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Coming up in this episode, it's the Riller Thursday and this week it's a story published in 1957 in the hardback anthology Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV. Written by Arthur Williams, the story was also used and adapted for the late Alfred Hitchcock Presents radio show for the BBC in 2010. It was part of a five-part series of dramatizations of stories that were deemed too unsuitable for the original Alfred Hitchcock Presents television series. Well, if Alfred Hitchcock liked it this much and the TV networks thought it was too much for audiences in the mid-1950s, I can only assume it'll be just perfect for our consumption. Now, fold your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Being a murderer myself, I was very interested in the statement recently made by a well-known reviewer of murder stories that the best and most stimulating detective stories being written today are those that stress the puzzle of why, at least co-equally with who and how. It's gratifying to see, even if it is only in the field of fiction, that the character of a murderer is at last being considered worthy of more detailed analysis. In the past, too much importance has been attached to discovering the identity of a murderer and the means of apprehending him. On the other hand, I do not consider wasted the time spent on the puzzle of how, since after all, the method adopted is an indication of the type of man employing it. Furthermore, it often decides whether the killer is to become famous as a failure or unknown as a success. I would also like to mention that we murderers do not always make a mistake. That fallacy is arisen because only those murderers who have made mistakes ever come to the notice of the police. On the whole, we are very efficient and taking the number of known cases only, it is evident that we have got away with many murders in spite of the very large organizations directed against us. But the most common misconception held by most people is that a murderer is different from the ordinary man. Too often he is described in exaggerated terms such as an insane monster or a cold-blooded brute. Such melodramatic ideas are far from the truth. Actually, a murderer is quite normal, merely possessing greater courage to act on the universal conviction that the true Golden Rule is every man for himself. It is for this reason, therefore, to provide authentic data for the detective story writer that I have decided to make public my experience of murder. I have been very fortunate in being so clever that I am able to relate to this experience without fear of unpleasant consequences. I felt no animosity toward Susan Braithwaite personally when I killed her, though some might consider that I had reason to hate her. I had been very fond of her once and would have married her if she had not been so stupid as to choose Stanley Braithwright for a husband. Still, as I consider myself a civilized man of the world, I had felt that if she wanted to marry money bags, that was her own funeral. I suppose it was the feminine in her which had attracted me. That was in turn more attracted to the obvious maleness of Braithwaite, the great lout of a fellow but with the right sort of brains to make his way in the world. He had inherited a little money and, being a city man, he was able to make the best use of it. He made a fair income by dealing on the stock exchange, not by haphazard methods of the gambler, but with the unspectacular method of the investor. It was typical of him that during the record boom on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, brought about by the discovery of gold in the orange-free state, he continued his phlegmatic way of taking a profit as soon as a deal showed any, in spite of the fever of optimism that raged on the exchange. He was thus able to build up and consolidate a small fortune, and when the inevitable recession came, his funds were mostly liquid. Then, instead of being affected by the pervading depression, he quietly bought shares which had dropped to next to nothing and so almost doubled his already swollen fortune when the equally inevitable recovery took place, an infuriating man. When I introduced him to Susan, she became greatly attracted by his masterful manner and the success which it spelled. In fact, she was carried away to such an extent as she flew to Europe with him, thus terminating our engagement. I had hoped never to see her again. Eighteen months later, on answering a knock at the back door of my house, I found Susan on the step, suitcase in hand. When she had comfortably settled herself on the Chesterfield couch in my study, she told me her story. I was not surprised at what she revealed. I could well imagine a Braithwaite's self-assured dominant maleness which she had preferred to my modest intellectual qualities would develop into a complacent egoism, ruling with efficient tyranny. When she could bear his insensitiveness no longer, she had walked out on him and had come to me, for she felt that I would help her for old times sake. She did not notice, however, that I was not enthusiastic at the prospect of helping her. Actually, I was highly displeased. Where she had jilted me, I had worked her out of my system at the same time making extensive improvements on my poultry farm. I had made the