Sonic Society #867- Shadowy Endings

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The following audio drama is rated PG-13, suggesting that all children under the age of 13 should listen accompanied with an adult.

So, where are we now? We're at the Sonic Society, the world's largest and longest-running showcase of modern audio drama. Jack, I'm surprised at you. You say this all the time. Actually, I do, but it's usually in my script, but there we go. No, I mean, what show are we at? Well, we're at the final one for season 20. We talked about this last week. I know that, too, but you said we might be locked in the Realm Nebula.

We've been spending a lot of time with Realm.fm series. Well, it's not like this is the first time. If you remember, we began this season with the tortoise, the time or radio drama in space vehicle that we used to get around the various podcasts of the audioverse, mortally wounded by Mr. Crow. I remember that. And we discovered we could restart the heart of the tortoise by trickle-charging the old girl.

Thus, we began with a full listen to the incredible series The Fourth Ambit. Oh, that's right. And after getting a boost from the transcontinental terror train of 2024, we were able to launch back out into the audioverse, albeit with a severely weakened ship. I remember that too. And that's when we...

We discovered that Mr. Crow had not only broken the tortoise, but had shattered her audio navigation device, which has, for the last 20 years, been mapping the various places people could go to listen to the world's greatest audio drama. I know that too. And after some fits and starts, we discovered that...

she could match my own biometrics with some of the many shows I've been in that we've not featured. And? And nothing. I mean, I just thought a good recap on the last episode of Season 20 would be a good idea. Well, what were some of your high points this year?

Well, there was obviously the new John Bell production, Tales from the Mutual Basement. I've very much enjoyed that. But I think the main up... high for this season was actually seeing you in this country and having you come over for the week even though it was only a week it was it was lovely to see you and it flew by and i feel the same way i mean i i still have

such wonderful memories of that time it was just a really exciting time for me to go back to the old country and see you and meet your family and be able to spend time with everybody it was just and the amount of things we packed in You are quite the host. It was great. I was in super shape by the time we'd done some great walking and saw a lot of different places. And I still remember going and putting on the... centurion costume yes in york yes

Yes. And York, and taking some pictures of that, that was fun. And of course, going to London and recording. Yes, of course, we met everyone there. We met Sarah Golding, Fiona Thrail was there, Kareem Cronfly was there, and many others. It was a lovely, lovely recording session. A brilliant time. Yeah, those were the three that I had always known. And then there were a bunch of new people that I had not met before. So that was very cool. We had a really good time.

And of course, your old alma mater as well. That was a wonderful time. And the special dinner we had that Friday night. That was cool. That was really cool. Are you going to go back and do another one? It was, what, 21 years? It's like a high meal. Yeah. High meal. A formal dinner. You get to have, like, two a year. Yeah, formal dinner. You get to have two a year, you said, or something, don't you? Three a year, yes. Three a year. One per term, but living... And you haven't...

been able to go and do that so living up uh away from cambridge does kind of seclude it so that's unfortunately uh the reason why i haven't done it it made sense to take someone who would never usually get to do that plus someone who would appreciate...

being able to go to a formal dinner to such an event. So yes, it was lovely. We met some interesting people there. That was fun. Yeah, no, it was a really good time. I can't go on enough about the fun people that we met. You know, the very first night I was... exhausted and we still met your partner at shadows at the door yes and some other people there too yeah mark and kareem was there and lou yeah oh yeah kareem came down too yeah oh my god i got to see kareem twice that was wonderful

Well, we did. Yes, it was really lovely of him to come along all the way up north. That was a long drive for him. Yeah. I know it's nothing for an American or a Canadian to do, but most of the country for us.

Yeah, I drive an hour and 15 minutes one way at least every day. Some days much more than that. It's what I do to keep my beautiful place out in the country. That being said, I also wanted to say that I'm really thrilled that... this year this past year i've gotten to write and produce more than i normally have there were times that i might have only gotten a single show out for a year and that really frustrated me but uh i got some some fun stuff out a lot of retro

rockets episodes which was a new anthology that i started i really thrilled with my take on the war of the worlds and how that came out yep and then just recently i had you know two other shows and i just got off a Zoom meeting last night in fact with Scott Mosher to get going on Wingman. I'm going to be sending you some lines.

because you're playing the bad guy in that. I am? Spoilers. Yes. Well, it's not spoilers when you listen to the show. From the very beginning, you're a bad dude. But you're going to have to come back, because I think you'll end up.

