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In the heart of a wood which lost its name long ago, is a place where a seeker of stories

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may go.

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If you've arrived in a story's your desire, come, take a seat, for what you require is

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a tale from the second storyteller.

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Undo.

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Welcome.

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I am, as ever, the second storyteller.

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Please have a seat by the fire and try not to mind the noise.

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There is really nothing that I can do about it at this moment.

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It's probably the plug.

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It's a bird's-eye-separd some kind of pass.

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In any case, it's a little difficult to call somebody out to fix things when you don't have

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a real address.

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But I'm certain that once you start to hear the voice of the story, those sounds will

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be far less of a nuisance.

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I'll surely get around to dealing with those troublesome noises eventually.

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But not today.

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Not today.

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Now, let's see.

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Should have a story around here somewhere.

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We are in, well, a tower full of them after all, eh?

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So shouldn't be too tricky.

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Ah, ooh, I see one askew on the shelf there.

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That'll do.

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Ah, beast.

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The sun was cruel and bright on the day of my nephew's service.

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They had to call it a service instead of a funeral because after a year of searching

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seemingly every corner of the planet, no trace of nine-year-old Jack Green could be found.

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He had been reading in his room.

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My sister Allison in the kitchen looking at nothing irrelevant on her phone.

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When she had gone to check on him, Jack's room was empty, as though he'd accidentally

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stumbled through a crack in the world and was gone.

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I couldn't help thinking how disappointed Jack would be at the inappropriately cheery

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sun, Hal Bant on attending his service.

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Jack had been a boy full of imagination, with an affinity for stories of weird and creepy

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things.

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At school, this had the unfortunate effect of painting him as odd to his peers.

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Kids have a habit of focusing only on what's in front of them, rather than potential.

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I think this is why he and I were so close.

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I loved the strange stories of ghosts and monsters that Jack seemed to pull effortlessly from

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the air.

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We kept a notebook of these stories, which grew whenever Allison asked me to watch him

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for the weekend, or if we found ourselves at a family party.

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Jack was never content to tell the kinds of stories that appeal so easily to children

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his age.

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It always seemed that his imagination held an infinite space, which he was determined

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to explore to the furthest reaches of.

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My eyes swept to collage of photos, each showing Jack as the fun, energetic kid he had been,

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but I found myself unable to look at the pictures directly, knowing that such a remarkable

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imagination was lost was a pain without balm.

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Allison and I drifted toward each other without trying to.

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I gave her a futile hug, which she accepted anyway, both of us feeling lost, but trying

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to appear human.

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He'd have, I'm sure he's mad about it being sunny, I offered.

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The smile Allison gave back was thin, but genuine.

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Thanks Nick, it's been well over a year.

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Someone tells me I need to talk about Jackie in the past tense to move on, but even if

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there isn't anything more that can be done to find him, these uppity bitches don't have

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a single fucking clue what they're talking about.

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She motioned with her eyes towards the back of the room where a small flock of mothers

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collected each other, while their children desperately tried to find loopholes around

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sitting still.

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Honestly, they're all just here to keep up appearances.

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Meanwhile, their kids are the ones who used to call Jackie the creep all the time, and

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their defence was that my boy was too soft-hearted.

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Well, Jack did tell me once that he liked the nickname I offered.

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Allison gave me a disbelieving look.

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I mean, he totally hated that gang of short thugs over there, but he told me once that

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being called the creep at least meant that he was different from them, and he was sort

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of proud of that.

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My sister gave me a tight hug, and for the first time I could remember since Jack's

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disappearance, I heard Allison laugh, just slightly.

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Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she retrieved a book which had been sitting on a chair under

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her purse.

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This is one of Jackie's.

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I'm not deluding myself, Nick.

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I know that Jack, I may never have him back.

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Allison's voice wavered, but there was a determination in her words too, an effort to show strength

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for her son.

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But it wouldn't ever feel right to talk about him like he's gone either.

