From the heart of a wood which lost its name long ago, is a place where a seeker of stories
may go.
If you've arrived in a story's your desire, come, take a seat, for what you require is
a tale from the second storytime.
Good evening and welcome to the spooky halls of the- oh no no no don't go, it's uh, it's
me, the uh, the first storyteller.
Um, sorry if you thought you were in the wrong place.
Uh, remember I told you last time.
Today we are celebrating the greatest of all holidays.
Halloween.
Uh, I thought wearing a costume might add to the atmosphere, but I guess you weren't
expecting your host for this evening to be a huge carnivorous plant monster.
I didn't think this costume would be so convincing, but then again I did spend hours on the pipe
cleaners and the glitter glue.
Anyway.
Welcome to Halloween my dears, may I interest you in a bowl full of monster guts?
Oh, but please ignore all of the fruit scraps on the kitchen counter, because this is totally
a bowl full of monster guts and not a bowl of hastily hacked up assorted fruits.
Oh, and of course, here is my helpful assistant, Hilbert.
What do you mean what are you supposed to be?
Or a pro wrestler of course, why else would you have that spectacular belt?
Of course a pro wrestler bird is scary.
A bird that could subject someone to a perfectly executed DDT?
The horror.
Ah, and well, of course a holiday like today deserves an appropriate story.
Or should I say, stories, because I think Halloween is the perfect time to share some
spooky stories.
So make yourself comfortable if you can.
Our first story is...
Spare.
You could not recall the ceramic bird on the windowsill from your first stay in your
grandparents' spare room.
Or would you remember the hand-knitted quilt of colourful squares, or the crude watercolour
of a duck that your mother had painted when she was twelve?
The shapes of the furniture, the scent of vanilla candles, the thrum and click of the
heating unit on the wall would stay cradled in the far reaches just outside your memory.
This room would become more familiar with each stay, nostalgia working its exaggerating
magic on the mundane, most surprisingly though, was that you did not initially remember the
mask.
It sat on a shelf, propped up and tilted so its massive eyes pointed squarely at the small
guest bed.
It had been the culprit that night when you awoke and fled the room, screaming for your
parents' comfort.
It had been the monster that you could not describe, and were told that you had only
dreamed it.
They would gently chide you about it.
You had been three years old at the time after all, and so a second-hand account would have
to suffice.
Your next stay in the guest room you were seven years old.
When you entered the room and sat down your pillow and backpack, you turned to find yourself
staring at the once lurking and unspecified dread, now before you with a clearly defined
face.
You took the time to look it over.
You had seen pictures of masks from other countries before, but this did not quite look
like any of those.
The huge and bulging eyes had insect-like qualities.
The single face proudly featured three mouths filled with teeth of all shapes and sizes.
An absolutely massive tongue lulled out of the central mouth.
The surface of the mask appeared almost bubbled as though something seethed below non-existent
skin.
Looking in each detail with a mix of horror and fascination, your young mind also felt
a strange relief.
That strange image hiding in the back of your mind had simply been this object all along.
You left the room with a newfound sense of courage that would fail you completely, hours
later.
At bedtime you walked back into the room, back to the encompassing scent of fake vanilla,
your mind filled with the jokes your grandfather told and the knitting that your grandmother
was working on.
But you halted the moment you felt a warm breath sweep the back of your neck.
You turned to look at the mask.
The stark white face peered at you through the dark.
The menacing detailing on it was a garish color you could only describe as green.
When its enormous eyes turned and fixed directly on you, you heard a dry laugh like old men
holding paper tearing slowly.
A sudden loud click from the heating unit snapped you from the paralysis of fear and
this was enough to send you terrified from the room.
By the time you returned on the night of your fourteenth birthday you'd gained the appropriate
amount of ignorant courage.
You could still remember the mask clearly, but were prepared to see it when you brought
your things to the spare room.
By the light of day the mask retained all of its ghoulishness.
The strange greenish highlights jagged against the stark white.
The horrible texture of it accentuated by the terrible mouths.
I'm not scared of you, you told it, filled to the brim with fourteen-year-old confidence.
In the purgatory between night and morning, however, you awoke to hear a familiar, papery
laugh.
You opened your eyes to see the mask, mouths clearly moving as it made a sound like a rick
scraping slowly over the leaves.
You could see its monstrous eyes rolling before they noticed you.
It laughed slightly louder.
You stepped out of bed and slowly approached the mask.
You felt certain you were dreaming and curiosity pushed you slightly closer to the amused
object.
Or are you actually a monster?
You felt your voice shake in spite of yourself.
All three mouths opened very wide as they drew in a breath.
Then a voice-like birthday candle-smoke whispered,
I am.
