 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 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 of weirdling woods. This is but one of them. Now join me as we take a walk through weirdling woods. Speak easy. On the corner of Hanson and Gunner, that sketchy part of south weirdling woods where no one goes voluntarily, the Romero apartment building stood in its dilapidated state. The eyesore was a revolving door of transience, criminals and heartbreak. No one lasted beyond a year if they could help it. Brian Chen recently re-upped his lease for the seventh time. Inside of unit 1313, the dark sludgy water dripped from above. There was never a leak and the super, Ms. Rainey, didn't overexert herself in resolving the issue. For Brian Chen, on this frost-bitten morning, the drip was the source of his frustration. It was one of the few things he couldn't figure out. Other reasons existed to be frustrated. To be 33 and single and broke with useless dual degrees in physics and Mandarin in a town that had no use for those fields was reason enough. But those reasons were always there. This was affecting his wellness. As the clock hands tickled the number eight on the morning side of Tuesday, the drip again left him with three hours of fitful sleep. He sighed. From his bed, he could see the breath cloud in front of him, as well as the snow-tipped Ravencraft mountain range from his window. The heater was wonky again, but being weeks late on rent, there was no chance he'd ask Ms. Rainey to fix it. Brian Chen draped himself in a scratchy blanket and stumbled to the kitchen, a harrowing affair for an amateur hoarder. After warming stale coffee, he plopped on the couch. Before he could even reach for the remote, his phone buzzed. Homesh Singh appeared on the caller ID. Brian yawned and looked again. Why would Homesh be calling? They'd been friendly at most at the real estate gig, but they weren't friends. They lived in the same town and hadn't spoken in four years. Frankly, Homesh's superficial facade always annoyed Brian. He sighed and answered, curiosity winning the battle. Homesh sang as I live and breathe. Brian Chen, you won't believe this. I'm calling everybody in my contacts and I totally meant to call Brian Chillios from financing, and I look at the phone as your answer and I'm like, what? Isn't that hilarious? I'm glad I called you though. What's up, brother? Long time man. What's it been? A year? Not even close, Brian rolled his eyes. So what's up? Chen, I've been killing it, bro. Absolutely killing it. Just bought a new ride and a new bride. Just got promoted. We opened up a new division. I'm kicking over the world. Brian cringed. Four years wasn't long enough. That's great, Amesh. Selling McMansions for H.H. Homes has been good to you. Congratulations. Amesh scoffed. McMansion implies less than. We'd have been moving castles since you left. Every eccentric trust fund baby and Tim Burton wannabe has been piling into weirdling like crazy. You should have stayed, but no, man. H.H. Homes has expanded. Now we dabble in commercial real estate too, and guess who just got named VP of acquisitions? Stinky Pete from accounting? Brian asked the sarcasm. After a touch of silence, Brian said, Attaboy, Amesh. That's what I'm supposed to say, correct? That's what you're chasing. You've crushed it like you always said you would. Well done. Good on you. Chemical makeup, Brian Chan's mind gave him a blunt, straightforward manner that some mistook for rudeness. Amesh was too self-absorbed to notice. Thanks, bro, teen shake. How are things with you? Did you ever find anything in your field? How's your startup? Did that app ever sell? Brian cringed a second time. Six figures to start a failed app in a sea of failed apps. Now he was doing what he truly loved, but the only thing close to six figures were his debilitating student loans. The option for a career in his expertise were slim and weirdling woods, but it was the best place in the world to pursue his actual passion. Yeah, I dumped it. Moved on to another thing, tourism industry. I love being my own boss. Brian knew Amesh well and the braggadocio behind his random call. Some were humble about success and others preferred a megaphone. Tourism. I thought you were all, how do you say, sciency? I guess there's a science to that in a way. Hey, bro, I'm happy for you. Listen, I'm calling around for a reason and I want you to be a part of it. What are you doing the 15th? I'm having a rager at the gold room. I'm inviting everyone. I'm talking champagne, imported Kobe beef. I hired an Andrew Dice Clay to perform. I want you to come, man. You in? Brian recoiled. Imported meat and lowbrow 80s comedians at a private ceremony at the gold room. That was on brand for Amesh. Brian could feel the pretentiousness crawling through the phone. Yeah, I should be free. I'll text my email address. Sweet. Hey, dude, I got a bounce. I'm trying to hit up everyone in my context before stepping out. I'm showing some foreign investors some apartments in the grosser part of town. Gentrification, the best thing to ever happen in real estate. Am I right? I'll catch you next week. Brian went flush. He lived in apartments in the grosser side of town. The odds were strong that his building was a target. As usual, Amesh Singh came back into his life like a tornado to a trailer park. Before Brian could respond, Amesh again seized control. Yo, I almost forgot. It's Kismet that I called you. Are you still into that goofy paranormal stuff? Brian looked around his dingy pad. A crooked placard on the wall read WWGS, Weirdling Woods Ghost Society. In his armoire behind a myriad of equipment was a box of business cards labeled Weirdling Woods Ghost Hunting Tours. Brian Chen, president and chief investigator. I dabble, Brian said, though I find the pursuit of answering one of mankind's greatest questions to be noble, not goofy. Remember that old speakeasy in historic downtown from like a hundred years ago and no one ever sold? I think you called it a passage to the devil or something