whole farm self-supporting and with labor-saving devices and processes was able to run the whole place single-handed, for I liked fowls and preferred to do all the work among them myself. But with Susan there, it would have been difficult to continue in the same satisfying way. I knew I would have to entertain her, which meant that I would have had to shelve some of my less important yet essential work. My routine would probably have got interfered with and the 3,000 chickens which were at the most awkward age might have caught cold or contracted some other ailment they are susceptible to. Unfortunately, I could not think of any valid-sounding excuse for refusing to help her. Also, she had timed her arrival well. She would have had to stay the night, at least, where there was no place in the village where she could have found accommodation and there were no trains back to Johannesburg till the following morning. I knew that once the ice had been broken by letting her stay the night, it would have been even more difficult to send her away the next day. After all, I had once been very fond of her and during the delirium of that time, I had told her that no matter what ultimately happened between us, she was ever in trouble, she was to count on my help. And as I pride myself on being a man of my word, I could not bear to think of her telling our common friends that in an emergency I proved to be a broken reed. All this passed through my mind while she chattered away about the cruel things her husband had done to her, but under the pretense of listening I followed the trend to my own thoughts till I became annoyed at the calm way she took my sympathy for granted. From the bits of her conversation I did listen to, I guessed in what manner she wished me to help her, and my annoyance mounted. I saw my little bit of money being spent on lawyers, my comfortable and satisfying life being disturbed, my future peace being threatened by complicated emotions, in short, the whole of my nicely settled life being completely upset. I became so enraged that I thought, really, I could wring her neck. The actual strangling was more difficult than one would have thought, but the inability to face her, which had led me to go round the back of the couch to get my hands around her throat, turned out to be an advantage. For by crouching behind the back of the couch, I was able to press her neck and head firmly against it, and so by hanging on like grim death, avoid my hands becoming dislodged by her violent kicking, hitting, and threshing for air. Also, when she went limp, I was in a comfortable enough position not to need to relax till I was sure she was dead. Her face, dark blue with grotesquely protruding tongue, was rather shocking when contrasted with the pretty animated expression it had had a few minutes before. And her once glossy hair seemed to have lost its blue tints and had become a lifeless looking black. Otherwise, the sight of Susan's body did not affect me much. After making sure that Susan was dead, I pushed her tongue back into her mouth and proceeded to dispose of the body in the manner I had been stimulated to devise when reading of the difficulties other murderers had experienced in this respect. I started the process that night, for though there was no urgency, as it would be days or even weeks before there would be any serious inquiry as to Susan's whereabouts, I was keen on putting my idea to the test. The following morning, I was up early as usual and busy at my farm routine. One afternoon, about three weeks later, Sergeant Theron of the local police turned up at my place, wanted to know if I knew anything about Mrs. Braithwaite. Sergeant John Theron on duty was a different man from the off-duty Johnny Theron, who occasionally, when suitably warmed, entertained us in the backyard of Wigan's pub by giving a demonstration of wild west sick shooting. He had a crack shot, and crouching slightly, he'd fired two guns from the hip with amazing accuracy, at the same time looking from side to side with melodramatic belligerency. Then, after each salvo, he'd spit on the muzzles of the revolvers to cool them, giving a thigh-slappingly funny impression of a cowboy hero surrounded by dastardly villains. But Sergeant John Theron of the South African police was an alert and intelligent policeman who took his work seriously, and I knew by the way his question was worded that he was sure I did know something about Mrs. Braithwaite. I guessed that she'd been reported missing and had been traced to my farm. I decided therefore to take Theron into my confidence. I told him briefly all about my association with Susan in the past, winding up by telling him that she had been to see me one evening about three weeks before but that she'd left again the same night. He naturally wanted further particulars and also wanted to know why I'd not come forward and reported to the police that I had seen her at a time later than that which the newspaper appeal had stated was the last time she'd been seen. I explained that I never read newspapers, but even if I had read the appeal for information, I would not have reported her visit as she'd been running away from her husband. I went on to tell him that she'd wanted me to help her, but that I'd refused. That we'd quarreled till she'd finally got into such a rage that she'd walked out of