Sleep abandoned you that night as you lay in a fortress of blankets, listening to the
sound of patient laughter.
It crackled just above the repetitive hum of the heating unit.
At nineteen you refused to give the mask any acknowledgement when you dropped your things
in the spare room.
You barely noticed the vanilla smell.
You spent your day trying desperately to enjoy the comforts of family, but the feeling
that had once been vague was now a pulsing dread.
Your mother talked about watercolor paintings and you nodded where appropriate.
Like an alarm going off in a neighboring street that nobody else could hear, the image of
that mask gleefully robbed you of your attention.
While the room was fully avoidable, the frustration that you should have to avoid it won the battle.
When evening fell, you found yourself in the spare room, surrounded by the same ceramic
bird, quilt, and watercolor that had always been in that room, and the mask.
Before giving it the chance to wheeze its terrible laughter, you spoke to it directly.
You are a monster.
Yes.
You could hurt me if you wanted?
I would consume you.
Not a trace of you would remain.
Well, why don't you then?
What are you waiting for?
Them.
It wheezed happily.
You'd only ever noticed the sound, so it took you a moment to realize that the heating unit
had gone silent.
You turned to see, pouring out of the heating unit like a diseased waterfall, a roiling
mass of shadowy silhouettes.
At your movement, their uncountable arms emerged rushing towards you in a desperate frenzy,
but before a single tendril could grab you, the mask opened all three of its jagged mouths
wider than it should have been able to.
The chaotic mass of shadows was pulled from the heating unit and into the mouths of the
mask.
It thrashed and struggled like thousands of fish in a net before it vanished completely
and the mask shut its terrible jaws.
I—I'm sorry.
I was so afraid of you, but you protected me.
Thank you.
The mask blinked slowly before all three of the mouths broke into a laughter like a branch
tearing at the window.
Oh no.
I was not protecting you.
I could not make a meal of them until they moved at you.
Will they come back?
You asked.
Perhaps, it responded.
If they don't, will you devour me?
Not this night, but perhaps.
You would not return to that room for many more years.
That was a chilling story, eh?
Oh, Hilbert.
Uh, oh.
It seems he's chosen to retire at the top of his career.
We are probably all the safer for it, but I did promise you a second story now, didn't
I?
Well, here it is.
Wait, what?
This story is called the Gorilla Story.
The Gorilla Story.
It was too dark at that point to see the sky, but the suggestion of rain appeared in tiny
droplets on my windshield.
Not so heavy that I needed the wipers, but enough for me to perceive the cold, damp air
as my car sped down the highway.
I ached to be home, and the empty evening highway only underscored the distance.
When I first heard the heavy thudding, it didn't even register, but the sound of thudding
on the highway, when it was empty of cars saved my own, plucked at the hairs on the
back of my neck.
I turned to look out the window and saw a giant gorilla running at pace with my car.
Primal fear overtook any other emotions, as the gorilla turned its face.
Its breath fogged my window as it stared directly into my eyes.
Then I woke up.
The sharp barking laugh on the other end of the phone signaled my failure to convey the
terror the dream had invoked.
So Gary's voice was slow when he found his words again.
You woke up screaming because you dreamed a gorilla was chasing your car, and it was
so bad you needed to call me about it.
I called because when I tried writing it in a text, it just seemed funny.
The annoyance dripped from my voice.
Martin, it is funny.
I thought it was going to be some crazy aggressive truck, or maybe the car suddenly crashed or
something.
It was a big gorilla, just sounds like a punchline.
Unable to find a good contradiction, I just sighed.
Yeah, now that I've said it out loud, even I don't know why it freaked me out so much.
We still hanging out on Saturday?
Yep.
Should I bring anything?
Whatever you feel like bringing.
Cool, see you then.
To be honest, I forgot about the gorilla dream by the time I went to bed that night.
Thursday morning found me parking my car and walking the familiar path through the office
park to work.
The air was filled with the comforting fall scents of crunched leaves and the lingering
vapor of frost.
It was always a long walk from the parking lot, but I enjoyed it in the fall.
It did find it odd that I was the only one on the path, a few minutes till nine on a
weekday.
This thought was answered almost immediately by the crunch of leaves and the sound of slow
thudding approaching from behind.
I increased my pace as did the ominous sounds.
Frustrated with my paranoia, I turned around quickly and found nothing behind me.
With my worries dispelled, I turned back around to find myself staring up into the eyes of
an enormous gorilla.
I woke from the dream at the same moment that it reached for my throat with one imposing
hand.
Gary found this story equally hilarious.
In spite of my many attempts to find the right words, nothing seemed to justify the
fact that I had woken up in a screaming panic.
It was a relief to wake up simply to the sound of my alarm on Friday morning.