like that. You were so obsessed. Portal to Hell, Brian corrected, ears perked. Yes, I recall. Obsession is not an apt descriptor for seeking a groundbreaking revelation for humanity, but by all means, continue. Harry Price's prohibition era speakeasy was the holy grail in the paranormal world. Cicada Club and the businesses before it boasted at least 17 murders and rumors of a hole in the basement that literally led to Hell. The site still stood in skeletal form and lore spoke of an apparition of a songstress, phantom bite marks, satanic offerings. Yes, Brian remembered. Security was intense now for a reason. He'd been obsessed with the place since childhood, but no one had ever been allowed to properly investigate since the fire that claimed a final life back in the summer of 1932. Butterflies fluttered in his guts. My division acquired it and rebuilt it and you won't believe it. I sold it. One day on the market and some European buyer paid 12% above asking. Cash deal. Never even met the guy. I guess they're doing a private club, sort of a reimagined speakeasy from the old days. My assistant hands over the keys on the 15th. Hey, that's the day of my party. That's funny, because the commission on that sale paid for the party. Anyway, I thought you'd get the kick out of that. A kick, a wallop to the face, a nuclear explosion. Brian held back, but the truth was, it was indeed the crown jewel and he was now the only person in the vast paranormal community who had a chance of getting inside. Who knew? Maybe he could strike a deal with the new owner. For a struggling business, it could be the first time he'd ever been in the black. Ghost hunters would come in droves, the real ones. How glorious it would be shoving it in the face of those frauds on reality TV. The opportunity to investigate for himself was most important though. That was what he did. Solved riddles. Every escape room in Dark County groaned when he darkened their doorstep and every murder mystery party he attended was a short night. No crossword or Sudoku could thwart him. Brian's mother always said the creative DNA fell to his sisters who sculpted and painted and sang. She was correct. Brian was pure black and white. The compulsion to decipher, decode and solve had consumed him since birth. What is brilliant deductive mind faced now was the ultimate culmination of a quest that began when he'd sat on his grandmother's lap as a child and listened to tales of the Daifu Ling, the earthbound spirits who roamed among us. With this information, Brian Chen felt like Charlie Bucket clutching a golden ticket to Willy Walker's chocolate factory. No way. That's so wild. I'll have to check it out sometime. Brian said, withholding his glee. Yeah, dude. Drop my name at the door or ask for a hold on. A mesh said as papers crinkled in the background. Marius, that's the owner's name. I guarantee they'll let you in for at least a drink. Listen, unpeeping on the other line. Send me your stuff and I'll see you on the 15th. Ciao. I'm as hung up before Brian could say goodbye. Harry Price's old speakeasy? With a smile slapped across his face, Brian rummaged through his files until finally pulling out a faded cardboard box, containing everything there was to know about the old speakeasy. Brian Chen zigzagged through three alleys and four fistfights on the walk downtown, relief coming as the cars became nicer and nicer, signaling that his neighborhood was behind him. This route was calculated based on time efficiency and safety risk. It was scary to stroll his side of town so late and it didn't help his nerves that he was listening to the locally grown podcast talk about shadow people and black eyed kids. It was a lively downtown evening and weirdling woods came to play. Brian knew he was out of place amongst the beautiful people in his hoodie and backpack, but his intel and equipment had to be transported somehow. As he passed Woodsboro and hung a left at Bernie's Rare Books, he entered the stretch of downtown known as the Gallows, one of the gentrified neighborhoods people like Hamesh exploited. It was a distasteful name based on the area's history. The decade-long witch hunt in the 1800s had turned that slice of weirdling into a death factory. Now it was a kitschy moniker for a strand of hipster bars and art galleries. A club called the White Chapel had a line that swallowed the sidewalk so he cut through another alley. Upon returning to the sidewalk, he changed his earbuds to People Are Strange by the Doors and nearly ran into an actual door upon looking up. The Gold Room It was the 15th and he remembered Hamesh's absurd celebration. It was as obnoxious as expected. Peering inside, Hamesh held court as a throng of underlings spawned. The VIP section was separated by a rope and a gaudy mauve theme. Brian laughed. Hamesh could have passed for a pro wrestler or game show host with the glitter explosion that coated an already ridiculous suit jacket. Among his accessories was his wife, a flesh-bound Barbie doll whose nose was held so high she could smell the ceiling. Everyone else was just a diet version of this. He wondered if this would have been him if he had stayed. The epicenter of Weirdling Woods came and went as Brian inched closer to historic downtown. Crossing Herman Street, he entered the Mudget Budget Bodega for a pack of watermelon hubba-bubba, a strange habit engaged when nervous. Can I interest you in a fried baby firefly? The half-asleep goth girl behind the counter asked. What? Why would... I'm good. Thanks, though. The girl shrugged and Brian stepped outside and popped two pieces of gum. That bodega always sold weird food on the side, ever since he was a kid. Mint's meat pie is made to order. An odd Mexican dish called a chalupa cabra. The nostalgia brought warmth as he gnawed the gum with ferocity. It was time. Two more blocks and there it was. The destination, his once-thriving paranormal investigation group described with a short poem, The White Whale, The Holy Grail, The Occultist's Fairy Tale. The nondescript building