 Ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome, Weirdos. 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 the Riller Thursday and this time I bring you a strange story from master storyteller Ray Bradbury. The story is odd in the beginning and gets slowly darker as it progresses. Our protagonist, Mr. Harris, has slowly become more and more obsessed with his own skeleton, which he only sees as a symbol of death, as an enemy. He sees a skeleton not as a part of him but as a separate entity continually working against him, eventually coming to believe his skeleton is trying to kill him. While it's obvious the man is quite mad, it's still an interesting journey as he plunges further down into his madness as the story moves forward. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise to visit sponsors you hear about during the show. Sign up for my newsletter. Connect with me on social media. Here are my other podcasts. Listen to free audiobooks I've narrated. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, dark thoughts or addiction. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors. Lock your windows. Turn off your lights. And come with me into the Weird Darkness. It was past time for him to see the doctor again. Mr. Harris turned palely in at the stairwell and on his way up the flight saw Dr. Burley's name gilded over a pointed arrow. Would Dr. Burley sigh when he walked in? After all, this would make the tenth trip so far this year. But Burley shouldn't complain. He was paid for the examinations. The nurse looked Mr. Harris over and smiled a bit amusedly as she tiptoed to the glazed door, opened it and put her head in. Harris thought he heard her say, guess who's here, doctor, and didn't the doctor's voice reply faintly, oh my god again? Harris swallowed uneasily. When Harris walked in, Dr. Burley snorted, aches in your bones again. He scowled and adjusted his glasses. My dear Harris, you've been curried with the finest tooth combs and bacteria brushes known to science. You're just nervous. Let's see your fingers. Too many cigarettes. Let's smell your breath. Too much protein. Let's see your eyes. Not enough sleep. My response? Go to bed. Stop the protein. No smoking. Ten dollars, please. Harris stood sulking. The doctor glanced up from his papers. You still here? You're a hypochondriac. That's eleven dollars now. But why should my bones ache? asked Harris. Dr. Burley spoke as to a child. You ever had a sore muscle and kept irritating it, fussing with it, rubbing it? It gets worse the more you bother it. Then you leave it alone and the pain vanishes. You realize you caused most of the soreness yourself. Well, son, that's what's with you. Leave yourself alone. Take a dose of salts. Get out of here and take that trip to Phoenix you've stewed about for months. Do you good to travel? Five minutes later, Mr. Harris rifled through a classified phone directory at the corner drugists. A fine lot of sympathy one got from blind fools like Burley. He passed his finger down a list of bone specialists, found one named M. Munigant. Munigant lacked an M.D. or any other academic lettering behind his name, but his office was conveniently near. Three blocks down, one block over. Mr. Munigant, like his office, was small and dark. Like his office, he smelled of iodine and other odd things. He was a good listener, though, and listened with eager, shiny moves of his eyes, and when he talked to Harris, his accent was such that he softly whistled each word. Undoubtedly because of imperfect ventures. Harris told all. Mr. M.M. nodded. He'd seen cases like this before, the bones of the body. Man was not aware of his bones. Ah, yes, the bones, the skeleton. Most difficult. Something concerning an imbalance, an unsympathetic coordination between soul, flesh, and skeleton. Very complicated, softly whistled Mr. M.M. Harry listened, fascinated. Now here was a doctor who understood his illness. Psychological said Mr. Munigant. He moved swiftly, delicately to a dingy wall and slashed down a half dozen X-rays to haunt the room with their look of things found floating in an ancient tide. Here, here, a skeleton surprised. Here, luminous portraits of the long, the short, the large, the small bones. Mr. Harris must be aware of his position, his problem. Mr. M.M.'s hand tapped, rattled, whispered, scratched at faint nebula of flesh in which hung ghosts of cranium, spinal cord, pelvis, slime, calcium marrow here, there, this, that, these, those, and others. Look! Harris shuddered. The X-rays and the paintings blew in a green and phosphorescent wind from a