 Before we jump into tonight's episode, I wanted to say a quick thanks to a new friend of mine, Zeven Odleberg. Zeven is the host of a podcast called Kind of Murdery, and today he invited me to be a guest on his show, which was a lot of fun. Zeven, he doesn't do interviews like some of those other boring podcasts. What he did is he invited me on just to hang out with him as he told the story. And it became a conversation of sorts. It was so much fun. We talked about the murder case that he researched, of course, which by itself is an insane story. And then we also went off on some rabbit trails, too, talking about aspects of our own lives. And, well, you know me, I couldn't help but make a few snarky jokes during the recording. He's going to be posting that episode this coming Sunday to the Kind of Murdery podcast, but tonight he is posting a special episode featuring my narration of Edgar Allan Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart. If you've never heard my narration of the tale, or if you just want to hear it again, now is the perfect opportunity to do so, while you can also check out Zeven's podcast that I'm already a fan of. So, I'll place a link to the Kind of Murdery podcast in the show notes for tonight's Tell-Tale Heart episode, or you can just do a search for Kind of Murdery wherever you listen to podcasts. And then also, be sure to tune back into Kind of Murdery for this Sunday as we actually have the conversation between Zeven and myself. It was just an incredible experience, and he's a really talented guy, and I truly believe he's going to be one of the big podcasts someday. But you'll be able to listen into him before he gets that big break. Alright, on with the show. There is a town just off a forgotten exit on a lost highway. It is a town entombed by sycamores and shadows, trapped between our realm and another, in otherworldly hamlet misplaced on earth. It is a town that should be lost to legend and night terrors. Yet unlike folk tales as tall as the sycamores that conceal it, the town of weirdling woods is real. In this ominous dimension, this playground for the wicked, life is a nesting doll layered in unrelenting mystery and macabre. Mythology is reality, and reality is a fractured spectrum of madness. Come for a visit and stay for eternity. There are thousands of stories in the cursed town weirdling woods. This is but one of them. Now join me as we take a walk through weirdling woods. Olivia. Noah forced his eyes open, two digital zeros led by a seven, flashing against his blurry eyes. He groaned. Between waking up in LA yesterday morning, enduring a long flight, and checking into the lookover motel, three hours sleep had commenced. Jet lag seized his body as the alarm taunted him. With a second groan, he struggled upright and picked at the crusty build-up on the crevices of his eyes as Natasha stirred in next to him. Even in slumber, her face was the epitome of an unfriendly term he'd once heard in intern use, RBF. Then Noah took a moment to center himself and take it all in. What a thing it was. The last time he'd met morning in weirdling woods was 13 years ago. In those days, he was a nobody with a tiny bank balance and big dreams. 13 years ago, Noah was not the man he was today, the pen behind a green-lit horror anthology on Netflix with talks of a possible showrunner gig on a Blumhouse Hulu series ongoing. The old Noah never even dreamt quite as big as his unexpected reality, with the industry accolades in bloated wallet and the model-turned-actress beside him. Of course, he knew Natasha was only with him until the resume gaps eventually appeared, but such was Hollywood, a town almost as strange as the one he grew up in, and now had returned to. Noah ninja'd his way out of the stiff bed without distracting Natasha, not so much a courtesy but a chance to keep her on mute and savored every drop of the complementary hometown weird dark roast coffee as he gazed from the window. Much had changed in weirdling woods, as towns do, but much remained eternal. The gargoyles from Marlar Manor still tickled the clouds off in the distance, dangerously close as always to the unsettled, that forbidden space that lived amongst the sycamores. Hamilton's fish market wasn't visible, but his nostrils sensed its familiar presence. A billboard nearby split two ads, one with a bearded man promoting a radio show on 666 K-Dead AM, and the other a campaign poster advocating for dark county to re-elect Sheriff Nick Castle. Again. Nick Castle had been sheriff since Noah was a freshman at Driftwood Academy and did not aged nearly 30 years later. Re-election might be tough if the murder he overheard on the cab radio last night was a trend, but Nick Castle always managed victory somehow. Noah sighed, the aftertaste of weirdling woods famous mince meat pie prevalent from just hours prior. Such luck that was, finding a diner open at that hour. It was all such a bizarre feeling, the welcoming of home colliding with the dormant desire to never return. One constant came to mind, sort of a warning that he'd heard his entire life. Weirdling woods will feast on your soul if you linger too long. The choice wasn't his, though. Fate returned Noah to Weirdling Woods to bid farewell to his best friend before Simon's ashes were cast into the air over Lake Britton Bridge to dance forever amongst the shadows that