The Warning Woods has haunting horror stories that are sure to linger with you long after listening. I'm Miles Treidel, writer and narrator of The Warning Woods. Each week, I write an original scary story and share it with you. If you're into scary stories, you need to check out The Warning Woods. Listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just search. for the Warning Woods and click play at your own risk.
I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times. And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director. You might know me from The League, Veep, or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters. We come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies.
Critical hits. Fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them. We're talking Parasite the Home Alone. From Grease to the Dark Knight. So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure. Listen to Unspooled wherever you get your podcasts. And don't forget to hit the follow button.
I'm Ann Foster, host of the feminist women's history comedy podcast, Vulgar History. And every week I share the saga of a woman from history whose story you probably didn't already know and you will never forget after you hear it. Sometimes we re-examine well-known people like Cleopatra or Pocahontas, sharing the truth behind their legends. Sometimes we look at the scandalous women you'll never find in a history textbook.
If you can hear my cat purring, she is often on the podcast as well. Listen to Vulgar History wherever you get your podcasts. Chimera. The first time I heard about the Fletcher Boundary was on a syndicated TV show about historical mysteries in the state of Wyoming. It was the mid-90s then. I must have been 10 or 12 years old.
The unknown was already a matter of fascination for me, and I remember being captivated by the Fletcher Boundary, by its eerie simplicity, and by the many legends that surrounded it. Years would pass, but the mystery would remain anchored in my mind. Still, even though I'd grown up only a few hours' drive from the Fletcher Boundary, I'd never actually been there. I'd never seen it with my own eyes.
It was only much later that I would finally visit, when I thought that it could offer me something. And I suppose you could argue that it did offer me something. Just not what I'd been searching for. I had established myself by then. My first major work, originally released as a webcomic called The Stench of Redemption, had earned me a small but dedicated group of followers.
When it was released in print a few years later, it managed to find an even larger audience. And suddenly, my lifelong dream of being a renowned graphic novelist began to seem feasible. The first issue of my second comic series was released just after I turned 25. It was called Mortal Debris, and it was loosely based on the unsolved death of Hollywood screenwriter Gary DeVore.
It was a story of subversion and conspiracy, of brazen assassinations and secret government factions. It was met with glowing reviews, and to my astonishment... I soon found myself with an agent and a book deal. My first full-length graphic novel was called The Abomination Machine, and it was inspired by a spiritual movement called The Home of Truth.
that was active in southern Utah in the 1930s. The group's leader, a woman named Marie Ogden, believed she had the ability to raise the dead. When I began writing The Abomination Machine, I traveled to the ghost town where the home of truth once lived. There wasn't all that much to be found there. A few weather-beaten buildings surrounded by dry scrubland.
But I felt like being there was the only way to find the inspiration that I needed. I had to see the place where Ogden and her followers had lived. I had to feel the dusty earth beneath my feet. and the arid desert breeze against my skin. My strategy seemed to work, because the week it was released, the Abomination Machine sold almost 50,000 copies.
I did a national signing tour and spoke at a few expos. For a moment, I felt like I'd achieved my dreams. But when a few months had passed, and the news cycle had moved on to a newer book, a newer movie or TV series, I found myself itching for another dose of critical acclaim. Never mind all the good things that had come from the abomination machine.
Never mind the talks with HBO about filming a TV series. Never mind the droves of fans that wrote to me or discussed my work. It wasn't enough to be notable. I wanted to be admired. to be the next Alan Moore, the next Neil Gaiman. And so, I began thinking about the next story, the next well from which I would draw my inspiration. It was early autumn of 2014, and I was on my way home to Evanston to visit my family, as I made my way across the basins and plateaus of southern Wyoming.
Thinking about the dry, dusty landscape where I'd grown up, I suddenly realized what I wanted to write my next story about. The Fletcher Boundary. My mind returned to the TV show I'd seen as a kid, rekindling my long-held fascination with the place. That night, after having dinner with my folks, I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom.
and opened my laptop. I began to read everything I could find about the Fletcher Boundary. Nobody had ever determined precisely when the Fletcher Boundary had been built. but the first record of it came in 1934. A man named Louis Fletcher was tending to a 400-acre property that had been purchased several years before by his father, Alvin Fletcher.
