 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, it's Thriller Thursday and I'm bringing you an original story of fiction from one of our own Weirdo family members, Patrick Green. It's a story he has titled, The Black Sphere. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, to enter contests, to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. My four years in army engineering were right around the worst of the Vietnam conflict, but I'd never set foot in Nam. Thinking a step ahead, I enlisted and got into something else, engineering, before they could draft me. Yet, here I was, seventeen months after the official end of conflict, heading into the deepest part of the Nam jungle, up behind Cocao. If I could have chosen between combat and what was about to happen, I'd have jumped into frontline infantry with both hands. I got a good job with a French hydroelectric outfit, électrique borrante, thanks to yet another moment of brilliant foresight. When U.S. involvement in the quagmire, excuse me, I meant war, started wrapping up, I figured companies from all over the world would be brought in to help with reconstruction, or in this case expansion. EM got the contract to put juice in the deep boonies of our latest freedom-spreading venture, and I landed on the crew to lay the final survey markers. When I say deep, I mean remote. This parcel was a good few clicks from the most remote village. The other guys were chosen for their background and familiarity with the region. They were all vets too, only with actual combat experience. Trainer was stationed with me in Texas. He got on with EM at my recommendation. Hap was almost 60, but fit as a fiddle, funny as hell, and always up for adventure or any other type of good times. Frenchman Duarte was both ridiculously intelligent, his English was better than mine, and tough as nails, having served in the Legion. There were two security contractors, Bolin and Domingo, along to protect us from wildlife, tigers and monkeys, I presume, or friendly jungle rats, meaning any natives who still had a hate on for forerunners. Bolin, I knew from basic of all places, hadn't seen him since. Turned out he saw a good bit of action and really missed it, the way a retired boxer misses getting his head bashed, I guess. A good guy, if quick to talk himself up a bit much. As for Domingo, we all found it funny, including him, that he was not connected to any of us in any way. After a sweet two days stay at a swank French resort on the beach, we stowed our gear on the jeep and checked out. Then came time to stand around in the parking garage and show off our weapons, a long-held tradition in the world of ex-military men who still did military stuff. Everybody had a handgun, naturally, and we all got to spit a lot of technical jargon. Mine was just a no-frills 32, but I kept her clean, so the fellas showed it some love. Bolin had a brand new, top-of-the-line game rifle, courtesy of the company. Domingo carried a 12 gauge. It looked like it loved him, if that makes sense. Cracking wise the whole way, we rode a good 30 miles up North Sang, a rougher road than I had ever seen back when I was a punk hellraiser out in the mountains of North Carolina. The road ran out, literally just ended at the edge of a high bamboo forest, so we hiked to the big open field that E.M.'s boys and the scouting choppers had settled on. The file said it never got too overgrown, thanks to rocks and bad soil. The hike was less than half a mile. There wouldn't have been much to it, if not for the viney ground cover that was always snaring our boots, the soul-sapping heat, and the relentless insects. As rough as the jolting ride had been, the slow, plodding passage was probably worse. At least in the jeeps we had some wind hitting us. This stifling stillness made every breath feel like a cup of hot sweat. Don't get carried off, boys! Hap quipped, futilely waving through a roiling cloud of big-ass black bugs we would soon come to call buzz-bats. On either side, the jungle gradually opened up again into sparse treelines. Beyond the field was a dense little jungle of teak and bamboo about 500 yards square. Hap, doing a decent rod-serling, gave his section a name too. You have entered the Dark Realm. We all laughed at that little verbal swerve. About 50 yards back from the Dark Realm we set up camp, a tent for the radio, collapsible chairs, stove, and sleeping bags. Then we headed in to check out the spots that EM's helicopter pilots had chosen in their godlike wisdom. Despite the hardships, we all got along fine. Once we established a decent workflow, we started dropping wisecracks again, with trainer the de facto cut-out target for a while. Then it was my turn. Around twilight it finally cooled down some, but we were just about drained. The buzz-bats got worse. The jokes petered out, and we just focused on reaching the day's goal. We were behind by about an hour when trainer and Hap started pacing off a line toward the field's edge, with Bolin tagging