was nicely restored and hidden perfect for a speakeasy. A hand-painted purple cicada on the brick wall let Brian know the new owners had kept the name alive. The body chills besieged him. The lone remaining member of the Weirdling Woods Ghost Society crept towards the cicada, remembering grandma's tale of Daifu Ling. Finally, it was time to catch one. The first three knocks went unanswered, and Brian suspected a secret knock was needed. He tried a different pattern, but received the same luck. Muffled music crept through the heavy door so he knew the place was alive. His next attempt was greeted by a pair of judging eyes from a tiny slot. Can I help you? The voice was unfriendly as the eyes. Just stopping by for a drink. I've been so excited for the grand opening. Brian blurted with flaccid confidence, hoping his familiarity with the nightclub might fool the doorman. A pause. This is a member's only club. There's a bar three blocks away. Good night. Click. The slot closed, and so did Brian's dream for the moment. Six inches of metal separated him from his destiny. Mild-mannered most of the time, something inside burned. The cicada called out to him. Apprehensive fists met the door again. The slot opened in silence. I'm on the list. Brian lied. Then he remembered something. Asked Maurice. Tell him Hamesh Singh is here. More silence. Then you're Hamesh Singh? Brian boldly nodded. Hamesh never met the new owner, so this might work. Trying to pass as an Indian American when he was Asian American was ballsy. He deducted that the average human brain was severely underutilized, however, and easy to manipulate. If he believed it, maybe the man behind the door would. Certain mannerisms and body cues would deceive anyone. That was science. Wait, please. Said the monotone voice. Brian felt his knees crash into one another until the deadbolt unlatched. The sweetest sound he'd ever heard. It was everything he hoped for. The decor was an exact replica from the photos he'd studied over a lifetime. Sitting at the bar, he sipped the first bourbon poured from a freshly opened bottle and snared in wonderment at the splendor of it all. His docket on the original cicada gave him a mastery of 1920s culture and they nailed it. It was perfect. The details could have been curated from his mind. From the copper bar top to the moustachioed men and herringbone suits and bowler hats to the pipes hanging from their lips, it was magical. The immaculate glass structure that centered the room reminded him of the great Gatsby and the exposed brick and industrial design were the perfect accoutrements to the vintage glassware and dim lighting. The women were equally divine on the dance floor, clad in flapper dresses and married Jane shoes and pearl necklaces. Their short bobbed hairstyles huddled beneath cloche hats as they twisted and turned to the Charleston or the Lindy hop. None were as radiant as the Chanteuse on center stage. The jazz singer's willowy, elegant silhouette was framed with a drop waist dress with black silk gloves that matched her hair and complimented her sultry aura. Their commitment was astounding. Even though this was his personal theme park, Brian had no time to be mesmerized. Emotion was an albatross in the scientific process. It was time to know if this place was a portal to hell or a mirage, a man made portal to another time sculpted by someone as equally devoted to the era as him. Certainly it was haunted, the hair that screeched airborne on his arms, the shift in the air, every subtle clue that said so. It actually smelled haunted, an odor most wouldn't notice. The patrons eyed Brian and he didn't pretend otherwise. He didn't mind. He looked like a scrub off the street. He was exactly that. The bulbous backpack did no favors. With this in mind, he kept to himself and drank for a while, measuring the quantity against time as to not reach a state of impairment that could alter his research. By his third bourbon in the oversized glass, he determined that his presence no longer seemed threatening to the crowd. With a lowered guard, people could be suggested to do favors without knowing it. That was science. Excuse me, he said to the bartender, could you send Marius my way, please? The man behind the bar tilted his newsboy cap and threw a curious look. He then spoke with a thick Irish accent to another customer. And early, this lad wants to speak with Marius, seems a bit hanky eh? Can't tell if he's a daddy corps de gom choux. He don't know what he's asking, do we Riley? The man named Riley chimed in. He wants to say Marius, does he? I want to see the contents of his rucksack, what you say, Mac? I say he empties it, well it takes the bounce. He's obviously no butter and egg man, boy I reckon he's here to chisel some port-a-duffer eh Riley? What about it Andric? A few others inched over to watch the exchange. A tall, thick sequoia of a man sat next to Brian, his bulging forearms protruding like a warning not to mess with him unless one had the desire to meet his rough, calloused hands. A peculiar familiarity oozed from a few of the faces, but Brian couldn't place them. He did place the pack mentality developing around him and chuckled. The simplicity of human behavior was so predictable. The behemoth named Andric spoke with an undetectable accent. Say laughing boy, you heard the fellas, what's in the rucksack, what you hiding? You got a bean chuter in there looking to blow one down? You planning to dry goat someone for a fin? Why you eat a drum boy? The 1920s slang was as impeccable as their cosplay. Wow, I'm immensely impressed guys, seriously amazing commitment. Usually the verbiage is off by 15 years or something, well done. Here, let me show you. He replied as he placed his backpack on the bar. Items spilled out drawing a larger crowd. So my name is Brian Chen, I'm the owner of WWGS, the premier ghost hunting society in Weirdling Woods. I'm sure some of you know, but just in case this beautiful replica you created here is sitting on a gold mine of paranormal activity. I know I'm