Located just outside the town of Afton, it was a rugged plot of land, laden with towering pine trees and rocky crags. As Alvin had gotten older, he'd fallen on ill health. and was unable to monitor his property. So he'd enlisted the help of his son. In the spring of 1934, just after the snow had melted off, Lewis had arrived at his father's property.
and commenced a sweep of its perimeter on horseback. He was looking for anything that stood out. Poachers, claim jumpers, lost cattle and fallen trees. As he surveyed the eastern end of the property, he happened upon something that did stand out. It was a tall wooden fence, well overhead high, threading through the trees. Lewis rode his horse around the perimeter of the fence, finding that it stretched nearly a mile in length. It formed a rough, oblong loop.
Its sections fastened seamlessly together to completely enclose whatever lay inside. Lewis had ridden back to his father's ranch house with news of the peculiar structure. He thought that perhaps his father had the fence built, though for what reason he couldn't say. But as it turned out, Alvin was completely unaware of the fence's existence.
He told Lewis that the last time he'd been out to that area of the property had been a few years earlier, and that even then, the fence could have been there and he'd simply failed to notice it. In the years that followed... The fence, which came to be known as the Fletcher Boundary, became something of a local curiosity. People came from all over trying to determine when the fence had been built, and for what reason.
Some suggested that it was used as a corral, or served some other agricultural purpose. But it seemed too impractical for that. For one, it was in a rocky and relatively inaccessible location. Second, it had no door, no entrance. Even if you could get livestock to the fence, there was no way to get them through. When Lewis Fletcher had discovered the fence,
The only way he could gain entry to explore what was inside was by cutting a section free with a saw. I used to wonder what Lewis expected to see when he first went in there. and whether what he found disappointed him. It would have been hard not to go into that place with expectations. The fence was robust and sturdy, exhibited quality craftsmanship.
It wasn't the type of thing that someone builds for no reason. It was the type of barrier one would erect if they wanted to keep something out. Or, perhaps, to contain something. What he found when he went inside, though, was nothing. The roughly thirty acres that comprised the interior of the fence were basically indistinguishable from the land that surrounded it.
It featured the same coniferous trees, the same rugged terrain. The only sign of human life to be found inside the fence were a few stacks of stone. and a pile of decaying lumber that may have once accounted for a small cabin. The Jackson Sentinel, one of the first newspapers to cover the mystery, referred to it as a perplexing yet anticlimactic affair.
But while there may not have been an official explanation for the boundary, there were a wealth of legends that sprang up professing to explain its origin. Some stories claim that the wall had been built by a community of miners and fur traders to protect their enclave from the tall, hairy creatures reported to live in the surrounding forest.
Other stories allege that the fence had been built by the previous owners of the Fletcher property, a mysterious family of unknown origin who had barricaded themselves inside their mountainous hideout. The problem with these stories is their assertion that houses or some other structures had been built inside the fence. When really, aside from the few stacks of petrified wood and stone, there was no sign of human occupation.
certainly nothing that matched the resilience and fortitude of the fence itself. The most popular myth offered a different take on the wall's creation. It told of a husband and wife. that were traveling west in the early 1900s. When winter came, they were forced to halt their progress in Wyoming on account of the snow. They set up camp and built a small makeshift cabin.
The husband would hunt and trap in the surrounding woods, and the wife would cook and tend to camp. One day, while the husband was out, the wife claimed to have been visited by a stranger. This troubled the husband. He hadn't expected any visitors, especially considering how remote their camp was. But he guessed that it must have simply been a passing traveler.
and soon he'd forgotten about the stranger entirely. It wasn't long after, though, that his wife took ill. She became nauseous, grew pale and weak. When a few days had passed, her stomach began to bulge. They realized that she was with child. And while the timing may not have been ideal, they were nevertheless excited.
Months later, when the pregnancy came to term, they traveled to the nearest town and found a doctor to help them deliver the baby. The following day, the wife went into labor. But when the baby was born... It was clear that something was very wrong. The child didn't look human. It was covered in fine white hair and had sharp claw-like nails at the tips of its fingers.
There were two sets of eyes on its face, one above the other, each of them black and unblinking. Bony protrusions rose in a circle around the top of its cranium, like a crown of spikes. It opened its mouth and revealed rows of fine teeth piercing through its gums. The doctor recoiled in horror, leaving the creature to its mother and fleeing from the room.
When the townspeople got word of the demon child in their midst, they descended on the family, chasing them all the way back to their decrepit cabin in the woods. They told the man and the woman, That they wouldn't kill their child, but that they would take measures to make sure it would never leave that place. They could stay there, living in seclusion with their apparent offspring. Or they could leave and never return.