end up going to jail by the end of this six serial season. That's spoilers. But I'm hoping to be able to do six episodes, 15, 20 minutes the whole time, but I've already mostly cast everybody. Yeah, I just... want you to do your typical villainous English banker criminal.

you know, a little highbrow for wingman. Is this where I cry stereotype? Stereotype. Typecasting. That's right. That's right. For sure. There was an interesting little, I know we're short on time, but there's an interesting little video I watched where they were saying why is it that men of class and and panache are just no longer in

as heroes anymore in movies. They were talking about the David Niven-style character in movies back in the day. You don't see them unless they are villains, right? And they kind of brought up the idea that in the 60s, you know the the upstarts you know the blue collar upstart heroes sort of came up and sort of made fun of all of those people but it's too bad because they had something special and I've got I've certainly got a couple of shows that I want

to be able to feature that kind of personality again. So it was nice to see the video on that. That was kind of cool. Yes, I suppose it's partly that it wasn't blue-collar workers that caused the financial crises. It was men in suits with... good accents and and they are the ones that have also made the best out of that sort of crisis so i think there's a certain amount of deserving but oh absolutely i think we make a fatal error if we go too far the other way and not recognize that

that you can't tire everyone with the same brush. For sure. So what are you thinking about for Summerstock? Are you looking forward to anything this year? Are you going to produce something yourself? Not at this late stage in the game, I don't think. Yeah, I can't remember the last time you did something for something like that. It could have been the Telltale Heart. Oh, yes. But I don't think I produced that. I just recorded it. recorded it. Okay. I'm trying to remember.

It's been a while. That's my main point. It's been a while. Do you have anything that you're writing that you want to produce yourself? Are you just stuck in acting mode? I've said plenty of times that I think writing is something where you...

put your antenna up into the universe and things strike you and you download them onto the screen or onto the page. And I haven't done that for a while.

so um people people give me a hard time when i tell them that but that's exactly true like i will tell people quite honestly that i am the first audience member for any of the stories that i come up with because i just sit there and i watch them and it's like the shakespeare one that I'm right now just taking a quick break from I'm in the middle of the third act it came to me in 20 seconds

The entire play just downloaded into my brain. I was in between two classes, a grade 10 class. I don't normally do Shakespeare back-to-back with two different classes, but... This time it just worked out that I was doing Midsummer Night's Dream with grade 11s and 12th Night with grade 10s. And I think I just finished the 12th night and I had five minutes in between class. And I got up from my computer chair and I didn't take two steps before I went, oh.

Oh, and then this happens. Oh, and then this happens. Oh, and then this. And then I started writing down the notes. And the more I talked about it, the clearer it came out. But the whole thing was there. And so that happens a lot. And I think it's a real question as to where do ideas come from? Yes. I know it's a thing people ask writers all the time and writers hate answering. But I think even Robert E. Howard used to say that he wasn't.

creating Conan stories as much as he was retelling a different past that he remembers kind of thing. I think the universe is a lot weirder than materialists give it credit for. Yeah, I consider myself, I think... they're called idealists or something the idea the ideists or whatever um i'm not as much of a materialist as much as i i'm much more of a max plank fan of everything is fundamentally thought i think at this

and ideas. But we're getting far afield. If we're going to make it to Summerstock, we better get through tonight's show. Absolutely. Well, I've arranged our final coordinates in the Realm Nebula from the Shadowfile...

of Morgan Knox. Morgan Knox can see the darkness coming but that may not be enough to stop it from destroying the world. In 1930s Manhattan a Latina private detective is posthumously hired by a man hoping to solve his own murder. Morgan Knox is just the right investigator for the job. Ever since her experience in World War I left her with the ability to see paranormal phenomena, she's had one foot in the shadows and another in the real world.

through the city, Knox battles more forces beyond human sight. Corruption, greed, and temptation have taken Manhattan by storm, and if she isn't careful, she could be the darkness's next victim. The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox is a Realm production written by K. Arseneau. And Season 20's final feature begins right here on the Sonic Society. March.