the house leaving her hat, gloves and suitcase behind. In reply to his questions, I said I did not know where she'd gone or how she intended to manage without her suitcase or whether she had a handbag with her or not. After exhausting the subject of Susan's visit, Theron asked me to see her suitcase. I gave it to him. He found it unlocked and opened it. On top was a brown handbag which, on being turned out, was found to contain some money, a pair of earrings, a pearl necklace, a diamond ring, the usual feminine requirements and a few loose keys, one of which fitted the suitcase. After carefully examining the rest of the suitcase's contents, Theron then asked me what Mrs. Braithwaite had been wearing that night. That question had come sooner than I had expected. But I gave him the previously thought-out answer, which was a genuine sounding yet worthlessly vague description of the clothes that I had carefully packed together with the handbag in the suitcase three weeks before. I'd opened the case with one of the keys I had found in the handbag. I had had to leave the suitcase unlocked, as I did not want the problem of disposing of the key. Incidentally, I had done the packing of the clothes, shoes, etc., while wearing gloves. I had no intention of leaving fingerprints inside the case and so making the traditional mistake. Theron listened closely to the description, then pulled out the one dress in the suitcase, which had obviously been worn, and asked me if that was the dress Mrs. Braithwaite had worn that evening. Of course, I replied that it was not, but I knew that if that dress had already been described by anyone who had seen Susan going to my farm, that description would be more or less the same as the one I had given. After asking a few more unimportant questions, Sergeant Theron left, taking the suitcase and the hat and gloves with him. The police did not visit me again for a few days. I went to the village for a drink on the evening of the week that Johnny Theron usually spent at the pub, but he did not put in an appearance that night. But I knew that it would only be a matter of time before I saw him again, for Susan's trail definitely ended at my place, and the police would concentrate there until they had reason to look elsewhere. When Theron eventually came again, about a week later, he was accompanied by Constable Berry, prematurely bald young man who had wooed and won the village bell, Renee Otto, by so maneuvering his courting that she never saw him without his helmet on, so the story went in the village anyway. In charge of both Theron and Berry, however, was a man from the CID headquarters in Johannesburg. This time, the only words Sergeant Theron spoke throughout the morning were, Mr. Williams, this is Inspector Ben Liebenberg. I acknowledged the introduction, and asked the inspector what I could do for him. He was a tall, handsome man, more like an actor than a detective. Afterward, I learned that he was a very good mixer of drinks. His hobby was inventing new recipes for cocktails and other mixed drinks. I was told this and about his variation of a green mamba which is as deadly as the snake by Theron later, when he was able to have a drink with me again. Inspector Liebenberg professed himself sorry to trouble me, but would I mind if he had a look around? Mrs. Braithright had definitely been seen coming to my place and had equally definitely not been seen anywhere else, so he'd like to satisfy himself that she was not hiding somewhere on my farm. I assured him that I understood, and that it'd be a pleasure to show him over the farm. As we examined the homestead, I explained to them that I like to be independent of any outside assistance, so I'd made my house and farm as self-contained as possible. I showed them the coal bin in the kitchen, built like a small room and filled at the top from the outside, having a little square outlet flush with the floor next to the coal-burning stove. Below the kitchen, there was a concrete underground tank for storing rainwater. It had a hand pump attached, and pipes were laid from it to the bathroom. The rest of my domestic water supply came from a large gravity tank on the roof, filled by a wind pump from a borehole. I started the tour outside by taking them to the 300-feet-long subdivided intensive-type poultry house, where, judging by the sound, the thousands of leghorn hens were riveting their eggs together. I showed the policeman the incubator room and the brooder house, which I also used for experimental batches of chickens or fowls. I then took them to the large corrugated iron barn which housed my machinery, a tractor, a threshing machine, a hammer mill, and various smaller machines, such as lucerne cutters, etc. Also my general farm equipment, such as plows, harrows, steam-drying tank, planters, cultivators, etc., and my stocks of food. For around the sides of the barn were rows of large storage tanks, variously containing whole and crushed maize, maize meal, meat meal, peanut meal, bone meal, lucerne meal, and the various other poultry and animal feed requirements I used for making up the different balanced rations. I could see their eyes measuring the tanks and the jotting down of copious mental notes. In the open air again I pointed out my cultivated lands, the lucerne fields green, owing to the water from the dam, but the maize and other