The husband agreed to leave immediately, condemning his wife and blaming her visit with a mysterious stranger for the outcome of their pregnancy. The wife stayed and considered her choice. but eventually she too left her kin behind. To make sure the creature never came near them again, the townspeople erected a wall around it, leaving it to whatever lonely existence it was destined to lead.
Most versions of the tale assert that the monster, having been born with malevolent supernatural abilities, still occupies the fence's wooded interior, hunting and feeding on anyone that dares to enter its domain. I'd always found it to be an innately American myth, striking in its resemblance to other stories, namely that of the Jersey Devil. I ruminated on the legend that whole weekend, and a few days later...
As I drove back home to Colorado, I called my agent, Diane, and told her that I knew what I wanted to write my next book about. When she asked what, I told her, The Fletcher Boundary. To my surprise, she'd never even heard of the place. Something about that excited me, though. It seemed like a story that was ripe for the picking, made all the more tantalizing by its obscurity.
Diane asked if I'd written anything yet. No, I told her. Not yet. I'm going out there for a few days. Take some pictures. Make some notes. I feel like I need to see it firsthand in order to really capture it. Diane told me that she'd start shopping the idea around to publishers. She sounded enthusiastic. And when I hung up the phone a few minutes later...
I had to admit that I felt invigorated at the proposition as well. It was the first time I really felt alive since the Abomination Machine came out. When I got back to Denver, I'd hardly set my bags down when I told my wife I'd be leaving again. Unlike Diane, Athena wasn't exactly excited by my newfound inspiration.
She had always been supportive of my creative endeavors. But over time, Athena had grown averse to us spending time apart. It was understandable. My travel demands had been high the last few years. Doing press. going to conventions, meeting with producers and executives. Athena worked as the director of oncology at the Cedar Hill Hospital in North Denver.
and her level of dedication to the health of her patients rarely allowed her the time to travel. So, you're going out there alone? she asked me, her eyes narrow and skeptical. Well, I said, yeah, it's nothing crazy. I'll bring my tent, stay a night or two. I just need to see it for myself. No, I understand, Athena said.
Just be careful. She looked at me solemnly. For some reason, I felt awkward and had to divert my gaze. It baffled me that even after eight years together, I could still feel awkward around her. Maybe that's just how you are, I thought. Maybe it's not even a matter of how well you know someone. The thought frightened me, because it made me feel like, in a way, I would always be alone.
no matter how close I ever got to anyone. I noticed Athena looking at me irritably. I'm sorry, what? I asked. I was asking if there'll be cell service out there, she said. Oh, I don't know, I said. It seems pretty isolated. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole area is a dead zone. The following morning, I was back on the road.
A single cloud hung above the highway, cast in a tangerine glow by the rising sun. I had my tent and sleeping bag, a kerosene stove and a few days' worth of food, two cameras, one film. one digital, a few lined notepads for jotting down ideas, and a couple blank sketchbooks. I also brought my laptop, but I didn't plan on using it.
I had a sort of romantic idea about how I'd conceive of the narrative simply by immersing myself in the landscape and putting pencil to paper. All I needed was the right setting, I thought, and the story would come to me. I drove west on I-80, through rolling hills of knee-high grass that had yellowed in the late summer sun. The mostly blue sky had turned mostly gray, and by the time I stopped for lunch in Rock Springs,
It was just starting to rain. The rain continued off and on, pelting the windshield of my old Toyota Land Cruiser in occasional outbursts. I was worried the ground would be too muddy to camp. But when I reached Afton, the rain had stopped, and the ground was mostly dry. The Fletcher boundary was located a few miles outside of town. I'd found its coordinates online and printed them out.
There weren't any roads that led all the way to the fence, so I had to park on the side of a gravel road near the old Fletcher property and hike from there. The property itself had changed hands several times since Louis Fletcher died in 1979. Eventually, one of the owners defaulted on their property taxes, and the land was forfeited to the state.
Camping and trespassing were forbidden, but I'd read the accounts of several bloggers who had successfully camped there, so I expected I'd be fine as long as I kept a low profile. The sun had already set by the time I arrived. and when I stepped out of the car, the air was crisp and cool. As I unloaded my things, the pale moon emerged from behind the clouds and cast a milky glow over the road.
I studied the map in the light of my flashlight for a few minutes, and then I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stepped into the wilderness. It was slow progress at first, stumbling over roots and shrubs. I'd clicked the light on for a few minutes at a time, my eyes darting back and forth between the map and the compass, trying to ensure I was still headed in the right direction.