nestled the town he loved. The town that ultimately took him. It was a beautiful funeral, if such a thing as possible. The point raised lighthouse where Noah and Simon once shared beers and aspirations was as perfect a setting as anyone could expect, even with the fog bank scowling and howling towards town during its slow approach. Upon the release of Simon's remains, Noah was besieged with the impulse to flee. Now that Simon was gone, nothing held him to Weirdling. Mom and Dad had long since retired to Sarasota and Simon's sudden death had to be the last chapter on Weirdling in his book of life. Something about Weirdling Woods always chained him inches away from success, a living torture. The town seemed to act as a puppeteer, guiding him with an invisible grip to nowhere, and he only realized this upon stepping on California soil years ago. Noah excelled professionally since escaping and was convinced all of his achievements were birthed from his leap of faith, a massive leap where he hopped from Dark County to Los Angeles County. He was eternally grateful for the material, though. Any horror writer who grew up in Weirdling Woods would never want for inspiration. As Noah and Natasha shuffled in solitude amongst fellow mourners, a voice corrupted the silent air, a voice that brought Noah's brisk pace to a halt. Natasha finally looked up from the phone and the Instagram page that entranced her throughout the ceremony and huffed in the direction of the waving woman on the other side of the bridge. Is that the psycho Weirdo? Babe? No? Just no. That off the wreck's shopper looks like the start of a Stephen King novel. Would she buy that dress, 2016? Let's get back to Cali. This place is throwing my chakras and disarray, Natasha said, with enough pretentiousness to match her designer everything. Noah glared. Weirdo, he thought. He bit his tongue when she complained about the thread count on the sheets and when she ridiculed the lack of keto-friendly restaurants, but this was not acceptable. Only he was allowed to use that word, he and other natives. Not an outsider, especially one that was using him for appearances as much as he was using her. Some things belonged to the locals. Little did she know to live in weirdling woods was to forever be a proud Weirdo. That was how locals referred to themselves. It was the official unofficial mantra. He frowned. In this town were all Weirdos. I'm going to say hello. She just lost her brother. I've known her since she was a toddler. Just tweet something or hashtag or whatever it is you actually do. Within seconds, Noah was off in the distance, embracing the woman with a blanketing hug as Natasha looked on with her usual jealousy, her mind wondering whether that casting director she met at the agency last week was single. Not that it mattered to her. Such were the accoutrements of an unhealthy opportunistic relationship. The Hollywood Reporter announced three days prior that the casting director in question had been picked for the upcoming Tarantino project. Natasha took the potential of both men and weighed each on a mental scale. It wasn't always that way. A younger, more naive Noah once believed Tara, the woman who went by Natasha as her screen name, loved him. He actually believed it was a real relationship. The truth unfurled like a new sleeping bag and fast. In Los Angeles, everyone was acting, even if they didn't know it. The ladder of success was stained with shattered dreams and broken hearts before even reaching the center rung. I can't believe you agreed to this. Are you stupid? This is a joke because I'm not laughing, just like no one laughed at that spec script you sent to ABC. Back at the lookover motel, Noah loosened his tie, famed as if employing it as a noose, and thought about the most creative way to utilize his talent and write Natasha out of his life. I told you I don't write comedy. You forced that on me, so I would write you a role. A group of 20-somethings trying to make it in New York? Real outside the box, seriously. So unique as original as sin. You know what? I'm not doing this, not today. It's one more night, Natasha. The IV will still be in LA tomorrow, along with the traffic and the smog and the smug. Oh, suddenly you're the prodigal son and denounce being an Angelina. I don't get it. Natasha retorted as she sat on the bed and fiddled with her heels. The jibby chew on her right foot became a missile as she launched it towards Noah, a near miss. Do you actually have a thing for that head case? You told me yourself she's a stalker. What's wrong with you? Noah slammed his palm against the dresser, rattling the room. And Angelino, you're from Cincinnati. I don't have a thing for anyone. I don't even know who I was talking to back there. You don't get it. Violet, she's like an onion. Her mind works with many complex layers. I don't know. I can't explain it any better. But I owe my dead best friend's sister, who I watched grow up a simple drink. That woman is in a fantasy stupor every waking moment. Fresh air would be nice. Geez, Natasha, I said Violet was disturbed. I never said she was a stalker because she's not. She's harmless. You never actually listen or care about what I say. You just take small bits and make them scandalous because you're a drama queen. Which is hilarious because you can't play drama. You couldn't even get a line on Days of Our