1933. The City. Morgan Knox clocks her perp the second he walks into the office. The service uniform isn't fooling anyone. No normal man walks like that. No 9 to 5 Jack or John praying his boss croaks tomorrow morning. Too much weight on his right side stride. Dark stains at the cuff of his borrowed delivery man uniform. A hat pulled down close enough to conceal.

but not totally hide, the burn scars consuming half his face. Morgan Knox knows those scars, and she knows this man. For the past three months, she's been tracking him on his murder spree across the city. She knows the pocket on his right holds a Colt government model. She knows that pistol is semi-automatic. She knows it fires seven rounds. And she knows that, with years of SIS training behind him,

John Craddock will only need one each to kill her and the client she'd been visiting. He's probably got his hand around it already. But she also knows one more thing. The Colt government has a safety. The detective special in her pocket doesn't even have a trigger guard. It's in her hand the moment she has the thought. Her finger's on the trigger. She fires. Blood spurts from his thigh.

Red rain on the hardwood floors. A jolt of adrenaline hits her. Right through the quad. All she has to do is wait for him to double over. But Craddock does no such thing. His eyes dart from his injury to Knox. There aren't many places to go. This private study might be spacious, but it has only one exit. One that Morgan and her client Sivarek now block.

She expects... well, she expected him to fall. But failing that, she expects him to try to shove her aside. Instead, Craddock bolts for the twin bay windows overlooking the glittering, benighted city. Stop, she shouts. But it's no use. Before she's gotten that single syllable out, Craddock's already crossed both arms in front of his face and crashed through the right-hand window.

Shards of glass fall, like shattered stars, onto the snowy cobblestone streets of Manhattan. Like all the other dreams the city swallows whole, the fragments are filthy the moment they touch the ground. splashing in the clogged gutters, burying themselves in the ruined white atop heaps of trash no one bothers to claim. If it weren't for the man landing with a grunt and a curse, the passersby might not even take notice.

But Morgan can see him land from here. See the cold wind whip the edges of his uniform. Feel it bite against her skin. He lands. He stands. He starts to run. Realm Presents, The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox. Episode 1 Can you change your personality? How does peer pressure work? Should you ever really trust your gut? These are just a few of the topics we've recently tackled on my podcast, Something You Should Know.

It's a podcast where leading experts give you valuable intel that you can use in your life today. I'm the host, Mike Carruthers, and with over 1,000 episodes and over 4,000 mostly five-star reviews, I invite you to check out Something You Should Know, wherever you listen. The cold March wind whips through her black trench coat. She hadn't even taken it off before Craddock came up to interrupt her meeting. Probably for the best now.

The window's three stories up. The jagged remnants sharp and slick with a killer's blood. But Knox doesn't hesitate to chase after him. Landing's rougher than she remembers it being the last time she threw herself out a window. But then everything's rougher these days. At least she remembered to roll. She's on her feet in an instant. Eyes on the prize.

Bruises and a little pain don't stop her from pounding her way down the alleys of the glass and concrete maze she calls home. In her haste, she skids on unseen ice. It's only a wild windmilling of her arms that allows her to keep her balance, and colliding against a man slumping his way home from a local watering hole. Rounding the corner, she can see him, the rough-hewn murderer.

That cut in the meager midnight crowd has got to be him. But he's already gotten too much of a lead thanks to her little mishap. A week's worth of the right questions in the right ear. Two months of following dead leads in hope of something greater. Three bodies bleeding out onto the pavement, their heads cracked open like summer melons. All worthless if this man gets away.

Shoving her way past two women enjoying a night on the town, she sights her quarry jump one car and then another, taking off down an alley. Up ahead, the twin arches of the Brooklyn Bridge loom like the doors of some unseen castle. No, not a castle. A sanctuary. Shit. Tires screech. Her nerves leap, and she reaches, out of reflex, for the cool weight of her revolver.

Thankfully, half a heartbeat is all it takes for her to recognize Abe Moskowitz's grizzled mug behind the wheel. The old taxi driver doesn't blink. Get in. Morgan throws herself into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. Abe peels off like he's done this a dozen times before. And maybe that's because he has. The bridge, she says. He makes it to Brooklyn, and we're never going to find him. Then he ain't gonna make it to Brooklyn.

Abe says. He doesn't need to tell Morgan to hang on tight. She's already well familiar with the Moskowitz school of careening down city streets. The cobblestones rumbling beneath them sent her teeth chattering. You should give a gal some warning before you go running her off the sidewalk. And maybe you ought to be more aware of your surroundings. I could have been anybody more... There! Momentum tosses her against the door as she catches sight of him again.

Park terminal. He's really making for the bridge, isn't he? Abe floors it. Abe, she says. The terminal. They're scattering. It'll be fine. Morgan reaches over and slams the horn. It's just barely enough, and Abe's Plymouth sedan narrowly fits onto the pedestrian walkway. Wood groans as the cab charges up the winding terminal ramps. The moment they crest the ramp, she throws open the door and jumps.