along. I was on radio with them. They plunged into the treeline behind a curtain of vines. I gave them about 10 seconds, then cleverly asked, Are you there yet? I got hit with a slug of static so loud it could have come out of a stadium amp at a Led Zeppelin show. I tossed the radio away and fell back to my ass, staring at it, lying there in the brush like it was a hornet's nest. Swan? Domingo shouted from the other end of the camp. What the hell was that? Radio at bananas. A weird tingle crept up my neck. Like that high alert you get on night patrol, whore, so I hear. The two-way blasted again, just as loud. This time I cried out, What are you doing, man? Domingo yelled. This damn radio! I got up and walked a circle around it, scared to pick it up. The lazy violet South Pacific twilight suddenly flashed bright as high noon. I looked up to see a hazy ball of blue light cross the sky to the right, over where trainer, Hab and Bolin were. It wasn't all that fast, moved or like a train and a comet, but it came and went like the kind of uneasy dream you might have when you're napping on duty and part of your brain knows not to drift too far. I stood there, blinking at the smeary trail that left on my retina. The radio sounded again, normal this time. You there, Swan? Glad to hear Hab's gravelly voice, I picked it up. Here. You see that crazy light thing just now? Sure did, I answered. You don't know what it was? How the hell would I know? Hab said. He must have forgotten to release the button. I could hear him breathing like he'd just done a full PT. We're heading back. Don't mind telling you, we're all a little spooked. Roger that. Let's wrap it up for the day and smoke a J. Just set it for the rhyme, hoping to break some tension. By then, Domingo had come over. There was still too much flare in my eyes to see his expression, but I figured it was the same as mine. If it was wartime, I'd dismiss that as some kind of mortar anomaly, he said. Man, if I saw that thing in the middle of the night, I'd surrender, quick as hell, I said, like I knew anything about fire, fights, and mortars. We headed back, feeling kind of weirdly energized. A tingle, I daresay. My first thought was that there was a lot of static electricity or something in the air in the wake of the meteor I decided it was. Hab and Bolin built the campfire like it was the most important task in the world, exchanging this weird look the whole time but no conversation. A weird thing, I noticed. The buzz bats were gone. I don't know anything about Vietnamese insect life, but I'd never known the mosquitoes back home to pack it in this early. Duorte went straight to the main tent and radioed the bosses. First thing he mentioned was the light we saw. There was silence on the other end. Long enough to have us thinking we'd lost communication. For some reason, I got this sudden panic, like we'd all be stuck out here. Forever. Then someone came back on and told Duorte to log it along with our progress. Duorte asked us all to describe it for his write-up. Trainer was the closest to an artist among us, so he sketched it for what it was worth. Any of us could have scribbled a fuzzy ball. Still, the trees and shadows he added for perspective made for a nice touch. I made supper my business, a small matter of opening cans and boiling water. It was full dark when we settled in around the fire. Bolin kept his rifle right up against him, like a new girlfriend, and I was glad. And then we finally started talking about the brightest hell elephant in the room. My papa saw one of those things in our vineyard when he was a boy. Duorte began checking our faces. Sampled his own product, sounds like, said Hap, through a mouth full of spam. We all laughed at his delivery, better than Johnny Carson. Duorte laughed the loudest, then went on. The fire, sparking in his eyes, like the cigarette tips advertising the street corner hookers we'd all gawked at a block from the hotel. From about twenty meters away he saw a shining, he held out his hands, rounding his fingers, circle, a machine. Duorte was a good sport about being ribbed, but you couldn't mistake the discomfort he felt. He put out legs on the soil, there in the middle of the field, a kind of ramp dropped from the bottom and a little man stepped down. Pa said he saw the little man's face. We stared at Duorte, his features dancing in the firelight like the shadows of startled rabbits as he shoveled in a mouthful of cheap-grade meat, just peering deep into the little tin cavern. So what'd he look like? asked Bolin with a nervous little chuckle. Duorte's dad, dead-panned Hap, like Duorte, only stained all purple, I expect. We laughed our hands off, sending echoes into the ebony and teak trees, the dark realm across the field. The spaceman moron, trainer cackled. Hap kept a straight face, of course, but there was some wonderment there in those orange-lit crow's feet and laugh lines. Duorte leaned so far forward I thought his mind might catch fire. He couldn't