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She gripped a cover of the thin green book tightly.

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I just think he'd like it if you held onto this for him.

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He was in the middle of reading it that day.

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I'm sure he wouldn't mind loading it to his uncle for a while.

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Allison handed me the book.

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It was fairly thin with a large cover, like many illustrated children's books.

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The single word beast appeared in capital letters under the striking image of a lurking

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black form with red eyes.

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I couldn't place what fantastic creature it was supposed to be, so my mind simply settled

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on bare.

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I held the book tightly to my chest as though the pages were made of gold.

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I promised to take good care of it, I vowed, though there was something troubling.

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I was no longer looking at the cover, and yet something still bothered me about the

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creature on it.

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I looked at it again, not truly a bear, but it wasn't a lion either.

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I found myself thinking of crocodiles with strong jaws, but also of the sharp talons

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of predator birds.

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Nick, my sister's voice snapped my attention back to my grim environment and her small

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smile.

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Thank you, she said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

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The book remained on the passenger seat of my car for a week, underneath a binder full

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of work documents.

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I hadn't misplaced it there, I knew exactly where it was.

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Thinking of it made the pit of my stomach thud.

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After all, this was something Jack had left behind.

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I was sure that this painful knowledge was what caused the hairs in my neck to raise

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when I'd spy a corner of the green cover sneaking out from under the binder of monotonous

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paper.

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The book, Beast, finally made its way into my home about a month after I'd received

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it.

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I actually needed something in that binder, and when I dropped the heavy black tome of

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reference material on my desk, I discovered that I'd carried Jack's book in along with

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it.

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I took another hard look at the creature on the cover.

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Who would design such a thing?

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I knew exactly why Jack had liked it so much.

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The red eyes and the nightmare shape of it stirred my own imagination so easily.

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Curiosity won me over, and I read the book.

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It was charts, only about fifteen pages or so.

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The story resembled a simple fable, though surprisingly there were no illustrations except

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for the strange creature on the cover.

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A boy just barely glimpsed a shadowy beast outside his window one night.

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Night after night, the boy searched for the beast but could not find it.

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Though he couldn't find it, the boy always felt as though he was being followed.

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He would keep thinking he saw the beast in all kinds of places.

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His own shadow reflected in the mirror.

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In the depths of a dark room, he was reluctant to enter.

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The story ended with the boy finally entering the dark room.

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It was a chilling story.

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Those usually end with lessons learned, the protagonist has gained something which ties

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a neat little bow around the story, where parents nod knowingly and children roll their

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eyes.

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The unfinished ending of the story was simply haunting.

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No proper conclusion, no way of knowing what, if anything, awaited the boy in the dark room.

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The story just stopped.

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That night my dreams were filled with words written in a cryptic, unknowable language,

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words that seemed vaguely familiar, like a forgotten name on the tip of your memory.

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The day was no better, I found myself completely distracted.

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At the office I was asked repeatedly if I was all right, with little memory of where

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my mind had been before the question had been asked.

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I couldn't stop thinking of the story, I couldn't stop thinking of the book, the creature

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on the cover, the title, beast.

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The title was beast, wasn't it?

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I tried to think of the exact letters on the cover, but was shook out of my thoughts by

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loud honking and found myself holding up traffic at a green light.

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Green, like the sickening colour of that book.

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I focused my thoughts entirely on arriving home safely, I couldn't put my hands on the

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story fast enough, I stared at the cover, beast.

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It was right there, with that image of the badger on the cover.

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But the moment I opened the cover and turned to the first page, the letters on the cover

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became jagged, confusing script in my mind.

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The snout of the badger was replaced in my memory with a massive, gaping mouth.

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I returned to the cover, beast.

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It was very clearly written, though when I focused on a single letter, it felt as though

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the other letters blurred slightly.

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The creature on the front was a faceless ghoul, all teeth and puckered skin.

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No, it was a bear, a shadowy red-eyed bear.