lands, a yellow-brown. In the distance we could just make out a few cows, oxen, and horses grazing on the uncultivated parts of my farm. When they had seen the whole farm, Inspector Liebenberg thanked me for my trouble and departed, rather depressed, I thought. I liked to suggest that perhaps twenty maize with twenty mobs, but decided that it was unwise to trade on my security too much. A week passed without event, though I began to get irritated by being under continuous surveillance. Even Constable Berry had altered his beat so that he was able to pass my gate, which, though a fair distance from the homestead, enabled him to have a clear view across the lawns to the house and garage. I decided to make a move and bring matters to a climax. My best plan, of course, was to make Crippen's mistake and run away. I therefore made preparations, and early one morning I departed in my car at high speed. I drove fast for about five miles, then abruptly slowed down, headed the car into the veld and hit it as much as possible in a bushy bit, well away from the road. I walked the rest of the way to the underground caves not far from the famous Blyverugets goldmine. These caves, though extensive, are not beautiful and do not attract many visitors. I decided that the police would have already searched them thoroughly, so the chances were that I would be undisturbed. I brought a Coleman lamp, a camp primus, and ample provisions, and soon settled comfortably in one of these smaller caverns. I knew the fowls on the farm would be all right for a few days, as their food troughs held enough for about three days, and the water troughs with their ball valves would remain full. The eggs would accumulate in the batteries of nests and ultimately make a mess, but one cannot have murder without breaking eggs. The other animals would not starve. There was plenty of water lying about the place. The chickens were then old enough to do without artificial heat for warmth, only requiring a small economical glow from the lamps to collect them in groups at night. So, with my mind at peace, I was able to relax and enjoy the two detective books which I had brought with me. The stories were very good, though I noticed with satisfaction that the various detectives required considerable assistance from their authors. On the morning of the third day, I imagined that things should be about right for me to put in an appearance again. As luck would have it, it was Sergeant Theron who met me first when I stepped out of the car in front of my house. The human face is not designed to express amazement, excitement, satisfaction, curiosity, wonder, relief, official reserve, friendliness, and regret all at once, but Theron's did its best. When he recovered, he demanded to know where I'd been. I told him I'd gone to the caves to see if Mrs. Braithwaite had not perhaps gone there and got lost and died there, and that I'd become lost myself and had found my way out only that morning. He snapped his fingers in exasperation, and I guessed that he'd spread his net far and wide, but had not thought of looking for me so close of hand. While he was thinking what he ought to do next, I looked around to get details of the impression of an upturned aunt heap which I'd received when I drove up. I'd expected to see signs of activity, but nothing like what I saw then. Evidently, the police had decided to use more than 20 maids for the place was in turmoil. There were men everywhere, on the roof of the house, round the house, half under the house. There were men walking about with heads bent examining the ground, men digging at various places, men around the dam, around the borehole in the fields and on the lands. I could not see into the barn, but it must have been full of men, for outside the main double doors a collection of agricultural hardware was scattered like the throwback of a burrowing terrier. But the most joyous sight was the long hen house. The hens had very unwisely all been chased outside so that the concrete floor inside could be examined. To lay the floor bare, a six-inch layer of manured straw had first to be removed. This considerable task had already been mostly achieved, where the straw lay in large mounds outside, in front of the entrance doors. Along the outside of the poultry house, there were men trying to uncover the foundations, for whoever was in charge of the searching meant to leave no stone unturned. I write trying, advisedly, for the diggers were being considerably hampered by the thousands of hens who had no place to go, but who were trying, with hen-like persistence, to go back where they belonged. Hens are very conservative, besides, they had eggs to lay. There was a precarious and continually changing line of them along the narrow ledge between the mesh wire front of the house and the edge of the low front wall on which the wire front rested. And this was one of the walls, the foundations of which the men were hoping to examine. They were almost smothered in hens. When it wasn't the hens, it was the dust and the dirt. A leghorn is a very highly strong bird, and jumpy at the best of times. With leghorns, you have to keep up a continual chatter or be forever silent. While I was watching, one of the men digging had to reply to a call from a distant policeman. His sudden shouted answer resulted in thousands of hens leaping into the