remember, Duorte said. Papa remembers everything else, the little ship, the man's uniform, but the face is a blur. What the hell does that mean? Trainer wondered. Duorte shrugged. Papa said it was like that part of his memory, just that one little section was erased, Duorte thought for a second, painted over. Bolin looked back toward where we'd seen the flying crash, then at Hap, like he was hoping for a skeptical quip. What if they can just mold our memories, like clay, so we don't even know if who's they, Bolin? Hap interrupted. Bolin shrugged. Whoever's pilot in these, uh, things. Bolin stood about six-four, weighed an easy 240, but right then, with his eyes all bugged out, he sounded so much like a vulnerable ten-year-old that he almost looked like one too. We all burst out laughing. I never said that light was a spaceman, that tracked Duorte. Yeah, pretty much did, Frenchy, I said. Said your dad saw one anyway. Eh, Duorte shook his canteen, tossing his empty meat can into the fire. I don't know. Got a whiz, Domingo grunted, checking his hip for his sidearm, a nice nickel burrata that I coveted. We all knew to keep the bathroom business out from the camp, so as not to bring all kind of wildlife traipsing up to see who was marking their turf. We'd settled on a spot at the edge of the dark realm, a good 12 yards from camp. Yeah, it was a bit of a walk, but it beat having a three-foot monitor lizard crawl into our sleeping bags, or being pissed on head to toe by agitated monkeys. We moved on to other topics. What we did before this gig, what was next, anything but the flying light. Hey, Domingo called to us. Guys! Can't find your wanger? Asked Hap. Predictable, I know, but like I said, it was his delivery that made all the difference. Get out here! We all grudgingly stood up and trudged toward the dark realm. The laughs were gone by the time we made out the shape of Domingo. There were no animal sounds. I felt a heavy vacuum, a feeling of absence, not just in myself, but coming from the other fellows too. Come here! Come here! Domingo whispered. As we came up beside him, Domingo jabbed his finger at a section of blackness, maybe six yards away. Look there for a second. Let your eyes adjust. As I did, a perfect circle about eight feet wide formed, like sand washing away from a seashell. It was then Hap clicked on his flashlight. Don't, I said reflexively. Not a flat circle, a solid sphere, matte black and smooth like polished onyx. By the time we all spouted our variations of what the hell, Hap walked right up within a couple of feet, trailing his beam over the surface. It's a fallen satellite, offered Tuarte. Yeah, well it ain't finished falling then, said Hap, shining his light at the bottom curve of the thing to show us it was hovering at least a foot above the ground. We all just stared at it for maybe a minute, Hap covering every visible inch with the beam. Walking a wide circle around it. Anything, I asked. I don't see whatever is suspending it. Hap answered. Yeah, sure he is quiet, trainer said. It's not giving off any heat. Hap came back over to stand beside us for a second, then drew his knife. Hold on, I said. It might shock you or something. Duarte took his insulated gloves out of his back pocket and tossed them to Hap. He slid them on and we all stepped back exactly as far as he stepped forward. Bolin raised his rifle. Hap didn't make any kind of production out of it, just strode up and dragged his knife blade across the surface of the thing. It sounded muffled, like it was coated with Teflon or industrial plastic. Everybody who had a light was holding it right where Hap used the knife. There was no scratch or mark at all. Hap slid his rubber-coated fingers across it. What's it feel like? Nothing. No heat? Vibrations? Nothing. Hap sheathed his knife and came back to our group. Let me in go. Get on your business, he asked. Shake it off and let's get back. We just got a bed down with this thing floating out here, trainer asked. Hap is right, said Duarte. We finish eating and we get some sleep. We'll take a closer look at this object in the morning. Object? I said. I guess I felt a little weird to talk about it like it was mundane or even real. Maybe we should have somebody stand guard tonight, said trainer. You volunteering? I asked. Why don't we do two at a time for two hour shifts? Me? I need sleep. Hap started back to camp. You fellas do what you want. As with his jokes, his brush off carried a lot of weight. It made us feel like superstitious rubes. If the others were like me, they were weighing how they'd tell the suits at EM that we got behind schedule because of something floating black. What's it? Object? Topic of guard shifts was dropped. Oh, okay. I'm a light sleeper anyways. Bolan checked his rifle magazine and his sidearm as he started back to camp, giving the sphere one last glance. Are you a member of the Darkness Syndicate? The Darkness Syndicate is a private membership where you receive commercial free episodes of the Weird Darkness