not blah blah blah, hear me out. Science and seance don't sound too different, right? I'm a scientist and I've been waiting my entire life for tonight. This could be a discovery that changes the course of humanity and that's not ad hominem. I've taken the liberty of notarizing a confidentiality agreement, standard boilerplate stuff. The option, upon completion of my thesis, to use your real names or an alias is entirely yours. I'll be as invisible as the orbs inspectors I'm seeking. I won't disturb anyone, I swear it. Guys, I'm asking for a one-time opportunity to investigate this place. Now, is there a chance I could speak with various? Eerie quiet engulfed that corner of the bar, immune to the roaring jazz surrounding it. Curious stares rained down on Bryan. A thick Romanian accent broke the silence. Andriq voided his seat in favor of the voice's owner. So, Mr. Chen, I believe it was. You're a spirit photographer, is that what I understand? How can I help you? Suddenly next to Bryan was a visual curiosity, a distinguished domineering man with long, silver hair braided in a ponytail. The Rory 20's cosplay ended with this man. His clothing was incorrect. He wore a cloak and presented himself as a leader without declaring it. Bryan recognized the attire, likely a replica of 1710-1718 Carpathian garb. The man's forehead was grown into a permanent scowl even as he smiled. Marius, Bryan said. It deflesh, Mr. Chen. What is it, Mr. Singh? The testuars, you've given two names. What will you call yourself next hour, ghost hunter? Bryan grunted inside. It failed the basic task of espionage, which immediately ate at him. How he was discovered was a curiosity. He made a mental note to look for his driver's license later, should it be stolen. I apologize, sir. As I was telling your cohorts, this place is magic. What you've done with it is beyond belief. I was also telling them about the dark history. This is hallowed ground, Marius. Did my colleague, Mr. Singh, divulge any details about the history of this speakeasy? Marius grinned, perhaps a touch too devious and looked at his people before turning back to Bryan. Let's just pretend he didn't, Mr. Chen. Begailus, please. Tell us what compels you to trespass and hunt these supposed spectons. Bryan looked at his captive audience and cleared his throat. This was the pop quiz he'd waited for his entire life. The speech had been written for years in his head. Off topic, do you know legally Hamesh is obligated to divulge that information? Murders and such? Though the courts have yet to become fair and judicious in affairs of alternative science. Okay, I'm not going down that rabbit hole. What compels me to investigate, you ask? So, the history of this place is quite lurid and unforgiving. On this site, around 1860, a large slaughterhouse and meatpacking facility existed. In the lowest part of the building, a well was dug and it held the blood, guts and waste from these slaughtered animals. Historians have confirmed that after the slaughterhouse closed in the 1880s, satanic cult activity took place in the building around the well. This town was pretty puritanical back then, so Weirdling Woods destroyed the building and raised everything. I know it's crazy to think about that now, especially since this town is like Salem, but actually afflicted with darkness. Not a goose bumps version of Gatlinburg, but that was the era. Back in the 1890s, a young blacksmith and pharmaceutical student named Harry Price purchased this land from the Weirdling Woods Elders and spent three years building this place with nothing but his bare hands whenever he had a little extra money to do so. Then overnight, it was simply here. The rumor is that some sort of untoward deal was struck with questionable intent as Harry Price was not yet a wealthy man and couldn't afford such a contract on his salary. That particular rumor dies there because I just can't find any supporting evidence. Anyway, by 1900, just as Weirdling finally began to join the Industrial Revolution, the population boomed with the factories and the timing was perfect. Harry Price's place became a flourishing saloon. Price no longer needed school or blacksmithing. All was wonderful for Price at this time. He hired a beautiful songbird from the Dominican who sang like an angel and eventually, Kitty became his wife. Fun fact, singing jazz actually taught her English. Studies proved that artists can learn almost anything when taught through a creative lens. Sorry, I guess I'm a little nervous. I talk too much when I'm nervous. Back to it. For ten years, this very building was an oasis, both for Harry and Kitty, as well as the thirsty citizens of Weirdling Woods. If I may interrupt, Mr. Jen, Marius interjected. I know you're nervous, but this isn't a trial. As inspiring as this journey of American grit is, there's the tragedy. Then do these supposed ghosts come in. And to be more concise, brevity is everyone's friend. Right, Brian said, getting to that. Although brevity is a common man's friend, Marius, thorough review is the best friend of wise men. But you want faster, huh? That's tough, but I'll try. So, a strange element came to town around 1914. This was a group that came from somewhere overseas and lived in the woods under Lake Britton Bridge. I cross-referenced the microfish city ledgers of the time against police records, and this group most likely was a sect of some outlier religious group that spread across Europe. The town marshal at the time fielded many complaints about these people, wild stories about Satanism and sacrifices. Nothing could be proven, though. Anyway, that group had already recruited or brainwashed several citizens. They were Mansonesque, it seems. One day in 1915, two of them, Arnie Spade and Curly McGonaghan, finagled their way into the locked basement with a very drunk woman only known as Hattie. I suspect she was a transient, as the migration to Weirdling at the time yielded many young women of similar status. I have files on who Hattie might have been, but that's for another