air as one bird, with literally a roaring of wings. The men became lost to view in a cloud consisting of a mixture of fine particles of manure, straw, earth, spilled food, and down. I was not able to see more, for by then Theron had decided that I'd better come along with him to the police station to answer some questions. At the station, I was left in charge of Constable Herndahl, who received my nod of recognition rigidly. After a short delay, Theron started questioning me, trying hard to give the impression that he did not attach much importance to my answers. I was halfway through my third cigarette, when a Constable burst into the room and shouted, We've found the body. I jumped up and exclaimed, How exciting, where? I remarked thoroughly in bad taste, considering I had known Mrs. Braithwaite well, but one that could not be interpreted as coming from a guilty and apprehensive mind. I turned to Theron, who'd been watching me closely and saw doubt in his eyes. Not that it mattered whether I'd betrayed guilt or not. I was perfectly safe, and could never give myself away no matter what trick they tried. But if I'd shown any sign of a guilty conscience, Theron would have known definitely that I was a murderer. This is what I wanted to avoid, or there would not have been much future pleasure in visiting the pub. I did not mind his official suspicion, but his private certainty would have been different. Theron continued the farce and also asked the Constable where the body had been found. The latter went on, with less enthusiasm, to describe vaguely some spot in the uncultivated land. They both looked at me with a last hope that I might indicate they were getting warm. I said, fancy. I wouldn't have thought that was a good place to bury a body. This means that she was murdered, doesn't it? Of course they never found Susan's body on my farm, or anywhere else, nor any trace of it. They examined the stove for any signs of human ash. They swept the chimney for the same purpose. They dug up the drains to see if I'd possibly dissolve the body in a bath of chemicals. In short, they looked everywhere and tried every box of tricks possessed by the Johannesburg CID, all to no avail. Finally, they had to give up, baffled, and no matter how much they suspected that Susan had been murdered, they had no proof. In spite of a most thorough search of my farm, nobody was found, and this fact, plus no obvious motive on my part, resulted in the cloud of suspicion hanging over my head gradually becoming dispersed. That Christmas, to show that there was no ill feeling, I sent Sergeant Theron a brace of cockerels. We'll continue with Arthur Williams being a murderer myself in just a moment. No matter the time of day or season, sometimes you need to find a way to rid yourself of those ghostly chills that bring raised hairs and goosebumps to your skin. Other times, you're looking for those ghostly chills. Either way, it sounds like you need a mug of Weird Dark Roast coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee has deep notes of cocoa, caramel, and a touch of sinister sweetness that'll send shivers down your taste buds. This is an exclusive coffee that I selected specifically for you, my Weirdo family. Weird Dark Roast is not available in stores, coffee houses, mad scientist labs, or even the dark web, but you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee. Fresh roasted to order so it's as fresh as it can be when it lands on your doorstep and knocks three times. Grab yours now at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Weird Dark Roast coffee is not actually knocked on your door because it doesn't have arms or hands, so if you hear knocks at the door and no one answers when you ask who it is, it's probably paranormal and you should just leave the door shut and locked. Months passed in uninterrupted peace. My content was marred only by the news that Sergeant Theron was leaving to join the Rhodesian police. We gave him a fine farewell party, Bill Wiggins providing the drinks while I contributed the poultry. Poor Johnny was not able to give us a last demonstration of sick shooting that night for when we went out into the yard the fresh air had a bad effect on him. It took him all his time to stay relatively upright, hanging on to the swaying washing lines. The building of a new brooder house began to occupy all my thoughts, but doing it by myself took all my time, with the result that I could not keep my house clean and tidy, so after much indecision I engaged a housekeeper, a blonde tall but giving the impression of childlike plumpness. She is most efficient, yet her warm smile suggests that she could be very kind and affectionate. It's because she runs the house so well that I now have time in the evening to write this record of my experience with homicide. I'm looking forward to having an interesting time should I get this published. I'm particularly curious about Theron's reaction should he read this and so learn the makeup and constitution of those plump chickens he so enjoyed. I suppose he'll be disgusted, though he need not be. After all, how was he to know that those chickens had been feeding on the body of Susan Breithwaite? I do not mean by crudely pecking at it. On the contrary, the fowls ate Susan in well-balanced rations. Every bit of her body had been through the hammer mill to be