But the large span of wings that outstretched from its back was unmistakable. A legion of creatures of light hovered in the sky and began to descend on the small settlement. Pillars of fire ignited from the beings. One, then two, then three, five, ten, fifty, and so on. As they approached the purpose and nature of the fire became understood, the fire sat upon a hilt and was the blade of a sword of flames. Thomas stood before the crowd of people as they cowered and looked at him with disgust. He held his hands firmly clamped around something that did not want to be trapped. A thick red and black fluid poured and seeped out from between his hands and fingers. It fell to the ground in ropey strands and began to smoke upon contact with the grass. The fluid formed tendrils and burrowed into the hands and arms of Thomas, yet he took no notice. The tendrils moved viciously as it penetrated the boy's hands and forearms. It spread out like a branch of veins and could be seen traveling up and underneath the skin of the boy's arms. Within the boy's cupped hands and inhuman scream shrieked loudly. Moans and wails continued as it violently jerked the boy's hands to and fro up and down side to side, but Thomas' grip held fast and unbroken. Brilliant beams of light exploded from the child's hands as the thick substance began to foam and pour out from between his fingers in greater amounts. Those unfortunate souls who had looked directly into the light were paralyzed from the flash. Their heads snapped upwards toward the sky and their mouths opened wide with the sound of a loud death rattle. Wider and wider their mouths opened without stopping until a sickening snap was heard from their jaws dislocating. With a stiff and rigid body, they remained frozen in place until their eyes bulged and shot high into the air, landing on the ground with a sickening plop. The beings of light took formation on the green grassy field just outside of the settlement. The rings of light that obscured its body were not soft and curved ribbons and streams of light. They were jagged and pointed halos of razors and blades. These were creatures of war and death. Those who remained and had not fled behind the town's high yet feeble wooden wall gasped in terror and awe at the creatures of light. Between them danced the jubilant Thomas, still chanting the words, He's mine! He's mine! Now insane and blind, his entire body interwoven with the writhing and bloody tendrils that entered and exited his skin, orifices, mouth, ears, and eyes. One of the creatures of light came forward and glided toward Thomas. It hovered over the small boy and a beautiful melody began to flow from the being. Thomas immediately stopped and listened intently to the sound. Was this how these giants communicated? The people watched as Thomas cocked his head to the side and appeared to find the melody soothing and pleasing. Thomas slowly held his cupped hands out in front of him to offer up what he held. Blood flowed and streams over his face. His hands were bloody pulps of mass, no longer useful digits of touch and grasp. As the large creature approached, a mischievous grin of a naughty little boy formed on his lips through the wiggling root-like fingers writhing from within his mouth. He said with a low hiss, He's mine! You can't take him. If I can't keep him, then you can't have him either. Thomas slapped his hands together, crushing whatever he held in the space between his palms. A deafening scream of agony rung loud and the reddish black fluid sprayed out with such force it coated both men and creatures of light. The substance ate away both flesh of men and auras of light immediately upon contact. With flames from swords raised high and the war cry of pure angelic hatred and rage, the creatures of light charged into the settlement of Roanoke Colony. In the year of our Lord, 1590 the first of the delayed supply ships arrived upon the shores of Roanoke Island to find not a single living soul. In its three-year absence, no evidence of war, famine, or any other possible reason for the colony's complete disappearance could be deduced. What had once been a thriving settlement of sturdy, thatched roof conages of one and two-story habitats was no more. The first presence of the English Empire and the New World, shown through the efforts of these 117 people, had left no mark or clue of the fate that befell them. A crudely built fort surrounding the former settlement was all that gave a hint of the past presence of the colonists. And upon a post of wood, bleached white as snow was found to hold the only clue that remained. Carved deep, a single word of three letters could be seen. No meaning could be found and remains a mystery to this very day. Carved were the letters C-R-O. In the late 40s of the last century, after a decade of private research involving experiments with binaural beat-brain-way frequencies, extrasensory cognition, and rare extracts of a South American vine, Dr. Tomas Rosner perfected a technique whereby one could actually intrude into the psyche and see another's thoughts. Despite having exhaustively documented his rigorous work, he could find no institution that would even offer to review it. Forced to sell his invention, he found by word of mouth among those through whom he procured narcotics a prospective buyer, the bait noir of an old New York family, Mr. John M. Dunn, a voyeuristic connoisseur of the supernatural and the obscene who had squandered his idle youth in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors rummaging among their hordes of dusty and obsolete works, a literary ghoul who disturbed with profane fingers the carnal houses of decayed philosophies. He readily agreed to the doctor's asking price without haggling, delighted at the prospect of exploring such a bizarre novelty. Once adept at the operation of the apparatus, Dunn paid Dr. Rosner off and, under an assumed name, rented a shabby house within view of Sing Sing Prison. In the timeless night while the convicts fitfully slept, with the aid of a set of stolen blueprints and his new mind-reading device, he raided their memories cell by cell at liberty to savor the forbidden thrill of thefts, molestations, moonlit homicides in secret without remorse or consequence. Within a month the prisoners, telling each other about the nightmares from which they had all begun abruptly to awaken, discovered they shared striking similarities. First, processions of alligators and tortoises filed through a swamp crowded with faceless people and shrieking orchids. Next, a shadow man, at whom they looked directly but could never quite see, would watch them in utter stillness from an empty house, while invisible hands probed behind their eyes as they had to stand naked, legs locked in place unable to run away. Their compared descriptions of the house were identical, including its location just outside the walls. By mutual agreement it was planned that the first of them to receive parole or be released would search this house out to find if it really existed and investigate the source of their troubling dreams. A few days after being freed their chosen spy was able to inform them with a smuggled message in code that not only was the house real, but he had broken into it at night and found a gaunt, mustached man in a silk smoking jacket seated bolt upright, head thrust back, both eyes gaping, mouth stuck open in a stiffened gasp, clenched hands gripping the arms of his chair in front of a scientific machine. A handwritten journal on the desk told the whole story of his adventures, prying unconstrained through their psyches, plundering the haunted memories of criminal after criminal, seeking ever more shameful and audacious experiences until finally he wrote on July 7 of his overwhelming desire to witness telepathically the next execution in the prison's notorious electric chair. 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. And please, leave a rating and review of the show in the podcast app you listen from. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at Darren at WeirdDarkness.com. Darren is D-A-R-R-E-N. WeirdDarkness.com is also where you can find all of my social media, listen to audiobooks I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness store, sign up for monthly contests, find other podcasts that I host, and find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Also on WeirdDarkness.com, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more on the website. All stories in Weird Darkness are purported to be true unless stated otherwise, and you can find source links or links to the authors in the show notes. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Romans 5 verses 6 through 8. You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. And a final thought. For every dream that you have, your week needs to match that dream. Eric Thomas. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.