time. Anyway, a few days later, Kitty Price noticed a putrid odor and investigated the basement. She walked downstairs and what she saw would mortify even the hardest man. Hattie was beheaded and drained of blood and stuffed into a rudimentary drainage hole, so deep it took days to retrieve the body. The hole was marked with a pentagram, but the oddest thing was Spade was also dead. His body also drained of blood, yet no blood surrounded the scene, not a drop from either. This is a bit of an urban legend, the blood stuff, but the deaths are real. McGonaghan was never located. This began a flurry of events. Hairtakers, handymen, anyone who went downstairs lasted mere minutes. They complained of a burnt red wine spell and ominous sounds. Many would emerge with bruises. In the middle of the night, disembodied screams could be heard from below. Marius interjected, fascinating, but it sounds like a lunatic killed a young girl and his friend. Vive would have to make this place so appealing to you. Certainly two deaths could be found anywhere. True, Marius, but there's more. 12 murders and three suicides happened on the grounds from 1915 until the Great Fire of 1932. The murders are the stuff of nightmares, each more gruesome than the next. No one could figure it out. It was as if the cicada made people go crazy. Bodies would be found with markings of the beast carved into the skin, bone dry most times. The strangest thing, no one ever got fingered for a thing. No arrests. It's insane that the town didn't level the place like it did with the old slaughterhouse. Mediums and psychics had clergy flooded the saloon and these people fled almost instantly, some ending up in sanitariums. The church officially banned Harry Price's place. Still, it was a popular joint. Customers would be covered with phantom bite marks and scratchings and it became a sadistic badge of honor. Dark tourism is hardly a modern thing. The macabre ambiance brought out the nuts as well as a pseudo-science nuts. At least that's what we were called at the time. But at the tea, Mr. The Chen, Marius said. Brian quickened his pace. So prohibition was all but a certainty by 1928 and Harry and Kitty Price were forward thinkers. They might have been the first to open a speakeasy. Before the system could stop them, they beat the system. I'm going to give you the Cliff's Notes version, guys. The cicada club became the place to be. Jelly Roll Morton, Josephine Baker, all the jazz greats came to the cicada. It seemed the club had a resurgence and that the horrid past was over. A year of peace came. Then 1929 happened. The crash. The depression. Two stock market suicides occurred in the main room. One in front of Louis Freakin' Armstrong. To top it off, Kitty Price accidentally sliced her carotid one day while cutting fruit for the bar, a freak accident. But they say voices told her to do it. Voices. I say those voices were spirits or poltergeists. Sadly, Kitty succumbed to the injury. Poor Harry Price was so distraught at losing the love of his life that one day in 1932, and they say something possessed him but I surmise it was heartbreak and loneliness, he shut the cicada down. He then lit himself on fire and burned himself alive. The building burned with him and remained in ashes and ruin until you, Marius, changed that. This plot of land has been nothing but woe and misery since. Once a week they find a body. I'm not exaggerating either. Whether put here or not, this very land became an above ground cemetery. This gorgeous facility is cursed, Marius, and I'm here to get to the bottom of it and show the world the truth. I owe it to the victims and weirdling and history. Brian exhaled. I need a drink. That's a lot of words to get out. But that's the legend. Again, that's just a summary. So, yeah, that looming presence of death is everywhere, and I aim to capture it and answer once and for all the question of life after this world. A small circle of people had enveloped Brian by this point. They seemed to talk to one another with their eyes, and Brian knew the conversation had to do with his sanity. What ate the tail indeed, Mr. Jen? Marius finally said after studying the enthusiastic young man. Brian picked up that thick accent and found it odd how many accents were being used this evening. Not a tail. Fact. As historical as the Constitution. So, are all of you local to weirdling? I noticed a few dialects that are old-timey, short, definitely non-American. Surely it's a put-on for the club, right? Like those Civil War re-enactments? A chuckle waved through the group. The jazz songstress was on break, and she cautiously eyed Brian. We've been residents in many places. Weirdling woods included. This is home, though, to answer your question. Something about this town is so accepting of alternative individuals. So, Mr. Jen, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we haven't stumbled across any love-law-and-hates, as you can see. Marius said as he pointed to a brick wall, any access to the non-existent basement would be difficult to navigate, so I don't have faith in any portals. You peak our interest, though, if I may speak for my brethren. Should I allow you to investigate or once, as you put it, how does that work? What do these little gadgets do? You making fun of me, Marius? On the contrary, I'm quite fascinated. Brian sighed. How do I explain scientific things to naysayers? Such a predicament. He grabbed one of his devices. This mini-speed gun looking thing in my hand is an infrared thermometer to monitor a room's temperature and sudden changes in said temperature. An isolated cold spot in a room can be a sign of a presence. That's the starter kit must have. Next, we have an electromagnetic field detector, or K2, an EMF detector. This is used to locate the source of excess electromagnetic radiation in a room, or locate who or what is causing it. Shall I continue? But of course, Marius invited. Cool. Next is this portable digital voice recorder. In addition to hearing the unhearable digital pocket recorders can pick