land peopled by the monsters of Dolly and Fusili. Mr. M.M. whistled quietly. Did Mr. Harris wish his bones treated? That depends, said Harris. Well, M.M. could not help Harris unless Harris was in the proper mood. Psychologically, one had to need help or the doctor was useless, but shrugging Mr. M.M. would try. Harris lay on a table with his mouth open. The lights were switched off, the shades drawn, Mr. M.M. approached his patient. Something touched Harris' tongue. He felt his jawbones forced out. They creaked and made faint cracking noises. One of those skeleton charts on the dim wall seemed to quiver and jump. A violent shudder seized Harris. Involuntarily, his mouth snapped shut. M.M. shouted. His nose had almost been bitten off. No use. No use. Now was not the time. M.M. whispered the shades up, dreadfully disappointed. When Mr. Harris felt he could cooperate psychologically, when Mr. Harris really needed help and trusted M.M. to help him, then maybe something could be done. M.M. held out his little hand. In the meantime, the fee was only $2. Mr. Harris must begin to think. Here was a sketch for Mr. Harris to take home and study. He would acquaint him with his body. He must be trembling, aware of himself. He must be on guard. Skeletons were strange, unwieldy things. M.M.'s eyes glittered. Good day to Mr. Harris. Oh, and would he care for a breadstick. M.M. proffered a jar of long, hard, salty breadsticks to Harris, taking one himself, saying that chewing breadsticks kept him in practice. Good day, good day to Mr. Harris. Mr. Harris went home. The next day, Sunday, Mr. Harris discovered innumerable fresh aches and pains in his body. He spent the morning, his eyes fixed, staring with new interest at the small, anatomically perfect painting of a skeleton M.M. to give him. His wife, Clarice, startled him at dinner when she cracked her exquisitely thin knuckles one by one until he clapped his hands to his ears and cried, Stop! The rest of the afternoon, he quarantined himself in his room. Clarice played bridge in the parlor, laughing and chatting with three other ladies, while Harris, hidden away, fingered and wade the limbs of his body with growing curiosity. After an hour, he suddenly rose and called Clarice. She had a way of dancing into any room, her body doing all sorts of soft, agreeable things to keep her feet from ever quite touching the nap of a rug. She excused herself from her friends and came to see him now brightly. She found him reseeded in a far corner and she saw that he was staring at the anatomical sketch. Are you still brooding sweet? She asked. Please don't. She sat upon his knees. Her beauty could not distract him now in his absorption. He juggled her lightness. He touched her kneecap suspiciously. It seemed to move under her pale, glowing skin. Is it supposed to do that? He asked, sucking in his breath. Is what supposed to do what? She laughed. You mean my kneecap? Is it supposed to run around on top of your knee that way? She experimented. So it does, she marveled. I'm glad yours slithers too, he sighed. How's beginning to worry? About what? He patted his ribs. My ribs don't go all the way down. They stop here and I found some confounded ones that dangle in midair. Beneath the curve of her small breasts, Clarice clasped her hands. Of course, silly, everybody's ribs stop at a given point and those funny short ones are floating ribs. I hope they don't float around too much. The joke was most uneasy. Now, above all, he wished to be alone. Further discoveries, newer and stranger archaeological diggings lay within reach of his trembling hands and he did not wish to be laughed at. Thanks for coming in, dear, he said. Anytime. She rubbed her small nose softly against his. Wait, here now. He put his finger to touch his nose and hers. Did you realize the nose bone grows down only this far? From there on, a lot of grisly tissues fill out the rest. She wrinkled hers, of course, darling, as she danced from the room. Now sitting alone, he felt the perspiration rise from the pools and hollows of his face to flow in a thin tide down his cheeks. He licked his lips and shut his eyes. Now, now, next on the agenda, what? The spinal cord. Yes, here. Slowly, he examined it. In the same way, he operated the many push buttons in his office, thrusting them to summon secretaries, messengers. But now, in these pushings of his spinal column, fears and terror answered, rushed from a million doors in his mind to confront and shake him. His spine felt horribly unfamiliar. Like the brittle shards of the fish freshly eaten, its bones left strewn on a