podcast and radio show. Behind the scenes video updates about future projects and events I'm working on. You can share your own opinions on ideas to help me decide upon Weird Darkness contests, events, and merchandise. You can download word search puzzles based on episodes of the podcast. You can hear audiobooks I'm narrating before even the publishers or authors get to hear them. You can also hear auditions I've submitted for other voiceover projects and get updates on the progress of those I've been cast in, such as My Voice Acting Roles as Wolverine and J. Jonah Jamison in a couple of Marvel fan series, or as Green Lantern, Hal Jordan in a DC fan project. You get all of these benefits and more, starting at only $5 per month. Join the Darkness Syndicate at WeirdDarkness.com slash syndicate. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash syndicate. We sat down and dug back into our rations. Silent at first, then pointedly trying to find a topic of conversation that would make the black thing easier to ignore. Everybody finished eating in a hurry. It was a cool night, so we all decided to roll out our sleeping bags around the fire. Nobody suggested ghost stories. I thought of the resort where we had just spoiled ourselves silly on the company dime. Our game of chicken fight in the indoor pool had me smiling. Without a word, trainer popped up from his sleeping bag like he just realized he left the oven on. Piss for me too, would you, trainer? Mumbled hap. Trainer didn't answer or laugh, or even bothered to slide on his boots. He just walked toward the tree line, the dark realm, straight as a pin. Left your boots, dumbass, I called. I watched him till he merged with the dark. Then I closed my eyes and pretended for the first time in my life that a nice house and a family were waiting for me back in Knoxville. Instead of my empty apartment where I didn't even bother to hide my hustler magazines. Where the hell did he go? whispered Bolin. I must have dozed off. It took me a second to realize he met trainer. Pissing. Twenty minutes? Bolin whispered. Opie took his teddy, grumbled hap. So she don't get too lonesome. Probably had him trouble with his butt hatch, added Domingo. Go help him, swan. Har har, I said. Just as I dozed off again and clattering sound jerked me awake. Turned out to be hap kicking over the coffee pot. I raised my head and saw a trail of glowing sticks and coals. He just walked right through the fire like a zombie. Good thing he'd bedded down with his boots on. I sat up and watched him tread off toward the tree line just like trainer. You gonna get trainer? I asked. Hap just kept walking, not even stumbling in the dark, making a B line for the tree line, if you will. Swan called Bolin. Domingo. We answered in a groggy chorus. That was weird as hell, don't you think? He was up stomping out the stray embers. Maybe they're sexy for each other. No one found my little quip funny. You going after them, Bolin? Nah. He bedded back down. Just getting annoyed, that's all. Appeared out toward the tree line, though I couldn't really see past 10 or 12 feet. I was just hoping those two bozos were planning some summer camp boogity boogity garbage. If they did, I was ready to give them nothing. Just act like I slept right through it. But I wasn't sleepy any longer, that was for sure. I looked at Bolin and then Domingo and I could tell they were both fixated on the tree line too and the big black ball that undoubtedly still hovered there. Damn it, somebody's gotta go check on those two. Before I finished, Bolin rose and walked off the same way as trainer and Haap, leaving his rifle by his sleeping bag. It occurred to me right away then that the way he walked was the same as the other two. Their stride was weirdly confident, efficient, considering how dark it was and what was out there. Bolin, I shouted. Domingo repeated. He was looking at me, but the fire was too low for me to make out his expression. Probably for the best. You guys pulling some kind of joke? He asked me. If so, I'm not in on it. You swear? Let's just go out there, I suggested. See what's what. We'll give him a minute, I guess. Here are the boss, Applesauce. I couldn't see squat, so I just listened. The silence was solid, complete. I didn't like it. I got up and shoved my feet into my boots. Let me go take a whiz and we'll walk out there and bust their chops, I told Domingo. He didn't respond. I ventured out about 10 paces, the opposite direction of the dark realm, more than far enough for a camp protocol. Did my biz, hustled back. Let's go, I said. Domingo didn't answer. I found my flashlight and clicked it on. His empty sleeping bag just lay there like he was never planning to use it again. Domingo? I shouted out for the others and got nothing. All right, for crying out loud, I called. I sounded lonelier than it did angry. Har har. Okay, now I knew it was a prank and I'd been elected the mark. I had to admit it was funny at first. And then, yeah, I got seriously