It was only just over a mile from the road to the boundary, so after an hour and a half of bumbling through the forest, I began to worry that I'd gotten off track. Had I managed to get myself lost? I wondered. But then an opaque and imposing form began to take shape in the darkness. I flipped on my flashlight, and there it was, the broad, splintered face of the Fletcher Boundary.
It stretched for as far as I could see in either direction, receding into the murky dark of the forest. It was a staggering thing to behold, and I already wanted to look for a way in. But I was exhausted after a long day of traveling and opted instead to set up camp and get some sleep. I pitched my tent in a patch of loam at the base of some trees and rolled out my sleeping bag inside.
I laid down and listened to the sounds of the forest, the whisper of the wind, the swaying of the trees, the occasional rustling of some nocturnal animal. When I closed my eyes, All I could think about were all the legends that place had inspired. I found myself picturing the creature, birthed of some unholy communion.
The legends held that the mutant sustained itself by preying on hapless travelers. Now fully grown, it was said to be a silent hunter with a towering stature and a thirst for blood. Supposedly discarded human remains were buried all throughout the area. Of course, I didn't believe it. At least, I didn't normally believe it. But as I lay there, alone...
In the dark, it wasn't hard for me to imagine that I was in the presence of dead things. Rotting things. When you're alone and afraid, the monsters always seem real. I awoke to the fervent call of some bird, its cries seeming to emanate from just above my tent. As soon as I'd cleared the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over and grabbed my phone.
I texted Athena to let her know I'd arrived safe, having forgotten to do so the night before. I had service, it seemed, but just barely enough to send the message. As I lay there, looking up at my phone, Something caught my attention. I noticed that the entrance to my tent was partially unzipped, the flap hanging limply to expose the gray sky above. That's odd, I thought.
wondering if I'd forgotten to close it. I didn't think so. I had a strict habit of keeping my tent zipped shut when I went camping. There were few things I hated more than the persistent itch of mosquito bites. It was strange, but the tent flap being open wasn't necessarily evidence of anything. When I got up and started moving around, I inspected the ground outside the tent, looking for footprints.
but the earth was too spongy to reveal any discernible prints. Ultimately, I shrugged it off. I broke camp and ate a granola bar, drank a bitter cup of instant coffee. Then I grabbed my pack and walked up to the fence, placing my hand against it and feeling its weathered surface. It was an immense structure, its sun-bleached panels groaning under the force of the wind.
There were several spots in the fence's one-mile circumference where entrances had been created either by removing panels or by cutting holes in them. I wasn't sure where the nearest entrance was. so I decided to walk south along the fence until I came to an opening. I walked for maybe 30 or 40 minutes, until I came to a spot where the fence looked like it had been damaged by the wind.
A few of the pickets had been blown loose, leaving a narrow, slanted opening. I squeezed through, pulling my camping gear in after me. Once I was inside, I kept looking around for something out of place. Something extraordinary that would explain why this particular piece of land would need to be kept in isolation. Pines and juniper trees sprouted out of ground that looked like it hadn't been tread on in years.
I could hear the distant echo of a muted bird song, the subtle bray of the wind. But that was all. It was exceptionally quiet in that place. It was as if the fence had a hushing effect. dampening sounds that sought to enter. I hiked over rocky crevices and past the remains of fallen trees. Eventually, I came across a clearing.
near the center of the strange enclosure. I decided I'd make my camp there, letting my pack fall to the ground with a thud and groaning with relief as its weight came off my shoulders. I spent an hour or so setting up camp and making lunch, getting all the menial tasks out of the way so I could focus on what I'd come there to do. Making art had always been a fickle process for me.
prone to false starts and hours spent staring at mostly blank pages. I found that when I faced the fewest distractions, I stood the best chance of making real progress. But even when I'd finished making camp and organizing my gear, and the only thing left to do was sit down and start hatching the story I'd come there to write, I was held by some kind of creative paralysis.
I sat down on a stump and held the sharpened tip of my pencil against the page, ready to record anything that came into my mind. But I was unable to will even a single image into existence. I couldn't conjure anything compelling with my mind's eye, and the few things that did arise in my consciousness all seemed too trite or cliché to give me a starting point. How pathetic, I thought.
I've come all the way out here, and what did I expect? Did I think a genius plot would just spill right out of me? I thought about Athena back home, dedicated to a profession that was of real use to the world. She was probably prepping for a life-saving surgery right at that moment. Yet her husband sat alone in the forest, mumbling to himself in frustration over the fact that he couldn't play make-believe well enough.
