my wicked little weirdos welcome to another midnight
delight of cold reads hot takes that's right
darlings tonight i'm serving you chills thrills
and maybe even a cheap little tingle if you press
the right button don't be shy if your paw starts
pounding just tell them it's the horror no one
has to know it's me making you squirm in your
seat My name is Morticia Mae McCree, your hostess
with the mostess. Emphasis on the mostess, sugar
plum. Welcome to tonight's episode, my little
graveyard groupies. We're all gathered round
like hormone -crazed teenagers at a campfire
hoping for something to jump out of the woods,
or at least out of their pants. So I thought
I'd warm you up with a little ghost story. There
was this poor fella who swore his house was haunted.
Every night the floors creaked, doors slammed,
and moaning echoed through the halls. Well, naturally,
he called a priest. Priest shows up, does the
whole holy tour, listens real close and says,
Son, I hate to break it to you, but that ain't
no ghost. That's just your bed springs giving
up the ghost. Turns out the haunting wasn't spirits
at all. It was just the neighbor lady dropping
by nightly for a little communion of her own.
And let me tell you, the only truly dead things
in that house were the batteries in her flashlight.
Moral of the story, my little monsters, not every
bump in the night is a ghost. Sometimes it's
just your friendly neighborhood booty call. And
that, my dears, is bootyful. Now... If the name
McCree doesn't ring a bell, don't worry, sugar.
This ain't the sign of your funeral dirge. I'm
kin to good old Randy. Bless his redneck soul.
But while he's out there wrassling critters off
the porch, I prefer my playthings a little darker.
A little stranger. And with a whole lot more
stamina. Let's just say Randy brings the cornbread,
but I bring the buns. And trust me, mine stay
nice and warm. Tonight's menu of mayhem? Shadows
that grope you in the dark. Monsters with claws
that love to scratch. And the occasional heavy
breather who just can't seem to keep his mouth
shut. And honey, if you hear something creaking
in the night, don't panic. It's not a ghost.
That's just me stress testing the furniture.
So cuddle up close. Closer. That's it. I don't
bite. Unless you ask real nice. Strike a match.
Light a candle. Or light whatever you've been
hiding under your mattress. And prepare yourself.
By the end of this, you'll be scared stiff. Or
just stiff. Either way, mission accomplished.
Our first real tale of terror, freshly dug up
from the grave of imagination, it's called Museum
of the Macabre. Read by Anthony Lovato and written
and sound designed by Brady Flanagan. Tagline,
embark on a unique and informative tour. Oh,
don't you just love an educational attraction?
Or, if you're feeling frisky, what if Dr. Seuss
operated a horror museum? Now that's a tongue
twister, baby. So, lock the doors, hide your
valuables, and maybe keep a fresh pair of panties
handy. Because you're about to take a tour that'll
rattle your bones. And maybe polish them, too.
Visitors! How dreadfully delightful to see you
all here. Welcome to my collection of the creepy.
My depository of death. My treasury of treason.
This is the Museum of the Macabre. And I am your
stupendously sinister curator. Try to keep up.
You wouldn't want to be caught dead missing out
on this tour. Ah, here on your right is our display
of the terrifying tale of Travis the Tailor.
The poor man felt so desperate to stay ahead
of fashion that he fashioned himself a new coat
from the skin of his competition. Although the
coat was a hit in Milan, the authorities wanted
him to be all gone. He got the chair. His poor
hair. The man will never again know what to wear.
I kill myself. Moving on. This display is brought
to you by a spine -tingling story of Susan the
Surfish, a woman who believed that she was the
main character of life. Everywhere she went,
she stepped to the front of the line, insisting
that her circumstances were also special. Oh,
Susan. You should have treated the waiters in
the restaurant just a bit better. For when the
chef had a shortage of meat, you ended up in
the shadow. You were chopped into bits and ended
life in the shits. Do you see what I did? You
know, because at the end... This last display
may seem a bit empty and bare, but you need to
look closely from right over there. Two steps
closer together, if you please. Keep looking
at that spot with ease. This is the fearful fable
of the ones who observe. They delight in the
stories that I tell with no consideration of
the private hell of the families and friends
of our tales of woe. Have you figured it out
yet? Do you know? I know that this may seem quite
out of the blue, but this dreadful drama is all
about you. And with that, I bid you F on. Toodaloo!