spooked. Now, it was just irritating. I bedded down again, but it was all show and I was my own audience. I couldn't keep my eyes closed for fear they'd dog pile me or douse me or something else idiotic. After about five minutes, I wasn't worried about that kind of crap anymore. They had to know this job was too big a project to be messing around into the late hours. Besides, that big black spider's eye was out there. I checked my 32 and hugged it against my chest. I thought about calling out to the others again, but it just seemed absurd to think they would hear me. Staring at the dark husks of their sleeping bags, I realized that each of them had gotten up and walked off at intervals of about 20 minutes. I hadn't checked my watch in a while, but it felt like at least 10 since I'd come back to find Domingo gone. I felt scared and alone before, but not with weird crap like this going on. Being a million miles from home made it a million times worse. I decided to radio headquarters. If I had to, I'd make up something and beg them to come and get me. You can bet I wasn't going to stay the night out here. One way or another, I just wouldn't. That was settled. But it wasn't the radio tent where I found myself heading. It was the tree line. I had no control over my own legs. Something buzzed in my head, not words, but something intelligent and insistent and irresistible. I tried to call out, but my voice wouldn't work. It felt like parts of my brain had been hijacked. As soon as my legs took me past the fire, I immediately lost my sense of place. I couldn't see where I was going, but I knew I was going to the sphere. Its control was quickly spreading like an infection, erasing my will, but not my helpless terror. With an exhausting effort, I looked behind me. I only saw the dim orange embers of our campfire fading fast. I still had a gambler's chance, and the game was Russian roulette. I raised my pistol in front of me, aiming along the center of my forced path and squeezed off three shots into the dark, into the sphere. There was no sound of impact or ricochet. Then I thought of Hap's knife, how it didn't even leave scratch. I had three shots left, and with vines of unholy influence taking root in my brain like a parasite weed, a sickening choice, I had just enough time to end myself. Just as I raised the 32 to my head, my legs started working faster, as if to outrun my trigger finger. I was almost at a run when I thought of one other option, and cursed myself for not coming up with it in time to help the others. I put the gun barrel against my right knee, and fired. Damn did it hurt! I fell to my side, absorbed in the sudden burning agony of splintered bone and joint. Without control of my legs, I hit the ground hard, knocked breathless. But my good left leg was still trying to walk, heel and toe arcing back and forth in the dirt like an upended wind-up doll. To hell with it, I thought out loud, and blasted a hole right through the top of my left foot. I screamed like a new arrival in hell. My legs still tried to move, alternating in a shaky, grounded dance. I raised the gun to my head once more, ready to make use of that last round to keep from facing both the unknown and this searing pain if I somehow started moving again. My legs went limp. They had been released. If only they had gone numb, too. I guess I was no longer suitable for their purposes, or just not worth the trouble. The crawl back to camp about 20 yards was sheer hell. I couldn't look behind me, dead certain that if I did, I'd see that thing coming at me like a 10-ton boulder rolling downhill. It was a good three hours before dawn. Thinking of Duarte's dad and the blur-faced being that landed on his great field, I was too terrified to crawl into the radio tent, not even for the first aid kit. Nothing in there would ease my pain anyway. I'd suffer till dawn if I lived, and then make the call. I had my last bullet, the most precious possession I have ever owned, and I had my watch to tell me how long it was until dawn. There were lots of cold little nuggets floating around in my head to keep me company. Like, what if dawn never came? I'd be easy prey for the jungle's sharp-toothed regulars, or worse, with that God-versaikin' black sphere. My bad luck was what ran out, though. Duarte's accounting of the light must have lit a fire under somebody's can. A rescue team rolled in double time, just as day broke, along with a couple of suits who grilled me for 10 minutes or so about the last 24 hours, which wasn't exactly doing me a favor. I was already trying to forget it. As I lay there in the bay of the chopper, the pilot handed me a canteen of, judging by his Tennessee accent, moonshine. Maybe he nipped while flying, or maybe he brought it just for me. I didn't care. While I was being carried out, a handful of rangers checked the area. They didn't find anything or anyone, including my pals. These days I get around my place okay with a cane, got full retirement, long as I keep my mouth shut, and