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I closed my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to focus.

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Slowly my thoughts stopped spinning, but I could still feel my curiosity being tugged

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at by those strange letters and that odd image.

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The feeling was less intense, but all the more menacing, like hearing bad news of the

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whisper.

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I opened the book again.

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This time with my eyes closed, determined to focus more on the story inside and less

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on the cover.

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I opened my eyes and began to read.

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The boy glimpsed at the beast outside his window.

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I turned the page, but as it turned, I thought for sure that I saw the lettering change.

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I turned back.

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The words were clearly printed.

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Simple, neat, nothing strange.

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But the moment I turned the page, I felt for sure, like a flicker, those words changed

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into something wholly unknowable.

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I pressed on, but each page felt the same.

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The moment I turned my attention to them, they were nothing more than simple sentences

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in a child's book.

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The moment I looked away, they were long and jagged things.

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I turned the pages back and forth frantically, but the moment I glimpsed a bizarre script

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it would vanish and become mockingly mundane writing.

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All the while that thing on the cover burned its way into my memory with its red eyes and

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long, thin arms ever reaching towards me.

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No, it had red eyes to be sure, but it was cloaked and working.

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Or had it been crouched on evil claws, readying itself to spring.

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But the words, where were those strange words?

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There one moment then spirited from my eyes, like fish under murky water.

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I was certain they were there, but the moment that each terrible long angry lethar was right

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in front of me, it was torn away, replaced by childish simplicity.

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I turned the pages faster and faster, spurned on by those terrible eyes, red and burning

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above row after row of greeting terrible, Uncle, stop!

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The book fell from my hands with the same speed as the hairs on my neck stood to attention,

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and all of my blood iced over.

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I was sure of it, there was no question, it had only been for a moment, but the face

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that had broken through my cacophony of thoughts had been Jack's, and that strange writing

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had become just two words, Uncle, stop!

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Now these were the only things my mind could focus on.

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I burned the book, thanking my dear nephew, knowing that whatever means he had used to

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save me would be forever as mysterious as the means that had stolen him away.

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This is what I had hoped desperately.

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I realised that this account retells everything while truly explaining nothing.

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I find myself now and again glimpsing strange, jagged lettering in the pages of magazines.

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I'll pass a billboard and feel the presence of red eyes glaring out from it, before discovering

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nothing more than the vacant gaze of a model selling promises.

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It has become increasingly frequent, whether this beast will trot behind me looking its

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fangs or suddenly overtake me some night as unknown.

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Before I am dragged to a place beyond reach, my hope is that these writings will be what

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remains of Jack Green.

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Well, much like the protagonist in our story today, it seems I am also being confronted

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by something that I can no longer avoid.

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I am not sure how much time I have left before it becomes a problem, but likely not long.

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I promise to do all in my power so that on your next visit I will still have a story

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to share with you.

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Let's, until that time, please be well and carry today's story in your heart.

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Please tell me what you think of the story.

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Thank you for listening to The Second Storyteller.

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If you have a prompt for a story, please send it to thesecondstoryteller at gmail.com.

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If your prompt is selected, your name will be credited at the end of the episode.

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Today's prompt was A Horror Story from Rick's.

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If you would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming

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a patron by going to patreon.com slash the second storyteller.

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A donation as small as a dollar is greatly appreciated and helps keep us going.

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A donation of just $10 a month puts you on the list of current library card holders,

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and your name will be read at the end of the episode.

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The Second Storyteller podcast and the featured stories were written and created by Katie

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Chacon.

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The role of the second storyteller is played by Charles Scott.

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Today's voice of the story was provided by Charles Scott.

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The voice of the intro and outro is Chris Camp, and you can find the fantastic games

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he's worked on at ricks.itch.io.

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That's r-i-k-s.itch.io.

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The music was written by Fintan, who can be found at garbagebag, all one word,.itch.io.

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The second storyteller will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story

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to tell.