Lives. Remember that? Since we're dissecting careers, maybe, I don't know, don't speak at all about mine. It should be easy. You know, just channel your byline. All non-speaking roles. Natasha's eyes beamed like two fog lights beaming sheer hatred. Then the other Jimmy Choo flew, this time connecting as she slammed the bathroom door in a furious inferno of rage and expletives. Noah touched the fresh cheek wound and knew he had to end things soon. This wasn't the first time. He could identify the insole of most of her shoes as often as they had struck him in the face as he stood there and did nothing. He screamed, If you need me, I'll be having drinks at the Gold Room with a psycho who actually has class. Speaking of class, sign up for an acting one when we get back to LA. Just charge it to my A-Mex as usual. Now is Noah's turn to slam the door. On the server ride to the infamous Gold Room, Noah was riddled with anger over his encounter with the plastic human he called his girlfriend. She knew nothing about Violet, and she certainly did not know empathy. Heck, she didn't even know him. It was implausible that anyone could be jealous or fearful of Violet. Such a sweet child, unencumbered with a mysterious malady that effectively stole any life of her own. Well, she was not a child anymore, but still, it was a sad case. Violet's entire story played out step by step in his typical writer mind, panels of action in proper order. Simon's little sister indeed had her issues, but Violet was not a psycho or a stalker or any of those things. The closest diagnosis initially ended up a distant cousin of schizophrenia, but even that was a stretch. Nowadays, it seemed offensive to those with schizophrenia, but those were the times. It was very possible Violet had originated her own disease. Eventually copping out, most involved medical professionals included, declared Violet's behavior as yet another oddity of Weirling Woods and jotted off for nine holes. That was that. They moved on. The Weirling Woods medical community in the 1980s was Russian roulette with a loaded gun. It was concerning that this affliction was still going on. At least it was the last time Noah and Simon had exchanged an email. Wow, three years ago. The guilt was immense. Noah continued to reminisce in order to stifle his emotions. Violet had suffered from her mental lapse since she was five. The only a few years older, Noah remembered the Genesis quite well. Bad babysitting was really at the heart of it, which felt too simple and unfair to be true. Yet it was exactly that. Noah recalled the event with vivid images and details as the town car glided downtown. It was an ominous day trip from the start. First came the invasion of clouds, followed by the rumbling and shaking, and then the ensuing chaos of electricity in the sky. It was as if the devil's entourage had thrown a party a mile high, and as such it was an indoors kind of day. It was the perfect afternoon for a Saturday matinee, and no movie had generated buzz like the one the trio was about to see. Noah remembered he and Simon and the always tagging along Violet hydroplaning across Oakley Court onto the sidewalk on West 14th that led to the old majestic theater. The memories were tangible as he relived the three skipping to the movie, practically dragging little Violet towards the buttery popcorn aroma that was so, so close. He could even hear the jingles from the cinema fighting Cindy Lauper from a car stereo nearby for airspace dominance. Then, under the marquee, the old crone simply was. A hunched over old woman with a crooked nose, wrapped in a ruddy, mud-brown wool shawl with vacant, unblinking eyes that ballooned as far out as the erratic gray white strands of matted hair that billowed in the wind resembling the lightning above. She seemed to have been waiting outside of the theater for them, at least in hindsight. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was something Noah and Simon later created to explain Violet's estate. Chained back, the silver-streaked crone mumbled through a toothless black mouth. At the time, Noah and Simon laughed at the bizarre encounter. By town standards, this threat was quite benign and the woman looked like a dime-store Halloween costume more than a menace. Years later, of course, unspoken thoughts about the woman would weigh down the room. Was she a gypsy, a banshee, an angel? It was an enigma, but there was no cracking that safe, if it held any treasures anyway. Her presence was barely a conspiracy theory. Noah teetered and tottered for years whether the woman was even real at all. What he did know was straightforward. Upon sneaking into Conan the destroyer nearly 40 years ago, he and Simon had emerged from the theater in awe of Arnold Schwarzenegger's biceps. Little Violet had emerged as a different person altogether. She was mesmerized by the scene-stealing blonde girl on screen. It was cute for a while, until it was obvious this wasn't a phase. For the next two years, she was the Olivia D'Abo character Princess Jenna. Violet became Princess Jenna in voice, action, and personality. As the Cerber took a left on Ocean Avenue that frigid, March Evening, the flickering neon sign from Bruno's Pizza whipped Noah back in time to the same location when he and Simon shared a pie with Violet. He remembered it because Princess Jenna died that day and Violet