cold china platter. He seized the little rounded nobbins. Lord, Lord! His teeth began to chatter. God Almighty, he thought, why haven't I realized it all these years? All these years I've gone around with a skeleton inside me. How is it we take ourselves for granted? How is it we never question our bodies and our being? A skeleton. One of those jointed, snowy, hard things. One of those foul, dry, brittle, gouge-eyed, skull-faced, shake-fingered, rattling things that sway from neck chains and abandoned webbed closets. One of those things found on the desert all long and scattered like dice. He stood upright because he could not bear to remain seated. Inside me now, he grasped his stomach, his head. Inside my head is a skull. One of those curved carapaces which holds my brain like an electrical jelly. One of those cracked shells with the holes in front like two holes shot through it by a double-barrel shotgun. With its grottos and caverns of bone, its revetments and placements from my flesh, my smelling, my seeing, my hearing, my thinking, a skull encompassing my brain, allowing it exit through its brittle windows to see the outside world. He wanted to dash into the bridge party, upset it. A fox in a chicken yard, the cards fluttering all around like chicken feathers burst upward in clouds. He stopped himself only with a violent, trembling effort. Now, now, man, control yourself. This is a revelation. Take it for what it's worth. Understand it. Savor it. But a skeleton screamed his subconscious. I won't stand for it. It's vulgar. It's terrible. It's frightening. Skeletons are horrors. They clink and tinkle and rattle in old castles, hung from oak and beams, making long, indolently rustling pendulums on the wind. Darling, will you come meet the ladies? His wife's clear, sweet voice called from far away. Mr. Harris stood. His skeleton held him up. This thing inside, this invader, this horror was supporting his arms, legs and head. It was like feeling someone just behind you who shouldn't be there. With every step, he realized how dependent he was on this other thing. Darling, I'll be with you in a moment, he called weekly. To himself, he said, come on, brace up. You've got to go back to work tomorrow. Friday, you must make that trip to Phoenix. It's a long drive, hundreds of miles. Must be in shape for that trip, or you won't get Mr. Krelten to invest in your ceramics business. Chin up now. A moment later, he stood among the ladies, being introduced to Mrs. Withers, Mrs. Abelmat and Miss Curthy, all of whom had skeletons inside them, but took it very calmly because nature had carefully clothed the bare nudity of clavicle, tibia and femur with breasts, thighs, calves, with coiffure and eyebrow satanic, with bee-stung lips and Lord, shouted Mr. Harris inwardly, when they talk or eat, part of their skeletons show their teeth. I never thought of that. Excuse me, he gasped and ran from the room, only in time to drop his lunch among the petunias over the garden bullestrade. That night, seated on the bed as his wife undressed, he paired his toenails and fingernails scrupulously. These parts, too, were where his skeleton was shoving, indignantly growing out. He must have not heard part of this theory because next thing he knew, his wife, in negligee, was on the bed, her arms around his neck, yawning. Oh, my darling, fingernails are not bone, they're only hardened epidermis. He threw the scissors down. Are you certain? I hope so, I'd feel better. He looked at the curve of her body, marveling. I hope all people are made the same way. If you aren't the darndest hypochondriac, she held him at arm's length. Come on, what's wrong? Tell mama. Something inside me, he said. Something I ate. The next morning and all afternoon at his downtown office, Mr. Harris sorted out the sizes, shapes and construction of various bones in his body with displeasure. At 10 a.m. he asked to feel Mr. Smith's elbow one moment. Mr. Smith obliged, but scowled suspiciously. And after lunch, Mr. Harris asked to touch Ms. Laurel's shoulder blade, and she immediately pushed herself back against him, purring like a kitten and shutting her eyes. Ms. Laurel, he snapped, stopped that. Alone, he pondered his doroses. The war was just over. The pressure of his work, the uncertainty of the future, probably had much to do with his mental outlook. He wanted to leave the office, get into business for himself. He had more than a little talent for ceramics and sculpture. As soon as possible, he'd head for Arizona, borrow that money from Mr. Krelden, build a kiln and set up shop. It was a worry, what a