neighbors on both sides keep me from feeling too alone. I'm always watching the trees around twilight, though, and I always keep my lucky bullet handy. Thanks for listening. If you liked the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at darron at weirddarkness.com. Darron is D-A-R-R-E-N. Weirddarkness.com is also where you can find all of my social media, listen to free audio books I've narrated, visit the store for Weird Darkness t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, phone cases, and more merchandise. Sign up for monthly contests. Find other podcasts that I host like Retro Radio, Old Time Radio in the Dark, Micro Terrors, Scary Stories for Kids, The Church of the Undead, and more. Weirddarkness.com is also where you can find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Also on the website, if you have a paranormal or creepy tale to tell of your own, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at Weirddarkness.com. All stories on thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction. The Black Sphere was written by Patrick Green. You can find links to his blog and to his published books through links I've placed in the show notes. Weirddarkness is a registered trademark. Copyright, Weirddarkness.com. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Mark 6, verses 49 and 50. But when they saw him walking on the lake, they thought he was a ghost. They cried out because they all saw him and were terrified. Immediately he spoke to them and said, Take courage, it is I. Don't be afraid. In a final thought, as soon as you are courageous enough to deal with sadness, worry and resentment, you've taken the first step toward letting go. It takes courage to face what's going on in your life instead of resisting or hiding from it. Dave Sacrelanda and Ursula Petinga. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weirddarkness. Said your dad saw one anyway. Duarte shook his canteen. Duarte shook his canteen. And again, the lawnmower. We're trying to do it in between swipes now. Someday we're going to move to Colorado. And I'm going to have a soundproof room. I'm going to pay extra to have a soundproof room. I don't know where I'll get the money, but I'll figure it out. But this is ridiculous. His empty sleeping bag just lay there. Unfriking believable. Lawnmowers and cars without mufflers. Used to be a quiet neighborhood. Used to be. Hey Weirdos, our August Weirdo Watch Party is Saturday, August 5th. With a movie presented by a perfectly named horror host show, The Weirdness Really Bad Movie, with Dave Binkley. Dave will be presenting 1962's Dreck of a film, The Magic Sword, starring Basil Rathbone. And trust me, Rathbone is the only good part about this movie. The Son of a Sorceress, armed with weapons and armor assisted by six magically summoned knights, embarks on a quest to save a princess from a vengeful wizard. That's right, it's not just an awful movie. It's an awful, historically incorrect, period piece movie. You've got a two-headed fire-breathing dragon, cursed shrunken people, a giant ogre that looks like a guy in a werewolf costume, a wicked and ugly witch. You'll see the cone heads from Saturday Night Live. Well, they look that way at least. You've got dated special effects, terrible acting, and costumes that look like they were ripped right out of a Monty Python skit. The Weirdo Watch Party is always free to watch online with all of us, so grab your popcorn, candy and soda and jump into the fun and even get involved in the live chat as we watch the movie. It's The Magic Sword, presented by the Weirdness Really Bad Movie Show, Saturday August 5th, starting at 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 8pm Mountain, 7pm Pacific. See a trailer for the film and invite your friends to watch along with you on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com. And we'll see you on Saturday August 5th for the Weirdo Watch Party. Bonus points if you're wearing your Renaissance Festival costume while watching. When Salem Roanoke took a job near his family's new home as a hired hand in the Texas Hill Country, he anticipated learning the rancher's trade, but a series of strange events, shocking murders and unholy revelations divert him down another path. This terrifying trajectory puts him directly into the middle of a struggle between monsters, magic and men. Armed and backed by a militia of ranchers, Salem attempts to combat the creeping tide of evil that threatens to engulf his new home and destroy the people most important to him. Will Salem manage to save his home or have his actions condemn everyone he hopes to save? The Witch Trials A Summer of Wolves and Season of the Witch by SR Roanoke. Available in paperback, Kindle and audiobook versions, look for The Witch Trials by SR Roanoke on Amazon or find it on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash audiobooks. Who Loves All Things Strange in Macabre? If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com slash listen.