I don't ever say that. Oh, it's so good. Mmm,
wasn't that a treat, my little crypt critters?
Museum of the Macabre. Nothing like a tour that
makes you feel both cultured and slightly violated
at the same time. Just the way I like it. Educational
attractions, darling. Who knew you could learn
so much about anatomy without even opening a
book or your legs? But don't you go polishing
your headstones just yet. We've only just begun
to scratch and scratch and scratch. Listen to
me. I'm making myself tingle. Our next little
bedtime snack is called the horror wing. Oh,
sounds intense, right? Oh, but don't worry. It's
less chains and screams and more pumpkins and
cream. Think of it as exploring a quaint little
town full of autumn traditions, fallen leaves,
and neighbors who smile just a little too wide.
Oh, you know, the kind of folks who'd offer you
a fresh pie, and you're not sure if it's apple,
pumpkin, or Aunt Mildred. Oh, and speaking of
pie, foraging is all the rage these days. Everyone's
out there picking mushrooms, nuts, berries, or
at least pretending they know which ones ain't
gonna kill them. I say, if you're gonna go mushroom
hunting, take someone you trust. And if the fungi
doesn't knock you out, maybe your partner will.
After all, it's not called a forage unless somebody
ends up on all fours. So, tighten your scarves.
Pull up your big boy boots and let's take a stroll
through this charming little town where autumn
traditions are more than just hayrides and cider.
They're a one -way ticket to the harrowing. Acted
by Emily Morse Lee, written by Scribbler Johnny,
and the luscious sound design by Brady Flanagan.
Everyone tells stories about bloody harvest rituals.
I don't have a story like that to share. This
is about fall, specifically after harvest is
done with. Here in Fur Corners, Halloween is
particularly morbid. Autumn bone hunts for the
kiddos. They sweep the woods and fields for bones,
any they can find or dig up. Mushrooms too, no
matter if they are edible for humans. Many mushrooms
are prizes for the hunters. If this were a movie,
the locals would be a bit secretive, maybe even
embarrassed for an outsider like me to learn
about their traditions. Not so for coroners.
They're quite cheerful and have been very free
with stories from their youth. I recall one chap
telling me about 1984. The local movie theater
had been able to get the best movies that year,
even Streets of Fire. He and his buds found the
prize of prizes, mushrooms that had grown amongst
bones. He showed me a picture on his phone of
the original photograph. Two young men of about
14, hunkered by a skull with big white puffball
-style mushrooms behind it. Then a photo of them
each holding a mushroom over an eye, grinning.
I smiled and nodded. His story wasn't finished.
He explained the skull was that of a fox, and
I had no reason to doubt him, and I am certainly
not able to contradict him. Why do they gather
bones and mushrooms? Decay. And that which feeds
on decay, you see. It makes sense. The bones
and mushrooms are gathered to a massive furnace
and the resulting ash is scattered over every
farm and churned up into the earth when they
harrow up at the fields. I suppose it can't do
any harm to the soil. But I'm no farmer. The
kids are off hunting now. I can hear them whooping
and chatting and running. It's such a cheerful
sound. It makes me nostalgic. Oh! Someone is
banging at the door. It must be very urgent.
I hope no one's had an accident. I'll just go
and see. Wasn't that just darling, my graveyard
gourmets? The harrowing. A quaint little small
town tour of autumn traditions. Pumpkins, pie,
and just enough backwoods charm to make you wonder
if they were smiling because they liked you or
because they already picked out your plot. Nothing
like wholesome family fun with a side of human
sacrifice. But don't hang up your hayride harnesses
just yet. We're about to take a sharp left turn
into the land of machetes, masks, and mommy issues.
That's right, darlings. Our next little bedtime
banger is all about the original campfire Casanova
himself, Jason Voorhees. Now, I know what you're
thinking. Jason? A sensitive soul? Oh, but trust
me. all that hockey gear is just an old boy pondering
his life's work. And honey, when your resume
reads stabbing teens and drowning trauma, well,
let's just say the retirement package ain't much.
Imagine it. A killer with a conscience. A man
with a machete taking a long, hard pause for
effect. Look at his legacy. All those cabins,
all those campers, all those screams in the night.