case he was. But luckily, he had contacted M. Munigant, who seemed eager to understand and help him. He would fight it out with himself, not go back to either Munigant or Dr. Burley unless he was forced to. The alien feeling would pass. He sat, staring into space. Our next Weirdo Watch Party is Saturday, April 13th. We'll be treated to a Roger Corman Crap Fest from 1958. Teenage caveman, starring Robert Vaughan. Did he just say dirt that eats men? Guess so. Mistress Malicious and her Mistress Peace Theater will keep us entertained throughout the film, as we watch this caveman teenager with great hair go into the jungle to fight prehistoric monsters like dogs and an armadillo. Whatever, they're prehistoric creatures. Our Weirdo Watch Party is always free to watch online, 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. Plus, during this Weirdo Watch Party, I'll be giving away a creepy crate to one lucky winner, full of scary surprises like horror collectibles, true crime-themed accessories, books, terrifying trinkets and more, with some weird darkness swag added in. You won't know what's in the creepy crate until you open it. And I'll be giving instructions on how to win the creepy crate inside the chat during the movie, so you have to tune in to win. It's Teenage Caveman, Saturday, April 13th, hosted by Mistress Peace Theater. The show begins at 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 8pm Mountain and 7pm Pacific. You can watch a trailer for the film, and watch horror hosts and schlocky B movies anytime, day or night on the Monster Channel page at WeirdDarkness.com. Hope to see you on Saturday, April 13th. The alien feeling did not pass. It grew. On Tuesday and Wednesday, it bothered him terrifically that his epidermis, hair and other appendages were of a high disorder, while the intercommented skeleton of himself was a slick, clean structure of efficient organization. Sometimes, in certain lights with his lips drawn morosely down, weighted with melancholy, he imagined he saw his skull grinning at him behind the flesh. Let go, he cried. Let go of me, my lungs. Stop! He gasped convulsively, as if his ribs were crushing the breath from him. My brain, stop squeezing it! And terrifying headaches burnt his brain to a blind cinder. My insides let them be for God's sake. Stay away from my heart! His heart cringed from the fanning motion of ribs like pale spiders crouched and fiddling with their prey. Drenched with sweat, he lay up on the bed one night while Clarice was out attending a red cross meeting. He tried to gather his wits, but only grew more aware of the conflict between his dirty exterior and this beautiful, cool, clean, calciumed thing inside. His complexion, wasn't it oily and lined with worry? Observe the flawless, snow-white perfection of the skull. His nose, wasn't it too large? Then observe the tiny bones of the skull's nose before that monstrous nasal cartilage begins forming the lopsided proboscis. His body, wasn't it plump? Well, consider the skeleton, slender, svelte, economical of line and contour, exquisitely carved oriental ivory, perfect thin as a white praying mantis. His eyes, weren't they protuberant, ordinary, numb-looking? Be so kind as to note the eye sockets of the skull, so deep and rounded, somber, quiet pools, all knowing, eternal. Gaze deep, and you never touch the bottom of their dark understanding. All irony, all life, all everything is there in the cupped darkness. Compare, compare, compare. Erraged for hours, and the skeleton, ever the frail and solemn philosopher, hung quietly inside, saying not a word, suspended like a delicate insect with a chrysalis, waiting and waiting. Harris sat slowly up. Wait a minute, hold on, he exclaimed. You're helpless too. I've got you too. I can make you do anything I want. You can't prevent it. I say move your carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges, and up they go as I wave to someone. You laughed. I ordered the fibula and femur to locomote and hun two three four, hun two three four, we walk around the block, there. Harris grinned, it's a fifty-fifty fight, even Steven, and we'll fight it out, we two. After all, I'm the part that thinks. Yes by God, yes. Even if I didn't have you, I could still think. Instantly a tiger's jaw snapped shut, shooing his brain in half. Harris screamed, the bones of his skull grabbed hold and gave him nightmares. Then slowly, while he shrieked, nuzzled at eight the nightmares one by one, until the last one was gone and the lights went out. At the end of the week, he postponed the Phoenix trip because of his