began to call herself Becky Cullen, a mystery to everyone. She began living as a modern-day Juliet seeking her Romeo. A teen cousin with the beautiful actress D'Abo's posters plastering his walls recognized the act and relayed that the impressionable young Violet was acting just like the Olivia D'Abo character from a recent film based on that old Shakespearean tragedy called Bullies. Suddenly, Occam's razor came into play. It wasn't difficult to match the colors on this Rubik's Cube. This was when the movie theater was banned and the first time the useless shrinks were called in. It was a case that defied everything known about the mind. When Violet was again written off as Only in Weirdling Woods, essentially the credo in a town where mystery and macabre reigned, the collective family hope collapsed. All they could do was monitor and protect and pray. Oddly, Violet's obsession did not lie with the actress herself, not directly. Olivia D'Abo's name never brushed the kid's lips. When D'Abo herself came to town for Comic-Con a few years back, Violet had no interest in attending. When they played songs like The Mighty Quinn by Manfred Mann, the iconic band Olivia D'Abo's father fronted, no reaction came. Not even the melodic dreamscape of Olivia's own music stirred anything in Violet. But every character the actress played, a list as long as Rapunzel's hair, Violet seemed to find and simply become. The remained unclear how Violet had access to the many films and shows under script supervision, but it just seemed to happen. If the role called for comedy, Violet elicited laughs. If the character was one with dramatic flair, Violet left everyone in tears. If the character called for a drastic change in appearance, Violet slid into it with ease. As Violet grew up, she lived the life of free-spirited flower child Karen Arnold. Everyone had a crush on the iconic character from the groundbreaking series The Wonder Years, and by extension the sunshine-haired Bohemian actress who breathed life into that role. Violet's condition was beyond overzealous affection and fandom, though. Simon endured a lot of fistfights those years. Violet mimicked well, which meant a lot of teasing in elementary school. As a result, Simon became the toughest kid in town. This was around the height of worry. The family tried everything once more in other towns like Derry and Castle Rock, shock therapy, isolation, pills galore. Homeschooling began. They listened to false reassurance from others. At least this was not an illness that could really harm Violet or others, as debilitating as it was. That's what the family repeatedly told themselves anyway. The roles and years continued, and so did Violet. The actress Olivia D'Abo delivered a hilarious absurdist commitment as Garth's girlfriend in the exponentially popular Wayne's World sequel, and Violet existed in this comedic realm as well. Until, as a blossoming young woman, her demeanor changed overnight in 1994, and she began to present herself as Mollie, a sultry nurse who D'Abo played that might as well have been created to give the word lust a matching image for Wikipedia. This character came from a Michael J. Fox film called Greedy, and so good was the real actress in this role, Violet's parents had no option but to lock her away in her room for some time. A 15-year-old girl belonged nowhere near this character. Violet had hijacked many roles, but this was the most dangerous to unleash. If ever a time for a dad to guard the front door with a shotgun existed, this was the role that checked the box. The Cerber took a left on Lampkin and was swallowed by traffic, which seemed like a teaser of what to expect upon returning to LA. That idiocracy, Noah thought. The plays were so much beautiful art seeped through the phoniness and facades, the ultimate struggle between an unstoppable force and an immovable object. The timeline continued in Noah's head. Being an industry person, Noah knew the resume of actress Olivia D'Abo well. Going into her fifth decade, her body of work was immense and always ongoing. Noah had actually envisioned her as a breathtaking queen for a cerebral dark fantasy script that was still sitting on a desk somewhere. Tim Burton would salivate if only he would read it. This Noah convinced himself. If that didn't get picked up, perhaps he could convince Olivia to play the role of Violet and return her back to herself in some strange algorithm he created. Noah chuckled as he imagined the pitch. Mystifying queen in his screenplay or not, the delicate beauty Olivia D'Abo was a tour de force, a songbird, a writer, a philanthropist, a physical actor with a looming presence, a voice actor with an alluring hook of a voice. She did it all. She had credits unclaimed by others. She had worked on projects from both Marvel and DC, Star Trek and Star Wars. Things like that just didn't happen. Universes were closed communities. Nobody was the spokesperson for Coke and Pepsi at the same time. No one sang lead for the Beatles and the Stones. It was impressive. With such a monstrous creative presence to feast upon, the true Violet had last appeared in 1984 and would remain. There simply were too many characters D'Abo played, enough to fill ten lifetimes, and Violet's entrapment in her curious, undefined illness would never allow her freedom. Sure, there were humorous moments, such as the time