Did he make the world a better place? Or just
a bloodier one? Oh, don't worry, sugar plums.
I know this sounds deep, but I promise there'll
still be plenty of slashing, gasping, and heavy
breathing. And that's just me after a set of
stairs. So grab your sleeping bags, zip them
up tight, and keep one eye open. Because Jason's
about to do some soul searching. And if he can't
find his soul, well, he'll just settle for yours.
Acted by Tyler Moody, written by Keir Zhao, and
the cutting sound design of Mr. Brady Flanagan.
You know, I've been doing this slasher gig for
over 40 years now. 40 years. You'd think by now
I'd get a promotion or something. Maybe a nice
desk job at Hell HQ. But no. Here I am, still
wandering around lakes, chopping up teenagers
who apparently have never heard of me. I mean,
come on. The first rule should be, don't go to
Camp F***ing Crystal Lake. Yet here we are. You
know, back in the 80s, things were simple. I'd
pop out of a lake, terrorize a few kids, they'd
scream, I'd do my thing. In credits. But then,
around the 7th or 8th go -around, things started
getting... weird. Like, I really started losing
my sense of purpose. I went to Manhattan? Was
I high? Do I strike you as the kind of guy...
Who loves a good Broadway show? And since when
did the lake provide maritime passage to New
York City? It was all downhill from there, you
know. Don't even get me started on the space
thing. Went from a cursed camp to a spaceship.
What's next? Motherfucking Jason in the fucking
multiverse? Out there battling Spider -Man or
some shit? I mean, I'm all for new experiences,
but killing people in zero gravity? It's just
not the same. Plus, my machete kept floating
away. Totally ruined the mood. And what's with
the mask, huh? I love the burlap sack. It was
comfortable, warm. It was working for me. But
there I go again, trying to change things up
when the old formula was working. Who am I trying
to impress? Forty goddamn years, and I'm right
back where I started. What was I thinking? A
hockey mask? It's iconic now. I get it, but what
did it achieve for me, you know? What did it
mean for Jason f***ing Voorhees? I'm not even
Canadian. Do I look like I belong on the Toronto
Maple Leafs? I didn't even play hockey in high
school. It was more of a... Well, honestly, I
didn't play any sports. I drowned. Thanks for
that, by the way, counselors. But you know what
the worst part is? After all this time, it's
my memory. Totally unreliable. It's all over
the place. It's really hard to even figure out
who I am anymore. When I try to think back, one
minute I'm this unstoppable, undead force of
nature. Like, that shit was crazy. Some real
OP revenant shit. But the next minute I'm...
What? A traumatized kid who just needs therapy?
I need to work my shit out, you know? Spend a
little time getting to know the real Jason. Yeah,
figure out my whole deal. Honestly, I'm just
tired. How many times do I have to rise from
the dead, anyway? Been stabbed, drowned, electrocuted,
blown up. Heck, I even got sent to hell once.
And you know what? It's actually kind of nice
down there. Warm, cozy. Lots of my old victims
hanging around. I know, right? Turns out the
big man upstairs isn't all that forgiving. Turns
out being young is a sin. Anyway, I was glad
for the rest and the company and a little respite
from the old routine. But oh no, someone thought
they'd squeeze one last chop fest out of me.
Yeah, I'm not sure I even know what's happening
in that one All I know is that I had to fight
some dude who had sharp fingers a striped sweater
and was in Desperate need for a new skincare
routine. I Think I might have turned destiny's
child into a duet or something towards the end
there. I Don't even know at this point But here's
the thing I think I'm done one last little victory
lap around the lake and I'm through That's right.
No more slashing. No more chasing half -naked
teenagers through the woods. I'm retiring. Maybe
I'll open a nice little bed and breakfast. Bitching
Jason's f***ing Lakeview Lodge. No killing, just
good old -fashioned hospitality. And hey, if
you happen to stay in cabin 13, well, that's
on you. But seriously, folks, it's been a wild
ride. Thanks for the memories. And if you ever
hear creepy music in the woods, just remember,
it's probably just me taking a nap. Well, well,
well. Wasn't that a real slice, sugar? Our Jason
pondering life, love. and the finer points of
machete maintenance. Who knew the strong silent
type could be such a deep thinker? I mean, he's
not much for conversation, but let's be honest,
sometimes it's the quiet ones you gotta watch
out for, am I right? If he ever invites you up
to his cabin for a midnight swim, my advice?