I felt like a fully grown child, lost in an alien landscape. I stared down at the blank page, my pencil still hovering idly above its surface. For Christ's sake, just do something, I said aloud. I sat for a moment in frustration. Then, to my shock, my words came echoing back to me. For Christ's sake, just do something. I dropped my pencil and looked around anxiously. I couldn't tell if it was just a naturally occurring echo, or if someone had parroted my own words back to me.
Hello? I called out tentatively. A few tense seconds passed, and then I heard it. Hello? Now I was certain it wasn't just an echo. There was too much lag, but I didn't understand what else it could be either. Who else could have possibly been out there? And how could they so perfectly imitate my voice? It sounded like a flawless recreation, as if they had recorded my words and played them back to me. But there was something else in the voice as well, some other texture I couldn't quite identify.
Who is that? I called out, getting to my feet. Who is that? Came the voice a few seconds later. I gritted my teeth, my pulse quickening. What are you? What are you? My eyes darted around, inspecting trees and bushes, searching for the source of the taunting voice. The ground was tackier there, more sediment than loam.
And when I looked down at it, I was surprised to see an almost perfect footprint right before me. It stopped me dead. It was a left foot, and I could tell the print wasn't mine because it was barefoot. I hadn't taken my shoes off since I'd gotten there and set up camp. I looked a foot or two ahead and saw another print. A right foot. Who the hell would be out here walking around barefoot?
i thought to myself ahead i saw more prints they were leading away from my camp in a moderately straight line have you been following me i asked as i began to track the prints Have you been following me? The sound of the voice still sent a chill through me every time I heard it. I stayed attentive as I moved, careful not to disturb the prince.
I was stricken by how immaculate they were. They seemed almost too clear to have been left by happenstance, each pressed evenly into the ground. They looked to be adult prints. judging by the size but there wasn't much else i could deduce just by looking at them for a few dozen paces they continued their stride and trajectory remaining consistent but then
something happened that I couldn't comprehend. The footprints began to move farther apart. Not in the distance of the stride, but in the width of the stance. First, they were a foot wide. Then two. Then three. They grew wider and wider. An arm span. Then two arm spans. Soon they were ten feet apart.
As if someone had made them by hopping ten feet laterally with each pace, but still managed to leave a flawless print. Or perhaps like whatever made them had been split in half, but somehow kept walking undeterred. Gradually, the footprints moved closer together again, but soon other peculiarities appeared. There would be two left footprints in a row, or one of the prints would be facing the opposite direction.
Sometimes there were extra toes in the print, or it would take on a different shape altogether, leaving paw prints or hoof tracks, as if it was constantly reshaping itself as it moved. I lifted my gaze and looked around, wondering if it was watching me. What are you? I called out. What are you? The voice echoed back. As I followed the footprints. I wondered what the intent of this impossible being could be. What if it's just trying to get you lost, I thought, to lead you astray?
I looked back and already my camp was well out of sight. What do you want? I yelled. A pause. And then, what do you want? It called back. But this time, its inflection was slightly different. It seemed less like it was mimicking my voice and more like it was asking its own question. But it still sounded like me. similar in pitch and tone. Tell me what you are, I shouted into the forest. The pause was longer this time. And then it said, I can tell you what I am.
But that wouldn't really answer your question. I listened for its source, but it was hard to determine exactly where the sound was coming from. It seemed at once to be in front of and behind me. It's like if I asked what you are, and you said human. It doesn't really describe what you're made of. It's just a word, the voice said. Why were you imitating me? I asked.
I had to learn your voice, it said simply. I can't talk without a voice. There was something malicious in its words, some intangible quality that made my hair stand on end. Are you the reason that this wall was built? I asked. You could say that, the voice replied. But in a way, you could also say the opposite is true. That I am only here because the wall was built.
Or, perhaps more accurately, that I am only here because the wall was built and you passed through the wall. I can only be perceived if there is someone to perceive me. And you can only be perceived in this place, I said. You can't leave here? I'm not sure I'd say I can't, it said. But I don't leave here very often.
Some things are only defined by the space in which they exist. They are placed within strict parameters, and to enter their boundary is to interact with them on their terms. Do you understand? I only realized right then how truly afraid I was. Every time I tried to inhale, I faltered, as if my chest couldn't open wide enough to accept my breath. So, what are your terms?
I asked. My terms are the same as yours, it said. I need to be given something. I spun around, still searching for a body of some kind to accompany the voice. When did I say that? I asked. When did I say I needed to be given something? Of course you came here to be given something, the voice said. And what was it? I asked.