D'Abo portrayed Jane and Violet followed suit as a woman seeking her Tarzan all throughout Weirdling Woods. But her life was not hers. It belonged in letters written on pages held by enchanting actress from London. Having the disease Violet had latching onto D'Abo's work was the worst-case scenario because it would never end. Noah had heard that life had no script, but that cliché didn't work for Violet. Her life was only a script. As the Serber pulled up to his destination, he scanned D'Abo's IMDB page. Violet had seemed somewhat normal back at the funeral, but this was Weirdling Woods and this was Violet. As he learned over the years, he kept the initial conversation vague. He never really knew who he was speaking to. A mountain of credits appeared on the actress's page, but everything current was in post-production, so Violet couldn't have seen anything new. Noah could only wonder what recycled character he was meeting for cocktails. Bobby, right? Nicole's waiting for you in the corner booth right there. The perky hostess at the Gold Room said as she pointed towards a stunning, debonair woman seated in the back of the room, underneath a plant of ceiling that was misplaced, with its two shades of paint. Ok doke, Noah thought. Vaguely familiar, but I have no clue what this one is. Bobby. Who's Bobby? Here we go, so it begins. I'll google it on a restroom break. So good to see you, Violet said with a smile, as she rose and offered Noah a generous embrace. Immediately he noticed the blonde hair and either a British or Aussie accent, things that Violet did not naturally possess. She had certainly become a woman, that was without debate. A deep exhale and the game was afoot. Hey there, Violet. I mean, hey there, Violet eyes. Have you been? Fabulous love. Have a seat, will you? Noah obliged. In front of him was a copper mug. I ordered you a Moscow mule. Certainly return it if you wish. I happen to adore them myself. Noah wasn't much of a drinker, but given the nature of Tinseltown and power lunches, he knew this hipster concoction had dominated the bar scene for at least that month. He shook away any doubts and took a sip. Now it's perfect, delicious. The vodka has a bit of a sting to it. Thank you, so have you been? What have you been up to lately? You look fantastic, all things considered. I'm sorry, I didn't get much of a chance to chat at the funeral. It was quite nice, the service. He thought one drink and get out, keep it vague and distant, then get back to the look-over motel for yet another glorious argument with Natasha. Violet flashed a warm smile and raised her own copper mug to her pursed lips, nearly kissing it. It was quite flirtatious and dangerous. Yes, such a tragic thing. I do feel for the family at this time. The lad was quite young and healthy, it appeared. As for me lately, you ask? You and your silly games. I'll play, though. I'd been teaching Melville as a lit professor, but was forced to leave that behind, as you know, of course. Although I was Elizabeth Hitchens at Hudson University, wasn't I? Sometimes I confuse myself. She feels sorry for the family? She is the family. Okay, she's not claiming any relation to Simon, Noah thought. I'm going to be talking to an absolute stranger now. I'll figure out what role she's playing later. Get in and get out. I forgot how depressing this really is. You're quite close with the deceased, Bobby. Certainly a tornado of emotions, I presume. That name again, Bobby. It all felt so familiar. The look, the names, the accent. His mind meshed images of Violet saying these things with Olivia D'Abo, who had certainly originated them, doing the same. Noah cleared his throat. What name did the hostess call her, he wondered? No idea as sprung as to how he would address her, and the creative block that only seemed to loom in weirdling woods weighed a million pounds. Yes, Simon and I grew up together. We were best friends for decades. He was always so happy it was quite a blow to the gut when he ended his life in such a way. I still don't understand it. From everything I heard, his store was in the black and his health was great. I guess the weirdling curse got him. Violet, or whoever she was in the moment, sipped her drink and giggled. What's so funny? How is that funny? Noah asked with a twinge of anger in his voice. Cuss. Oh, darling, stop. I know I said I'd play along, but how droll is this, really? Are we really going to endure this conversation when we both know the answer to everything? If you insist, Violet shided. She cleared her throat as if getting into character and turned serious for emphasis. Simon didn't jump off that building. Don't you remember how afraid of heights he was? He was pushed, thrown. That love was murder. A crimson hue flashed across Noah's face like a thousand tumbling dominoes. Torn between dealing with Violet's disturbed mind and the egregious things spewing from her mouth, he opted to sit in silence, though the expression on his face was anything but quiet. This was the most difficult thing when dealing with Violet's affliction, forgiving actions she couldn't control. I see I've angered you, she interjected. Apologies, I would never intend such a thing. I'm fine, really, Noah answered, failing to contain his distaste. I guess I'm emotional, still, from the funeral. Violet placed her hand atop his, emotional. How nonsensical. It's a