Wear something light. You know, like a life jacket.
But now, my little creepers, it's time to go
from sharp objects to sharper tongues. Our next
tale is called The Debt. And trust me, it's one
you'll want to stick around for. Because nothing
says date night like tragedy, suspicion, and
a witch hunt that drags somebody straight into
the darkest, juiciest corners of the soul. Oh,
think of it as a morality play. Only instead
of morals, it's got mob mentality, pitchforks,
and a whole lot of dirty secrets. And honey,
when a small town gets together to root out evil,
it usually ends with someone smoldering on a
stake. Or at least smoldering in the sheets.
Depends on how the night goes. So buckle up,
darlings. We're trading our hockey masks for
hooded mobs and our summer camps for bonfires
that burn. a little too bright the debt is gonna
show us just how far someone will go when the
whole world is pointing fingers and not in the
fun way voiced by loretta chang and written and
sound designed by brady flanagan Wakey, wakey.
Welcome back to the land of the living. Though
I guess that maybe, I don't know if that's a
relevant term. Isn't it? Oh, come on. Don't bother.
You think that I honestly wouldn't have taken
precautions? One of your sisters taught me a
little something -something that I knew would
take the wind out of your sails. You see those
runes carved into the cement at your feet? You
know what those mean? Your speech is scrambled,
which means no hexes and no power. Doesn't feel
too good, doesn't it? Being powerless? Being
like everyone else? Yeah, welcome to the real
world. One that doesn't cater to your every whim.
It sucks. Don't worry. You won't have to deal
with it for too long. You know, it's interesting
how you have this divine connection with your
sisters. This innate sense to feel each other's
emotions and know when you're near each other.
Your connection to help you to feel safe. It's
ironic then, isn't it? That this is exactly how
I've been able to track so many of you down.
Let me see. Ooh, needle nose pliers. Haven't
tried to use those to remove the runestone yet.
It'll probably be a lot more clean than the hacksaw
that I had to use on the last one. More efficient.
Heck, maybe you can even survive the extraction.
But probably not. I mean, come on. You folk weave
it into your ribcage. I guess you want it close
to your heart or some nonsense? You know that
these stones are hack magic at best, right? I
mean, they are pretty much just glorified magical
magnets, which makes it kind of fun that I've
been able to use them as a compass. Guide me
right to the next witch. Oh, come on. Don't give
me that look. You are my... Sixth takedown so
far. And I've heard it all. Oh, you don't practice
black magic? You only use your abilities to lift
you and your sisters? You mean no harm! Yeah,
well, here's the thing. When you borrow from
the universe for yourself, the universe tends
to take something back. Everything has a price.
Since you aren't fitting the bill, the universe
is taking it from those around you. Most of the
time, it'll just manifest as a simple cold or
random injury, but sometimes it's much worse.
I was a single parent, raising my daughter in
a quiet suburb where everyone got along, just
kind and neighborly. One of my neighbors, a nice
woman in her 50s, was especially a favorite of
the neighborhood. Well, we thought she was in
her 50s, but... I later found out it was closer
to 500. One day, I caught a glimpse of her and
swore that she looked 10 years younger. She had
issues with her hip that just disappeared overnight.
Her crow's feet and wrinkles also mysteriously
vanished. I had assumed that she just got some
work done, but then my daughter started to get
sick. A week later, They found the tumor. A month
after that, we buried her. One of your kind took
some karma from the universe, and my daughter
paid the price. My little girl. She was seven.
So I don't give a shit. About your puppy dog
eyes. Time for you to repay the universe for
everything you've taken. You know what? I think
that I will do the hacksaw after all. I deserve
a little fun from all of this. Wasn't that deliciously
dark, my little doom dolls? The debt, tragedy,
paranoia, and a witch hunt that made Hot Seat
a little too literal. I mean, who doesn't love
a good old -fashioned torch -bearing mob? Nothing
brings a community together quite like pointing
fingers and yelling, burn the witch! It's like
bingo night, only with more screaming and less
casseroles. But don't put your pitchforks away
just yet, sugarplums. We're heading from old
world hysteria straight to glow -in -the -dark
future. Our next tale is called Welcome to Neo
-Boston, and let me tell ya, nothing screams
romantic evening scroll like nuclear apocalypse.