health. Weighing himself on a penny scale, he saw the slow, gliding red arrow point to one hundred sixty-five. He groaned, why, I've weighed one seventy-five for years. I can't have lost ten pounds. He examined his cheeks in the fly-dotted mirror. Cold, primitive fear rushed over him in odd little shivers. You, you, I know what you're about, you. He shook his fist at his bony face, particularly addressing his remarks to his superior maxillary, his inferior maxillary, to his cranium and to his cervical vertebra. You damned thing you, think you could starve me, make me lose weight, peel the flesh off, leave nothing but skin on bone, trying to ditch me so you can be supreme? No, no. He fled into a cafeteria. Turkey dressing, creamed potatoes, four vegetables, three desserts. He could eat none of it. He was sick to his stomach. He forced himself. His teeth began to ache. Bad teeth is it, he thought angrily. I'll eat spite of every tooth clanging and banging and rattling so they fall in my gravy. His head blazed. His breath jerked in and out of a constricted chest. His teeth raged with pain, but he knew one small victory. He was about to drink milk when he stopped and poured it into a base of deskertiums. No calcium for you, my boy. No calcium for you. Never again shall I eat foods with calcium or other bone fortifying minerals. I'll eat for one of us, not both, my lad. 150 pounds, he said, the following week to his wife. Do you see how I've changed? For the better, said Clarice. You're always a little plump for your height, darling. She stroked his chin. I like your face. It's so much nicer. The lines of it are so firm and strong now. They're not my lines. They're his. Damn him. You mean to say you like him better than you like me? Him? Who's him? In the parlor mirror, beyond Clarice, his skull smiled back at him behind his fleshy grimace of hatred and despair. Fuming, he popped malt tablets into his mouth. This was one way of gaining weight when you couldn't keep other foods down. Clarice noticed the malt pellets. But darling, really, you don't have to regain the weight for me, she said. Oh, shut up, he felt like saying. She made him lie with his head in her lap. Darling, she said, I've watched you lately. You're so badly off. You don't say anything, but you look hunted. You toss in bed at night. Maybe you should go to a psychiatrist. But I think I can tell you everything he would say. I've put it all together from hints you've let escape you. I can tell you that you and your skeleton are one and the same, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all, united you stand, divided you fall. If you two fellows can't get along like an old married couple in the future, go back and see Dr. Burley. But first, relax. You're in a vicious circle. The more you worry, the more your bones stick out, the more you worry. After all, who picked this fight? You or that anonymous entity you claim is lurking around behind your elementary canal. He closed his eyes. I did. I guess I did. Go on, Clarice. Keep talking. You rest now, she said softly. Rest and forget. Mr. Harris felt buoyed up for half a day, then he began to sag. It was all very well to blame his imagination, but this particular skeleton by God was fighting back. Harris sat out for M. Munegan's office late in the day. Locking for half an hour until he found the address, he caught sight of the name M. Munegan, initialed in ancient flaking gold on a glass plate outside the building. Then his bones seemed to explode from their moorings, blasted and erupted with pain. Blinded, he staggered away. When he opened his eyes again, he had rounded a corner. M. Munegan's office was out of sight. The pains ceased. M. Munegan was the man to help him. If the sight of his name would cause so titanic a reaction, of course M. Munegan must be the man, but not today. Each time he tried to return to that office, the terrible pains took hold, perspiring he had to give up and swayed into a cocktail bar. Moving across the dim lounge, he wondered briefly if a lot of blame couldn't be put on M. Munegan's shoulders. After all, it was Munegan who'd first drawn specific attention to his skeleton and let the psychological impact of it slam home. Could M. Munegan be using him for some nefarious purpose? But what purpose? Silly to suspect him, just a little doctor, trying to be helpful. Munegan and his jar of breadsticks. Ridiculous. M. Munegan was okay. Okay. There was a sight within the cocktail lounge to give him hope. A large, fat man, round as a butterball, stood drinking consecutive beers at the bar. Now, there was a successful