logical human response that serves no purpose. It's my fault I've been away too long. What do you mean nonsensical, Noah asked? Violet took a deliberate sip from her cup and looked so deep into his eyes she could see through the back of his skull. She said, you know, we've at least ascended visceral things like frivolous emotions, unlike the herd. That's how we've come to meet in this trivial existence. Well, we've ascended most emotions except for one. I've always loved you, Bobby. The cocktail waitress arrived at that moment and Violet wasted no time commandeering the conversation. Tell Bobby he's the only man I've ever loved, she said to the waitress. The waitress's eyes grew wide with discomfort as she tiptoed away. Violet turned towards Noah. Are you okay with Bobby? I would call you Detective Gorin, but given your press coverage lately, you'd probably want a low profile. Um, thank you for that? Noah replied, masking his confusion. It was obvious she was tossing out lines perhaps out of order based on the ill fit from… something. Detective Gorin? He absolutely knew that name. Why wasn't it coming to him? He could almost see the actor's face. The guy was quite talented, that much he knew. What do you mean he was murdered? Instant regret overcame Noah as he took another drink. By asking this question, he had prolonged his uncomfortable stay. He wondered why he did this. Am I seeking my next screenplay or something? Did I linger too long to get sucked into the madness of the woods again? I know not to believe a word and she's in character. Why am I allowing this insane nonsense? Just then, Violet turned to an adjacent table and told a joke in Thai to a couple who had been speaking to one another in a Southeast Asian dialect. Noah was taken aback as the three erupted in laughter. Then Violet returned to the conversation. Apologies, I rarely get to use my Thai anymore. Luckily I know one joke that never fails. It's quite basic, though. My fluency, I mean, the things we do and learn while locked up, though, right? Anyway, are you still questioning poor Simon's murder? Why, Bobby, I think you already know. Or are we still playing pretend? I'll be a good sport if that's what does it for you. Violet inhaled and once more her character seemed to get into character. Seduce, poison, heal. Only fools change a foolproof plan. You aren't angry, are you? Please don't be. Please don't think of me as a monster. I only had your interests in mind. It's all I ever have. That was curiosity raged with intensity now. Detective Goren. Oh, come on, Noah, you know that name, he thought. This is what you get from watching a million shows a week for trendspotting. It doesn't matter. Be polite and get out. Don't be a voyeur into this poor girl's journey of insanity. I appreciate that. Not many keep my interests in mind. It's nice that you think of me in such a nice way. Yes, well, someone must. That black-haired woman, the one from the funeral, she doesn't seem right for you. A bit preoccupied with the mirror, I'd say. Noah laughed. You aren't far off on that one. Is her hair black this week? I've stopped noticing. Right, of course you have, because that's logical. I know you, Bobby. Why bother? The physical, sure, it's nice, but you must get boring fast. What's left after? It must be a rubbish existence, always two steps ahead of everyone in the room, especially that woman. Natasha, Noah interjected. Right. Has she ever given or only taken this Natasha? Has she even given you her heart? She gives me a lot of headaches, Noah thought. Let's talk about something else, please. So you say you killed Simon, Noah asked with sarcasm. You're just a tiny thing, and he was the toughest kid I knew growing up. So how'd you do it? Poison, you said, but how would you get him in a position to poison him? Bobby, what game are you playing? I thought we were beyond this banality of our inferiors. We both know the MO never changes. Seduction disarms giants. Of course that's why I've always held such affinity for you. You were the only man to ever say no to me. You and Declan, I should say. He thought, now there's a Declan? It was clear that she was throwing dialogue at a dartboard that had no bullseye just to get the regurgitated words from the script out. Sheer copy-paste that fit nowhere. The story was starting to really intrigue Noah though, and he vowed to watch whatever film or show Violet was playing out. It sounded better than anything he'd ever written, the fact that he acknowledged with a generous spritz of jealousy. The bizarre supposed seduction of her brother wasn't believable though. She must have tweaked whatever script she was living. You are quite the temptress indeed, Noah played along begrudgingly. Geez, I watched this kid grow up. This verbal footsie crap is gross, he scolded himself. What was that poison again, your calling card? What was it, anthrax? Noah nudged, tossing out the only poison he knew. Violet's eyes allowed a mischievous flirt. Noah knew he was talking to the kid's sister of his best friend, but that protective bubble seemed to be eating itself. A small part of him began to turn into putty in her hands, an awareness he knew he needed to act on immediately. It almost feels like you're recording this detective. Did your evidence room catch fire, and this is how you back up your files? It's like an interview, our Italians