up a great deal of ambient background noise, which can be a treasure trove. Then there's this ghost box, crucial. If you have a digital voice recorder, you must have a ghost box. These sweep AM and FM radio frequencies to clear the air for spirits to come through and send messages. Then we have multiple things as you can see. Motion detectors, infrared recordable cameras, dousing rods, and my own reliable and antique Ouija board. And this, Brian said, as he plopped a giant photo album onto the bar in a booming thud. This is a century of photos, newspaper articles, background information, and my theories related to the old cicada club. So that's about it. Do I have your permission to investigate? You're from here. I'm from here. From one weirdo to another. What do you say, friend? Marius turned and looked at his people, but Brian couldn't read his face. Andric said, the lad had too much gildews, hey Marius? Marius waved Andric off. You've spent money on these objects. To chase folklore? You're obviously a brilliant man, why waste that? Tell me, why would the person choose eternity in one place, these ghosts of yours? Your passion is strong but riddled with fallacies, young Mr. Chen. I don't mean to laugh, but this is quite ludicrous. You have gumption though, I admire that. You know what, just to cure this thing that compels you, I'm going to allow you two hours to think it about. But I have three conditions, no cameras or recordings, as this is a private organization. Additionally, I don't want to see you distract anyone for my good time. And lastly, this will be the only time this is allowed, and you will never reveal to your fellow occultists that this place exists. Privacy is again pediment, is that the deal, Mr. Chen. Brian wasted no time. Thank you sir, I'll start right away. The first 45 minutes were rushed as Brian said everything up. He ignored the laughter and judgment thrown in his direction. As he was finishing up his adjustments, he felt a presence. Looking up, the radiant jazz singer seemed to glow inches away. She leaned over and pretended to accidentally drop the contents of her clutch. Not one for social cues, she motioned with her eyes for Brian to help her pick the spill up. She whispered, Are you some kind of peluca chap? They're making you for a rube, a patsy. It's too late for a clean snake. You shouldn't have come. You're setting up for a Chicago overcoat, or worse, far worse. In your pocket, I just slipped you a pill of Nevada gas. Don't ask how or why I have it, I just knew this day would come. You do not want this life. If ever anything was true, you do not want this life. Now act normal and please listen to me. Take it when worse comes. You'll know. With that, she disappeared before being noticed. A befuddled Brian felt the pill in his pocket. Her warning was ominous, but her 1920 slang made it difficult to understand. Except one word. He'd heard it in an old James Cagney movie. Nevada gas. Or as this century called it, cyanide. These people were so committed to their roles. The next hour was a lesson in patience. As the music jumped and the people roared, clinking their chalices and cheers and claiming the night, Brian's mind raced at a frenetic pace. The gadgets picked up nothing, and if they had, he wouldn't be able to record it anyway. Half of the equipment malfunctioned. As the final 30 minutes of his allotment neared, he frantically combed through the photo album at the bar. Something had to give. Even in a town as spooky as Weirdling Woods, this place stood out. What was he missing? From the stage, the woman crewed with one eye glued on Brian. From everywhere else, all eyes were glued on Brian. The clock ambled forth. Suddenly, as if fate had same-day delivery, a grainy newspaper photograph fell onto the bar. His face grew ashen, and his mind became a kaleidoscope of observations. Then he smiled. Marius ordered silence, and the entire club formed a wall in front of Brian. The people separated like Moses parting the Red Sea, and Marius appeared. All of this commotion because Brian decided to clang his glass with a bar spoon to get everyone's attention like they did in the movies. I believe going Mr. Chen here has concluded his investigation into the great haunted building mystery Marius announced, which met with a few chuckles. Yes, thank you, Marius. Thank you everyone for your attention. Thank you for tonight. Rarely in science does an answer arrive so quickly, but tonight is a groundbreaking, rule-shattering affair. First, I present the facts as I have gathered. My OCD prefers 10 when compiling a list, but I ended up at 9. Discovering these facts was such a euphoric thing. It's ironic because I spend so much time with my equipment that I neglect the greatest piece of equipment of all, the mind. Now, onto the facts. Brian rose and paced. Now the cicada club was silent and listening to his TED talk. Marius clared, if you're a sneaky bunch, I'll give you that. Just not sneaky enough. You must evolve faster than humanity to keep appearances, folks. When I arrived, the very first thing I did was order a drink. The bartender had to open a new bottle and pour too much in an entirely wrong glass. Why? Because he was just a guy hanging out behind the bar, not a bartender. It checks. What use would you have for one anyway? Spirits can't drink spirits. What irony. As I looked at the bar, as you all can see now, it certainly stopped. Yet not one bottle besides mine is open. All of you are sipping from very concealing chalices, but not one of you has come to order a drink. That is fact one. Fact two, there are no mirrors in here. Nightclubs are filled with mirrors to give the illusion of a larger abode, but there are none here. In fact, there is nothing to give a reflection at all, which brings us to fact three. No cameras, similar to fact two. Such an odd request, unless a photograph would show a room full of floating chalices held by no one. Any questions yet? The occupants of the room looked at one another, an unknown voice chided Brian as another mocked