man. Harris repressed a desire to go up, clapped the fat man's shoulder, and inquired as to how he'd gone about impounding his bones. Yes, the fat man's skeleton was luxuriously closeted. There were pillows of fat here, resilient bulges of it there, with several round chandeliers of fat under his chin. The poor skeleton was lost. It could never fight clear of that blubber. It might have tried once, but not now. Overwhelmed, not a bony echo of the fat man's supporter remained. Not without envy, Harris approached the fat man, as one might cut across the bow of an ocean liner. Harris ordered a drink, drank it, and then dared to address the fat man. Glans? You talking to me? Asked the fat man. Or is there a special diet? Wondered Harris. I beg your pardon, but as you see, I'm down. Can't seem to put on any weight. Unlike a stomach like that one of yours, did you grow it because you were afraid of something? You, announced the fat man, are drunk. But I like drunkards. He ordered more drinks. Listen close, I'll tell you. Layer by layer, said the fat man. Twenty years, man, and boy, I built this. He held his vast stomach like a globe of the world, teaching his audience his gastronomical geography. It was no overnight circus. The tent was not raised before dawn on the wonders installed within. I have cultivated my inner organs as if they were thoroughbred dogs, cats, and other animals. My stomach is a fat pink Persian tom, slumbering, rousing at intervals to purr, mew, growl, and cry for chocolate tidbits. I feed it well. It will most sit up for me. And my dear fellow, my intestines are the rarest purebred Indian anacondas you ever viewed in the sleekest, coiled, fine, and ruddy health. Keep them in prime, I do, all my pets. For fear of something? Perhaps. This called for another drink for everyone. Gain weight. The fat man savored the words on his tongue. Here's what you do. Get yourself a quarreling bird of a wife, a baker's dozen of relatives who can flush a cubby of troubles out from behind the various molehill. Add to these a sprinkling of business associates whose prime motivation is snatching your last lonely quid, and you are well on your way to getting fat. How so? In no time you'll begin subconsciously building fat betwixt yourself and them, a buffer epidermal state, a cellular wall. You'll find that eating is the only fun on earth, but one needs to be bothered by outside sources. Too many people in this world haven't enough to worry about, then they begin picking on themselves and they lose weight. Meet all of the vile, terrible people you can possibly meet, and pretty soon you'll be adding the good ol' fat. And with that advice, the fat man launched himself out into the dark tide of night, swaying mightily and wheezing. That's exactly what Dr. Burley told me. Slightly changed, said Harris thoughtfully. Perhaps that trip to Phoenix, now at this time. The trip from Los Angeles to Phoenix was a sweltering one, crossing as it did the Mojave Desert on a broiling yellow day. Traffic was thin and in constant, and for long stretches there would not be a car on the road for miles ahead or behind. Harris twitched his fingers on the steering wheel. Whether or not Krelden and Phoenix lent him the money he needed to start his business, it was still a good thing to get away, to put distance behind. The car moved in the hot sluice of desert wind. The one Mr. H sat inside the other Mr. H. Perhaps both perspired. Perhaps both were miserable. On a curve, the inside Mr. H suddenly constricted the outer flesh, causing him to jerk forward on the hot steering wheel. The car plunged off the road into boiling sand and turned half over. Night came. A wind rose. The road was lonely and silent. The few cars that passed went swiftly on their way, their view obstructed. Mr. Harris lay unconscious until very late he heard a wind rising out of the desert, felt the sting of little sand needles on his cheeks and opened his eyes. Morning found him gritty-eyed and wandering in thoughtless, senseless circles, having in his delirium got away from the road. At noon he sprawled in the poor shade of a bush. The sun struck in with a keen sword edge, cutting through to his bones. A vulture circled. Harris' parched lips cracked open. So that's it, he whispered, red-eyed, bristle-cheeked. One way or another you'll walk me, starve me, thirst me, kill me. You swallow dry burrows of dust. Sun cook off my flesh so you can peek out. Vultures launch off me and there you'll lie, grinning, grinning with victory, like a bleached xylophone strewn and played by vultures with an ear for odd