this evening. And why are your hands under the table? Noah froze, unsure what to say. She smiled. I'm half joking. Luckily I know you better than that. You really do like this, though, don't you? Role-playing? I never suspected. To think you know someone. I'll try my best. Oh, Detective, sucking a choline is my preference in paralytics. Something like that, Bobby? Apologies, I'm not skilled in make-believe. Back to you. Keep your hands on deck. We don't want you playing with your pistol under the table. You wouldn't be setting me up, would you, Bobby? Is Aims going to jump out from behind the bar? Noah swigged the remainder of his cocktail. Again, previously spoken words that did not fit into this encounter. As if she had a checklist to mark as she rift quotes. He knew it was time to leave. This was getting dangerous. It was too strange now and Simon was a real person. He'd at least tried with Violet. He owed himself that credit. Now, why would I set you up? I get the feeling you'd see that coming. That'd be quite telegraphed. Listen, I just got a text from Natasha, and I need to get going. Sorry to cut it short. It's been lovely catching up with you, but I got an early flight. We must do this again next time, for sure. Noah stood and wobbled. Violet sat in eerie calm with a grin stolen from the devil himself. Natasha texted you. Oh, I just get so disappointed when you lie to me, but do it again sometime. Certainly we shall. Don't think for a second that this is the end of us, Bobby. Noah's brain ordered his right foot to step forward, but there was no compliance. Before blacking out and losing control over his body, for one fleeting moment, Noah knew he'd forever be able to write about utter helplessness with authenticity. Noah's next brush with consciousness came as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling from his bed at the lookover motel. Time was a foreign concept. He had no idea how long he'd been out. Mired in the waning moments of presumed sleep paralysis based on his immobile body, his foggy mind attempted to conjure mementos of the night. What had happened? How did he get back to the hotel? What or who was inside Violet's mind last night? Had he been poisoned? Just because she could? Eventually Noah mustered the strength to jerk his body to the floor. This was when it first dawned on him that Natasha and any remnant of hers was nowhere to be seen. Then the note on the dresser drawers came into focus. It would have been better for his ego had it remained pixelated. Noah knew many words as a writer does, but he never imagined so many with four letters. After the second paragraph he'd gathered enough intel to realize he was now single, and Natasha was somewhere over Kansas in first class, on his dime and route to LA. Noah sighed, then he forced to smile as he'd deleted Natasha's number from his phone. It was the first time he'd ever seen her handwriting. That's how uninspired their union was. Usually she only texted. To be unworthy of phone communication was certainly the end. The urge to decipher Violet's most recent Olivia character had passed. She was just so tiring. Weirdling Woods drained people that way. He felt for his departed friend, what a burden it must have been, especially when Simon and Violet's parents passed a few years back, leaving Simon as the sole caretaker. And what a terrible friend Noah was, he realized, cashing out and leaving Simon by himself. What would become a violet now that nobody was left? That poor girl had a healthy inheritance and no identity of her own, not even a driver's license. It was so very tragic. It was too much to wake up to, so Noah closed his eyes until the blood circulation became normal again. His body ached, and his mind was a shattered mirror, a thousand jagged thoughts rupturing his harmony. He knew exactly why. One constant came to mind. Weirdling Woods will feast on your soul if you linger too long. One month later, Noah was sprawled across his recliner inside his valley apartment, working on sporadic spurts of sleep. The dribbling mesh of drool and coffee from the corner of his mouth had seeped onto one of the many pages of dialogue littered across the room. Such was the risk when typing scripts like a dinosaur. The pounding door jerked him from his slumber, his eyes meeting the cruel, bullying sunbeams of an afternoon stalked by a deadline. Noah rose and grunted as his hand rubbed the twisted interior of his back. The flat screen in the background was still playing from hours before. As he passed through the living room towards the front door, the man on the television spoke the following words. In New York City's war on crime, the worst criminal offenders are pursued by the detectives of the major case squad. These are their stories. Noah returned to the living room with a package and set it aside, opting to rummage through his refrigerator and make a sandwich with sparse ingredients through some form of culinary alchemy. For 30 minutes he sat in silence, nibbling on the wretched creation. Subliminal words billowed from the television speakers through the apartment, words he did not realize were penetrating his eardrums. Suckin' Nicole, Elizabeth Hitchens, Melville in the white whale, seduce, poison, kill. Don't think for a second that this is the end of us, Bobby. Nicole Wallis. Nicole Wallis. Nicole Wallis. Noah froze the moment