him. Marius did not blink. Excellent. Fact four, at first I thought the language was amazing, but then I picked up on certain terms and accents that even the greatest actor couldn't pull off too authentic. Guess what else is authentic? Your clothing. That is fact five, by the way. Your clothing, at least quite a bit of you, is riddled with buttons and thread counts and sewing patterns that have long been discontinued. You could have purchased these from a thrift store, but after 100 years they wouldn't be in such immaculate condition. Am I going too fast? I feel like I'm going too fast. Andric said, not fast enough, boy. Andric, thanks for that. You might not know it, but boy, when used towards a man of color, is derogatory. This is an excellent segue to fact six. I suppose amongst European nations you'd be a diverse group, but in this day and age, I shouldn't be the only minority in the room. Yet, here I am. It does make sense in a very sad way, because 100 years ago segregation was still the standard. But time past doesn't forgive your racism, so work on yourselves, please. Now, if you wish to continue your ruse, maybe research the demographics of the woods? It's quite a melting pot. You got about dose of it, didn't you, boy? Mack interrupted. What about talent? The singing blood ain't white, is she? Ah, there's that century's old banter. You're correct, and I'll get there. Fact 7. The walled off entrance to the basement? Of course, that's what someone would say when hiding a portal to hell. But somewhere in this building, there's an entry. There has to be. Weirdling Woods Building Code 060606-LCFR requires a basement for sewage and a boiler. There's no way you could have built this place without sticking to the code. H.H. Holmes is very thorough about their buildings, as is the city. You've got all the answers, don't you lad? Andriks scoffed. Not at all. I'm a bit confused as to what is in those chalices. But, Andriks, you are Fact 8. You have abnormally developed forearms and damaged hands. Based upon your shifting accent, I would determine you once were a logger, but a grunt, a tree chopper in the Ukraine, but not from the Ukraine. Am I close? Andriks huffed. We've arrived, folks. Number 9. The Big One. The Closing Argument. This, Brian said as he waved the yellowing old newspaper article, this is a photo taken by the now defunct Weirdling Woods Inquisitor. This is a photograph found in the rubble of the fire back in 1932. It's a photograph of a photograph, a framed picture of some of the Cicada Club's more prominent members. This, folks, is you. A murmur trickled through the sea of people. Spare the routine, it's you. Here's you, Mack, or should I say, Curly McGonaghan. And Riley, here you are in the exact same clothes. Boy, you guys haven't aged a bit. Andriks, this isn't your most flattering side, but the camera definitely caught your profile. Oh, look, here's Kitty Price, your one person of color, and everyone's favorite musician, bringing class to the photograph. Where are you? Take a bow, Kitty. Great performance tonight. Kitty shook her head in disbelief and vanished into the others. And last but not least, here we have Marius. Oh, Marius, the charismatic leader. You, Silver Fox, you. With such a unique look, you stand out even more than the beautiful Mrs. Price. You are so photogenic. We need to chat about that cape, though. You must have been quite the oddity in town for the casual weirdo to look at, so these are my nine facts. Facts that conclude one thing and one possible thing only. All of you are, for lack of better phrasing, the lifeless of the party. I came here tonight looking for a ghost. Seems I found about 200 of them. Let's just say it out loud. Each of you is dead, which makes me feel so alive. So, Marius, I think it's time we talk business. The gathering began to admit a collective surge of anger and outrage as they chattered amongst one another Marius and Brian remained stuck in a stair down. After a few tense moments, Marius stood up. Slowly, he approached Brian. You annoy me, Mr. Jen. Yet at the same time, you intrigue me. I think if corralled properly, that mind of yours might be of great benefit to us. And I, such a thinker in my midst, someone like you would have never breached our barrier in the first place. But alas, your hypothesis is incorrect. Ghosts, don't be a fool. Tell me, can you touch a ghost? Marius grabbed Brian's arm with the strength of a vice grip, leaving an abrasion upon releasing him. Marius then turned and walked back towards the crowd. Oh, young Mr. Jen, I'd feel so compelled to eradicate you, which logic dictates that I keep you. You're a man of logic, you understand. But again, ghosts, what a silly notion. Even if ghosts were real, they couldn't harm anyone. This obsession has really been a downer for opening night. Kitty Price, behind the crowd, quietly slipped her shoes off and stood tiptoe on a chair for Brian to notice her. She frantically motioned for him to take the pill. His mind was a cloud of confusion. Nonetheless, he dug into his pocket in one stealth motion and cussed the pill in his hand, compelled for some reason. No, no, I'm right. My calculations are right. Brian blurted to Marius in desperation. You people are in this photograph. You haven't aged. What, are these your great, great relatives that look exactly like you? This isn't a sitcom from 1992. That's not how it works. Face it. You're caught. Everything I said checks out. It's all rock solid and indisputable. You have to be spirits because that's the equation. That's the only conclusion. What else could you be? Marius grinned with malice. Mr. the Gen, you describe yourself as a hunter. The aren't the much different. You're looking at the greatest hunters the world has ever known, ever feared. You're asked what was in our chalices. Dinner, Mr. Gen, in your many years of occultism, did it ever occur to you that other more nefarious threats the mankind existed? Your grandmother told you tales of Daifu Ling. You should have been much better served if