music. You'd like that? Freedom. He walked on through a landscape that shivered and bubbled in the direct pour of sunlight, stumbling, falling flat, lying to feed himself little mouths of fire. The air was blue alcohol flame and vultures roasted and steamed and glittered as they glue in glides and circles. Phoenix. The road. Car. Water. Safety. Hey! Someone called from way off in the blue alcohol flame. Mr. Harris propped himself up. Hey! The call was repeated, a crunching of footsteps, quick. With a cry of unbelievable relief, Harris rose only to collapse again into the arms of someone in a uniform with a badge. The town is standard. A small mid-western town where nothing ever happens. Quiet, peaceful, and tucked away among the corn fields and away from the dangers of the outside world. Unfortunately, there was nothing normal about standard. There has been an evil that has been awakened and now the residents are slowly going crazy. Men for no reason are coming home and murdering their families and dark forms are appearing in people's mirrors. The evil is spreading and now it's up to ex Chicago cop Roboletto to find it. Time is running out and the neighbors are becoming quiet shadows as they watch him. He doesn't have long before it'll start to get into his mind and then he himself would be making that deadly trip home. Inside the Mirrors by Jason R. Davis, narrated by Weird Darkness host Darren Marlar, hear a free sample or purchase the title on the audiobooks page at WeirdDarkness.com. The car tediously hauled, repaired, Phoenix reached. Harris found himself in such an unholy state of mind that the business transaction was a numb pantomime. Even when he got the loan and held the money in his hand, it meant nothing. This thing within him, like a hard white sword and a scabbard, tainted his business, his eating, colored his love for Clarice, made it unsafe to trust an automobile. All in all, this thing had to be put in its place. The desert incident had brushed too close, too near the bone, one might say, with an ironic twist of one's mouth. Harris heard himself thanking Mr. Krellden dimly for the money. Then he turned his car and motored back across the long miles, this time cutting across to San Diego, so he would miss that desert stretch between Alcentro and Beaumont. He drove north along the coast. He didn't trust that desert. But careful, salt waves boomed, hissing on the beach outside Laguna. Sand, fish, and crustacea would cleanse his bones as swiftly as vultures, slow down on the curves over the surf. Damn, he was sick. Where to turn, Clarice? Burley? Munigant? Bonespecialist. Munigant. Well… Darling! Clarice kissed him. He wanced at the solidness of the teeth and jaw behind the passionate exchange. Darling, he said, slowly wiping his lips with his wrists trembling. You look thinner. Oh, darling, the business deal. It went through. I guess, yes, it did. She kissed him again. They ate a slow, falsely cheerful dinner, with Clarice laughing and encouraging him. He studied the phone. Several times, he picked it up indecisively, then laid it down. His wife walked in, putting on her coat and hat. Well, sorry, but I have to leave. She pinched him on the cheek. Come on, now. Cheer up. I'll be back from Red Cross in three hours. You lie around in snooze. I simply have to go. When Clarice was gone, Harris dialed the phone nervously. Am I Munigant? The explosions and the sickness in his body after he set the phone down were unbelievable. His bones were wracked with every kind of pain, cold and hot he had ever thought of or experienced in wildest nightmare. He swallowed all the aspirin he could find in an effort to stave off the assault, but when the doorbell finally rang an hour later, he could not move. He lay weak and exhausted, panting, tears streaming down his cheeks. Come in. Come in for God's sake. Am Munigant came in. Thank God the door was unlocked. Oh, but Mr. Harris looked terrible. Am Munigant stood in the center of the living room, small and dark. Harris nodded. The pains rushed through him, hitting him with large iron hammers and hooks. Am Munigant's eyes glittered as he saw Harris' protuberant bones. Ah, he saw that Mr. Harris was now psychologically prepared for aid. Was it not so? Harris nodded again, feebly sobbing. Am Munigant still whistled when he talked, something about his tongue and the whistling. No matter. Through his shimmering eyes, Harris seemed to see Am Munigant shrink, yes, smaller. Imagination, of course. Harris sobbed out his story of the Phoenix trip. Am Munigant sympathized. This skeleton was a traitor. They would