these words finally began to crash into his consciousness, leaving his face ashen and drained, remnants of his sandwich dangling from his mouth. He bolted into the living room and the images on the television became shotgun blasts to the face. The rerun episode of law and order criminal intent was replaying exact quotes and scenarios from his brief night with Violet, only this time the real Olivia D'Abo was saying the words. The flax-inhered amalgamation of Diva and Kraft's woman was on screen manipulating her character's situation to her liking, with grace quite cunning and stunning. And if this was what Violet was imitating, chill trickled through Noah's being. For all intents and purposes, he'd shared cocktails with a killer that night. Images of Violet flooded his mind, her clothes, her hair, the accent and the exact words. Violet had mimicked the role to frightening perfection. The woman he grew up with was a clone of the woman on screen. The only question was, how far did the role and by proxy Violet go? He remembered the murder report from the cab radio. Of course, there was Simon. How many more? How many did this character of Nicole Wallace and by extension Violet claim? Noah pulled out his phone and googled the character of Nicole Wallace and his heart sunk below his quivering knees. The basic Thai conversation, the Australian twang, paralytics, the faked suicide but actual murder of a brother only this time her own. The references to Bobby. In Violet's diseased mind, Noah played the fictional role of a detective that evening. But as he researched the serial killer character Nicole Wallace, Noah knew for certain that life had imitated art. Then Noah remembered the package. His lips grew numb, the numbness penetrating the rest of his body. In a crawl, he made his way to the package. As he hovered over the box, he remembered Violet's words as she thought Nicole Wallace might have used them. This Natasha, has she ever given you her heart? The words echoed first, then hung over him. A note attached to the box read, Oh, this is the poison of deep grief. It was from Hamlet, but also somewhere much closer. At that moment, Noah looked up at the same note with the same font and same paper on the television. With trembling hands, Noah lifted the lid from the box. From a writer's creation to an actress' interpretation to a deranged woman's obsession, Natasha's heart had indeed, literally and finally been given to Noah. Back in Weirdling Woods, across JD's chop shop on the corner of Cushing Avenue and Lee Street, the bus depot was bustling with people coming and going. It was spring break, and Weirdling Woods beaches had some amazing waves, so the younger crowd shuffled in as the oldest crowd sought shelter elsewhere for the week. One of those kids would be lost to the ocean and the town forever. That's how it was always and always would be. It was an unspoken agreement. That was the risk of entering the beautiful beast. Everyone knew this and drew their straws. An old woman with a crooked nose, hunched in her ratty mud-brown wool shawl and warned the vacationers through her toothless black mouth, came back. All laughed her away. Collectively, it was decided to stay despite the looming threat, as they had for years and would continue to do. Old adages existed for a reason. Weirdling Woods will feast on your soul if you linger too long. The nasally voice on the PA announced the impending departure of a bus headed to Canada, and in the corner bench, a woman holding a periodical in front of her face bristled. Just off to the side was her boarding pass. The name on the ticket read Liz B. With great care, she folded her copy of The Hollywood Reporter, as she did so the portion of the industry magazine she had been reading faced outward. The headline read, Olivia D'Abo tapped to play Elizabeth Bathory in Marlar House Productions biopic. Filming on the project, which details the life and death of the most prolific female serial killer in history, begins in Vancouver next week. The woman removed her oversized black sunglasses, brushed an errant lock of blonde hair aside, and placed a hand on her luggage. Then, Violet smiled at a world that would soon meet her. This was just one of numerous stories to be released in the Weirdling Woods universe, written by John Allen. More stories will, of course, be featured here in the Weird Darkness podcast in the weeks and months to come. You can also find all of the stories in the Weirdling Woods book, coming soon to bookstores and online retailers, in paperback, hardback, ebook and audiobook versions. In the pages, you'll also find a bonus story at the end, which will not be used in the podcast, along with a fun list of Easter eggs to look out for within the stories. You can contact me, Darren Marlar, other John Allen, or learn more about this series at WeirdlingWoods.com. All stories in the Weirdling Woods series are written by John Allen. Theme music written and recorded by Nicholas Gasparini, also known as horror composer Me You on YouTube. If you like this series, please share it with others and leave a rating and review of the series in the podcast app you listen from. Doing so helps Weirdling Woods get noticed. Weirdling Woods is a registered trademark, copyright Weird Darkness. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for walking with me through Weirdling Woods.