she had wanted you about the Sike Gori. Either way, welcome to the Sikeida. I have decided to keep you. As I said, I could use a brilliant mind around here. Brian's brilliant mind became burdened by the stimulus overload. Unsure whether Marius reading his thoughts or the unfathomable, unbelievable revelation caused the shock. Marius opened his mouth slightly and with purpose, and everything became slow motion for Brian Chen. His analytical, problem-solving brain absorbed everything. Marius' lateral incisors grew into sharp, piercing fangs stained with blood. The others opened their mouths in one coordinated, emotionless swell, their own fangs materializing. Brian saw Kitty imploring him to take the pill. Then he looked on as Marius began to lunge. Brian's incredible brain calculated thousands of scenarios in a sliver of a second before settling on his greatest outcome. He also lunged at his equipment as his equipment was three inches closer to him than it was to Marius, and when adjusting for the supernatural speed, Marius had already initiated. As Brian's left hand grazed the banned camera that spilled from the backpack, the flash bulb exploded and disoriented Marius for the millisecond needed. Marius quickly recovered and pinned Brian on his back. The grotesque, unlocked jaw widened to a sickening, unnatural position. Marius dove towards Brian's neck, his only intention to turn him into a creature of the night, another slave to the darkness. He stopped short. There was no bite. Marius rolled Brian over and met a lifeless body, a cyanide-induced, foam-filled mouth smiling in defiant victory. You know those devices are bonk, right, kid? It would appear so, Mr. Price. It would appear so. Brian Chan and Harry Price sat at the end of the bar as the speakeasy roared several days later, or maybe weeks. Months. It was hard to keep track. Why can't they see us? Brian asked. Some can if you have a connection. It takes a while to master. Harry looked off towards the stage and smiled as Kitty looked his way, mid-song, and winked. Eventually, I'll teach you how to move things. It's not easy, but it's a good skill. It saved your keyster, me finding that newspaper clipping. Thanks again. I guess your pharmaceutical training paid off. Kitty sure nailed the recipe with that pill. Still, I thought my calculations were correct. I just don't get it. Don't be hard on yourself, kid. Who would think vampires could be a variable in the equation? Sure threw me off. You had no way of knowing. I should have thought about that, though. That's what kills me. This is Weirdling Woods, where airplane pilots casually wave at UFOs, and it's 90 degrees at the beach, but a blizzard three blocks away. To face it, I botched it. I didn't account for variables. Anyway, what happens now? Harry Price put his arm around Brian. Who knows? I've been kicking around for a century. We wait, I guess. They say we remain this way because of unfinished business. I've got Kitty. It's not so bad. Now I have you, a new friend. Yeah, I'm still confused by that. Everything I researched had Kitty as an accidental death. How did the bloodsuckers pull that off? Marius is a man of money. It's my fault for letting them in. I knew what they were. Greed kills. Kitty really did accidentally hit an artery, and these beasts couldn't control themselves when her neck turned into a shower of blood. I thought they'd drained her, but she came too when the autopsy started. Marius paid off the corner, and that was that. Kitty never tried to turn me, you know. She didn't want me to be imprisoned in the eternal thirst. She's the one who convinced me not to let them turn me. I wanted to be with her in the flesh. She told me eternal life on this plane's torture, so I took myself out of the equation. Boy, did that backfire. I'm stuck in eternity regardless. Brian looked at the stage. Kitty's eyes were compassionate. He understood how Harry would want to be with her forever. But why fire? Brian asked. That had to be a tremendously agonizing way to go. It was, but I had family and friends, and weirdly, I thought by burning down the cicada, Marius would be forced to move on and find another familiar. And they did, for a century, but now they're back. Kitty stayed, you know, so we could be together. I'm just glad she has a real place to live now instead of the shadows. A knock came from the door. Did someone want a takeout? Riley quipped from across the room, earning a smattering of laughter. Brian recognized his cell phone next to Riley and rushed over. On the screen was a text message from Brian's phone to Hamesh. Come to the cicada. Marius has a question about the lease. Brian looked up and saw Hamesh enter the cicada. Within seconds, he was devoured. Then, Hamesh materialized in his ghostly form. Brian lowered his head and shook it. This was not acceptable. He ran up to Marius and swung his arms passing through the fleas like a flashlight beam. Brian screamed in frustration. There had to be a line. Hamesh, forever? An eternity of this was not going to go unpunished. Brian Chen locked eyes with Marius, knowing that Chike Gwai could sense him. Ghosts can't harm people, Marius said. Brian left the challenge and Marius wasn't the person. It was in this moment, Brian suddenly understood the unfinished business that kept him here. Revenge was now the only riddle he would ever need to solve. Somehow, some way, he would crack the code and his vengeance against the vampires would be bloody and savage and obscenely barbaric. This was his existence now, and retribution would be his. He had an eternity to work out the equation, variables and all. The deductive, analytical problem-solving mind of Brian Chen began to spin. 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, now available in paperback, hardback, ebook 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 Nicolas Gasparini, also known as horror composer Me You on YouTube. If you like this series, please share it with others and leave a rating in 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.