Well, on the surface, I think you'd argue that it was inspiration. But in truth, it was something else entirely. You came here looking for something to fill you. Something to take up the emptiness inside. You didn't just come here for an idea. You came here for an idea that would earn you praise. Because you still think praise will bring you validation. The words incensed me.
But I couldn't exactly argue with them. Okay, I said. So you claim to know what I want. But what is it that you want? It doesn't matter, the voice said. At least... Not anymore. Why would you say that? I asked. There was a pause and I could hear my pulse thumping wildly in my head as I waited for it to answer. Because you already gave it to me.
It said, finally. I shuddered. When could I have possibly done that? I asked. You don't remember? Perhaps you could remind me. Well, I could tell you this. The voice said. It was the last time you didn't feel empty. Does that sound familiar? No? Well, how about this? California. 2014. No, I muttered. You were a special guest at Comic Con in San Diego. Do you remember meeting me there? You invited me back to your hotel room. Granted, I had a different voice back then.
I tried to speak, but words evaded me. Did you think it was odd that a fan would be so familiar with your work, but not even acknowledge that you were supposedly happily married? No, I said. No, I... You were weak, I know. But why? I asked. Why would you do this? Every so often, we need to regenerate. A human host, or... Specimen is required. The legend, I said. It's... Yes. I stood there in silence and tried to control my breathing. Tell me.
The voice said, when some time had passed, Did you find what you were looking for when you came here? There was a part of me that wanted to understand. that wanted to see the thing that I was talking to. But a different part of me took over in that moment, and without another word, I turned and ran. When I got back to my camp, i grabbed whatever i could fit in my backpack and left the rest behind i didn't look back until i got to the road i'm sure it goes without saying that i never wrote a book
about my trip to the Fletcher Boundary. What happened out there never left those woods. I never told a soul about what I experienced, even though sometimes I think it would be a relief to get it off my chest. But it's surprising what you can live with. If you just bury it deep enough. Hey, Jeff here. Thanks so much for listening. If you enjoy the show, I just want to let you know that I have a Patreon. It charges $3 per new episode.
You also get to listen to every episode early and without any ads. Plus, you get access to my audiobook, Solace. It's over eight hours long, sort of a cosmic horror slash mystery thriller story. It's about a journalist who's sort of struggling to make sense of the details of a missing persons case that he's covering. The Patreon also has its own RSS feed, so you can listen on whatever podcasting app you like.
There's a link in the show notes for this episode as well as in the bio of the show, but if you can't see it, it's patreon.com slash A-C-E-P-H-A-L-E. You can also follow me on social media. There's links to Instagram and Twitter in the show notes as well. And as always, thank you so much for listening, for leaving reviews and ratings. All that stuff seriously means a lot to me. I really appreciate hearing from all of you. So thank you.
You should listen to the GameStudy.biz microcast. More people are playing games than ever before. They've never been more popular and the business behind it is facing some real challenges and changes. There's been tens of thousands of layoffs, hundreds of studio closures as major companies face rising costs.
and falling sales there's uncertainty around the future of game consoles there's legal and government intervention into how games are even being paid for the role of AI is changing how games are being made there's the impact of games like Fortnite and Roblox dominating everyone's time and then there's the desperate wait
for Switch 2 and GTA 6, and that's just 2024. Two leading business journalists with a combined 35 years of experience offer you a weekly guide through all of this and more. I'm Christopher Dring, Head of GamesIndustry.biz. I'm James Batchelor, Editor-in-Chief of GamesIndustry.biz.
And you can join us every Monday for the gamesindustry.biz microcast. The most important stories. Expert guests. Exclusive market data. And all in less than 30 minutes. Usually. The gamesindustry.biz microcast every Monday on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. podcasts.
When San Francisco is rocked by a series of brutal slayings, the case falls to homicide detectives Brian Clouser and his partner Pookie Chang. It falls to them because Brian is always first on the scene, driven there by dreams that predict the case. killings in exquisite detail. Meanwhile, a shadowy vigilante
seemingly armed with superhuman powers, is out there killing the killers. Brian and Pookie's superiors, from the mayor on down, seem strangely eager to keep the detectives from discovering the truth, doubting his own sanity and Stripped of his badge, Brian begins to suspect that he stumbled into the crosshairs of a shadow war that has gripped his city for more than a century. A war waged by a race of killers living in San Francisco's unknown underground room.
emerging at night to feed on those who will not be missed. Nocturnal is a complete serialized novel with 45 episodes. Available for free on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or... or wherever you get your podcasts.