For the first time in a couple of days, I allowed myself to lie in bed for a few extra
moments.
I stared at the ceiling and allowed the gentle light that crept around the window shades
to ease me into consciousness.
The carpet was warm and soft on my feet as I stood up and stretched.
I slid my dresser drawer open to reach for a pair of socks.
I was interrupted from this when a giant gorilla emerged impossibly from my sock drawer.
I jumped back as it stood up to its full height and opened a mouth of horrifyingly sharp teeth.
Its roar was redacted as I woke up a moment before the sound would have ripped through
my ears.
How would it even get near sock drawer?
Gary demanded through wheezing breaths.
That's exactly why it was terrifying, I pleaded.
But I'm just picturing it and…
So am I, obviously, I insisted.
Gary spent the rest of the day texting me pictures of socks.
My subconscious had run out of dreams on Friday night.
I awoke on Saturday morning groggy but unbothered.
While it had been comforting to wake up without panic, the phantom memories of the previous
dreams had left me lethargic.
I yawned my way into the kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge.
As I lifted a frying pan from the counter, the sound of the doorbell careened through
my morning brain fog.
I wasn't expecting Gary until the afternoon.
Well, you get treated to Martin in a bathrobe today since you're so early, I muttered,
opening the door.
But I suppose I could also treat you to a scrambled egg.
Many further words remained lodged in my throat as I discovered the gorilla standing just outside
of my apartment door.
Though my brain was frozen, my hands remembered the frying pan which swung into the gorilla's
face, sending the ape tumbling down the short staircase.
The loud crack, which sounded as its head hit the floor, assured me of at least temporary
safety.
I had never made it to this point in the dreams before, and a strange curiosity lured me down
the five steps to inspect my primate assailant.
One feeling of horror lurched gleefully out of the way to make space for an even deeper
one, as I finally noticed the obvious rubber texture of the gorilla's face.
Its fur was the type of thing that belonged more to cheap rugs than to living beings.
The bright red sneakers that I'd initially failed to notice were the chilling final proof
that this was...
Gary.
It was simply Gary in a gorilla suit.
Gary, who lay crumpled at the bottom of my stairs.
A thick red liquid trickled slowly from one edge of the gorilla mask where it had already
pooled and matted the fake fur.
My brain pulled me in every direction except for action.
I needed to call for help, but first I needed to check on Gary.
But checking on Gary would confirm a terrible reality that spread in front of me like ice
just beginning to shatter on upon the surface.
When my trembling hands reached for the mask, my voice came out and shuddering, sickly attempts
at words and sharp tears stung at the corner of my eyes as I pulled the gorilla mask from
Gary's face.
His eyes were closed and blood poured from the back of the mask as I threw it to the
floor.
My entire self reeled as I stood up and turned away.
I slapped my face and shook my head, certain that this was simply one more nightmare and
Saturday had yet to start.
But the faint sting on my cheeks from slapping them and the tears that began to roll down
them assured me that I was both conscious and guilty.
There was no waking from the reality that Gary was surely dead.
I knew the fake blood bag was a good call.
Didn't expect the pan, though.
The voice of my supposedly dead friend hung in the hallway between us.
I turned to see Gary sitting triumphantly on the floor, gorilla mask clutched proudly
in his hands as he smirked up at me.
The guttural sound that tore its way out of my throat could neither be described as laughter
or screaming.
I'm...I'm still here?
Yes?
Ah, oh, okay.
I haven't gone for a long, but, uh, next time I will be able to go into some sort of
more detail.
I've, uh, come up with a way to take over a furbid and finally-
Well, what did you think of that?
Chilling tale.
I once read it to a skeleton and they found no bone to pick with it.
Uh, oh.
Uh, really, though, I know that all of this isn't really everyone's cup of tea, but
it really has been a delight to share my favourite holiday once again.
Thank you, dears, for joining me this evening, so be well and carry today's story in your
heart.
And next time, yes, please keep listening for next time because it is finally time for
me to invoke poetry week.
Please tell me, if you have a prompt for a story, please send it to thesecondstorytelleratgmail.com.
If your prompt is selected, your name will be credited at the end of the episode.
You would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming a
patron by going to patreon.com slash the second storyteller.
The second storyteller podcast and the featured stories were written and created by Katie
Chacon.
The role of the second storyteller is played by Charles Scott.
The role of the first storyteller is played by Katie Chacon.
The voices of today's stories were provided by Charles Scott and Katie Chacon.
The voice of the intro and outro is Chris Camp and you can find the fantastic games he's
worked on at rix.itch.io.
The music was written by Fintan, who can be found at garbagebag.itch.io.
The second storyteller will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story
to tell.