The skyline may be fried, the rivers may glow,
but hey, at least parking's easy. Now, you might
think the end of the world means no rules, no
laws, no community meetings. Ugh, but not in
Neo -Boston, honey. Oh, no. Even after the big
boom, the survivors still find time for that
classic civic engagement. Debating, voting, and
arguing about potholes while the mushrooms are
sprouting in more places than one. Guess nuclear
fallout can't kill bureaucracy. It just makes
it sexier. So, strap on your hazmat suits, extra
tight if you're feeling frisky, and get ready
for a story where even in the ashes of civilization,
people still can't resist a little politics.
Because if humanity's gonna go out, darling,
it's not with a bang. It's with a long, boring
committee meeting. Voiced by Amy Rausch. Written
by Brady Flanagan. And the apocalyptic sound
design by Matt Ruckstar. Testing. Testing. Is
this working? Ted, can you turn it down a bit?
Okay, that's better. Good morning, Neo -Boston.
It's a beautiful day here in the heart of Wastelandia.
As your mayor, I am honored to lead our society
back to where we were before the bombs dropped.
Sure, there are rumors that I dropped some of
those bombs myself, but I assure you that my
nukes were simply misplaced. Someone stole your
car keys and then ran over your neighbor's dog.
Is that your fault? I say nay. Now a few announcements
to keep in mind for today. First of all, the
sinkhole on Main Street has been expanding. I
recommend keeping a 200 -yard distance from Main
Street and do not touch any of the glowing pink
plants that have been sprouting up around the
sinkhole. You may hear the flowers calling out
your name and promising you riches, but don't
fall for it. They only want to get you to descend
into the abyss. Next off, the semi -annual mutant
jamboree is this Thursday at the Death Coliseum
there. Only those with at least a 30 % mutation
level are invited. Do not try to sew on an additional
appendage to pass as mutant. Firstly, that is
highly offensive on a deep level. Secondly, Dave
will be attending. Yes, that Dave. He does not
take kindly to phonies and has been known to
enter into an unstable bloodlust if he even senses
something is off, and the city workers have just
finished cleaning the Coliseum from the viscera
of the last mutant jamboree. That type of civic
work does not come cheap to you, the taxpayer.
Next. I'm sorry that I have to talk about this,
but here we are. There have been reports coming
from the south side of some animal hybrid experimentation.
Look, I get it. We're all trying to figure out
how to survive this hellscape, but if you think
that mixing genes with animals will solve things,
you are a long way off. Hell, have you visited
a zoo in the last couple of years? Of all of
God's creation, man is the only thing that is
even sort of having any semblance of surviving.
Come on, man, find a different hobby. And lastly,
just gotta reinforce that all wanton killing
and home invasions need to stop. I know, I know,
some of you require eating human flesh to survive,
and I'm not trying to rain on your parade, but
we have set up flesh banks throughout the city
for you. What was our war against New Philadelphia
even for if not to provide a huge bounty of corpses
for you? The meat might not be as fresh, but
don't be greedy. Come on, folks. At least wait
two months for our next pledge night. The city
council and I have some fun plans for you. You'll
see. Now have a blessed day, all. Mayor out.
Wasn't that a blast, sugar? Welcome to Neo -Boston.
Nuclear fallout, civic engagement, and just the
right amount of glowing in all the right places.
Who knew the end of the world could still turn
into a town hall meeting? Guess even in the ashes,
someone's got to keep things organized. And I
do love a man who knows how to take charge of
a room. Or me. my little night crawlers. All
good things must come to an end. And trust me,
I hate coming to an end. Especially when I'm
just getting warmed up. So, before you slink
back into your coffins, your closets, or your
neighbor's bed, just remember, fear is fun, horror
is hot, and sometimes the scariest thing of all...
is how much you liked it. Hopefully I'll be back
next time with more stories to stiffen your spine
and maybe a few other parts too. Until then,
keep your candles lit, your doors locked, and
your hands where I can, well, see them. Or not.
This is Morticia Mae McCree, your mistress with
the mostest, signing off with a kiss, a wiggle,
And a wicked little wish. Stay spooky. Stay sexy.
And if something goes bump in the night, oh,
honey, let it.