fix him for once and for all. Mr. Munigant sighed Harris faintly. I never noticed before. Your tongue round, tube-like. Hollow? My eyes, delirious. What do I do? Am Munigant whistled softly, appreciatively, coming closer. If Mr. Harris would relax in his chair and open his mouth. The lights were switched off. Am Munigant peered into Harris' dropped jaw. Wider, please. It had been so hard that first visit to help Harris, with both body and bone in revolt. Now he had cooperation from the flesh of the man, anyway, even if the skeleton protested. In the darkness, Am Munigant's voice got small, small, tiny, tiny. The whistling became high and shrill. Now relax, Mr. Harris. Now. Harris felt his jaw pressed violently in all directions. His tongue depressed as with a spoon, his throat clogged. He gasped for breath. Whistle. He couldn't breathe. Something squirmed, corkscrewed in his cheeks, out, bursting his jaws. Like a hot water douche, something squirted into his sinuses. His ears clanged. Ah! Shriek Harris gagging. His head, its carophuses riven. Shattered, hung loose. Agony shot fire through his lungs. Harris could breathe again, momentarily. His watery eyes sprang wide. He shouted. His ribs, like sticks picked up and bundled, were loosened in him. Pain! He fell to the floor, wheezing out his hot breath. Lights flickered in his senseless eyeballs. He felt his limbs swiftly cast loose and free. Through streaming eyes, he saw the parlor. The room was empty. Am Munigant? In God's name, where are you, Am Munigant? Come help me. Am Munigant was gone. Help! Then he heard it. Deep down in the subterranean fissures of his body, the minute, unbelievable noises. Little smackings and twistings and little dry chippings and grindings and nuzzling sounds. Like a tiny hungry mouse down in the red-blooded dimness, gnawing ever so earnestly and expertly at what might have been, but was not. A submerged timber. Clarice, walking down the sidewalk, held her head high and marched straight toward her house on St. James Place. She was thinking of the Red Cross as she turned the corner and almost ran into this little dark man who smelled of iodine. Clarice would have ignored him if it were not for the fact that, as she passed, he took something long, white and oddly familiar from his coat and proceeded to chew on it, as on a peppermint stick. Its end devoured, his extraordinary tongue darted within the white confection, sucking out the filling, making contented noises. He was still crunching his goody as she proceeded up the sidewalk to her house, turned to the doorknob and walked in. Darling, she called, smiling around. Darling, where are you? She shut the door, walking down the hall and into the living room. Darling! She stared at the floor for 20 seconds, trying to understand. She screamed. Outside, in this sycamore darkness, the little man pierced a long, white stick with intermittent holes. Then, softly sighing, his lips puckered, played a little sad tune upon the improvised instrument to accompany the shrill and awful singing of Clarice's voice as she stood in the living room. Many times, as a little girl, Clarice had run on the beach sands, stepped on a jellyfish and screamed. It was not so bad. Finding an intact, gelatin-skinned jellyfish in one's living room, one could step back from it. It was when the jellyfish called you by name. Thanks for listening! If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can email me and follow me on social media through the Weird Darkness website. WeirdDarkness.com is also where you can find information on sponsors you heard about during the show. Listen to free audiobooks I've narrated, get the email newsletter, find my other podcasts. Also on the site, you can visit the store for Weird Darkness t-shirts, mugs and other merchandise. Plus, it's where you can find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression, addiction or thoughts of harming yourself for others. And if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell of your own, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. All stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction. Skeleton was written by Ray Bradbury. Weird Darkness is a registered trademark. Copyright Weird Darkness. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Matthew 6, verse 34. Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble. And a final thought. We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out. Ray Bradbury. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. Strange and Macabre. If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com.