ground in a fine bone meal and meat meal. A separate process made blood meal. These processes entailed no difficulty as I had learned how to do it from an article in The Farmers Magazine and had been doing it with animal carcasses long before. And as far as the hammer mill process is concerned, human bodies, not requiring to be skinned and having smaller bones, are much easier to manage. I had only to take extra care that every single piece of the body was powdered. The teeth I had to put through the milling process a couple of times till they became indistinguishable from the rest of the bone meal. The hair I burned on the head, making a sort of charcoal. After I had processed the body, I wiped everything that it had touched with handfuls of green lucerne, which in turn was ground fine. Animal carcasses were then put through the mill, followed by heaps of lucerne and bags of maize so that all traces of human cells were completely removed from the machine. The meat meal, bone meal and blood meal were made into a ration with other foodstuffs and were fed to my experimental batch of chicks and what fine chickens they grew into, as Theron can testify. As a matter of fact, I have established quite a reputation for fine pullets and cockerels, and other poultry farmers have pestered me for the recipe of my balanced ration. This will surely be brought to the attention of Inspector Liebenberg, who, now, knowing where to look, might try to find some proof that there was once a human body on my farm. But I am certain he will not succeed. It would be no use slaughtering Fowle's wholesale in an attempt to find the ones that are partaken of Susan with the object of testing them for any traces of human cells in their makeup. I have seen to it that every Fowle that shared that human ration has itself been consumed by other humans. As people do not eat the bones of Fowles, I made a point of selling or giving the dressed Fowles only on condition that I was allowed to collect the bones afterward. My explanation of this was that I was short on bone meal. These bones then went through the mill with other bones. A nice example of ad infinitum. Also, there are large numbers of anonymous people who, in a remote degree, took part in this deplorable cannibalism, I mean those who ate the eggs that were laid by the hens. Then Inspector Liebenberg will no doubt think of the manure. I wouldn't bother if I were he. Every bit of it has been spread over my uncultivated land and thoroughly plowed in. Alas, for the Inspector, the plucked feathers, heads, legs, feet, and innards of the dressed Fowles sold or given away after being burned or steamed dried also did not escape a hammering from the relentless mill. I hope the good Inspector is not driven to trying to make this story of mine have the value of a legal confession. It would be a great pity if an ardent student of detective fiction, desirous of saying a story of his own published, should be arrested before he invented a feasible explanation to account for the disappearance of a woman he happened to know. I suppose I must also expect a certain amount of unpleasantness if this is read in our village. Some narrow-minded people will no doubt look upon me with horror and others will fear me. Since the main result of such attitudes will be that I shall no longer be pestered by casual callers, I shall be only too pleased. A new development has occurred. My housekeeper, and listen, may turn out to be a disappointment after all. She is evidently falling or has already fallen in love with me and it is becoming tiresome. Her solicitude on my behalf is overwhelming and I now seem to have no privacy left. She is always fussing about doing things to add to my comfort. I would not like to hurt her feelings by telling her to stop doing what she does out of the kindness of her heart and as she has no technical qualifications, it would be a shame to send her away to battle for a job again. I have suggested to her that she should go out more, especially in the evenings, but she said it was dull going out alone. She has no friends or even relations. Poor thing. She has no one to miss her and I am most eager to rear especially good stock next season, fad with rich and well-balanced rations. The President of the National Poultry Society has expressed a desire to see my farm and the fine pullets and cockerels, for which I am now so justly famous. 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 anytime with your questions or comments at darron at WeirdDarkness.com. Darron is D-A-R-R-E-N. And you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and the show's Weirdo's Facebook group on the Contact social page at WeirdDarkness.com. Also on the website, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, click on Tell Your Story. Stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction, and links to the stories or the authors can be found in the show notes. Being a murderer myself was written by Arthur Williams from the anthology Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Psalm 128 verses 1 and 2. Blessed are all who fear the Lord, who walk in obedience to him. You will eat the fruit of your labor, blessings and prosperity will be yours. And a final thought, I know I'm on the right path because things stopped being easy. I'm Darron Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.