Abe's shouting behind her, but she can hardly hear him over the boat horns and the distant wail of police sirens. For the second time that night, she lands in a roll and springs to her feet, her muscles groaning with effort. Where has he gone? Where is Craddock? He should be here somewhere, running to those sanctuary doors. How small a man seems in comparison to that triumph of engineering. The arches, the cobblestone...

The cables beguile her. The howl of police sirens. The rumble of the train. The cacophony of ten thousand lives lived in close proximity. Shadows shift like curtains in the bitter winter wind.

Perched atop the bridge, there is an unknowable darkness, a slick behemoth of dread, whose body she cannot see, and yet whose very essence she knows well. Here is hatred. Here is wrath. blocking out the stars, the moon, the glittering life of the city itself. The giant reaches with its myriad wriggling hands for the suspension cables. Morgan squeezes her eyes shut.

Deep breaths only seem to bring the chaos around her deep into her lungs, but she has no choice. Not now. Please, not now. When she opens her eyes, all of this is going to be gone. A whole precinct's probably tearing their way through the city after him. The financial district's packed with cops even in the middle of the night. And if she lets this murderer get away, what is she going to say to them?

She takes a breath. There. By the first pylon. The man with all the scars. Craddock. From the ragged look of his breathing, he can't keep this sprint going much longer. It's now or never. Nox raises her pistol. No one wants to get caught between a dame with a gun and a man with scars like that. It's a lot more expensive to be a hero after the crash.

The lonely souls walking the bridge in the middle of the night aren't willing to pay that price. Nox grits her teeth. The dripping trail of blood at the man's feet tells her all she needs to know. She has to hand it to him. It's impressive the way he managed to run like that with a bullet in his leg. But this ends here. Shadows paint Craddock's scars with a malicious brush.

His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. Moonlight washes out what little color he has remaining. And the snow coating the walkways only serves to make him paler. But there's a ferocity in him that surprises her. Maybe it's the way he's baring his teeth. That lopsided snarl. Craddock's lost a lot of the world already. Morgan takes a step forward. Craddock reaches for his pistol. He thinks he's quick, but she's quicker.

The shot hits the weapon before he can raise it. Impact sends it tumbling out of his hand. He clutches his wrist. Do you have any idea what you're doing? Bringing you in, Nox answers. Go for the gun again and see where that gets you. His good eye meets hers. In the dark of night, it's hard to tell what color it is. But she remembers. She's read his records. Blue.

Idly, she wonders if it is the blue of the sky, the blue of the sea, or the blue of a cop's shabby uniform. Doesn't matter, does it? As she takes another step forward... He takes a clumsy swipe at her. Nox doesn't even have to sway very much to avoid it. You're playing right into their hands. Do you have any idea what you're doing? Craddock rasps.

He spits, dark, onto the boards. Whose hands? she asks. She has to shout to be heard. The cold air strains her throat. Victor DeWitton's? Gloria Harwell? Tommy Corbin's? Stop me if these names sound familiar. He laughs. She senses Abe coming up behind them. Morgan can't spare him a glance. If she looks away, Craddock's going to jump right into the glassy waters of the East River.

but she waves him back with her free hand. The other clutches Kresnik's old revolver tight. Sweat trickles down Craddock's brow. He sways again, but there's something off about it. With a sinking feeling, Morgan realizes why. He's wandering closer to the gun, turning half away from her. Another shot will kill him. Craddock! She shouts. On a cold night in March, New York's finest shoot John Craddock in the chest.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after, the paper's going to spin it like a gangster movie. But tonight, there's nothing glamorous about it. The shot, fired by a marksman out the window of his squad car, lands as clean as any bullet can. Craddock staggers backward. His one eye goes wide. His mouth hangs open as he reaches for something to brace himself. Reaches for her. Morgan Knox is running the second she hears the shot. She has to catch him. He knows it, too. She has to catch him.

So he reaches for her. But John Craddock's blood-slicked hands are the end of him. His fingers smear red onto her brown skin in the precious second before he falls. She watches. It takes him three seconds to fall. A splash of white against the black. A shadow quickly fading. That's all that remains. She is left standing on the very edge of the bridge.

Wind howls in her ears. She can't hear anything, let alone the remonstrations of officers too quick to pull the trigger and too slow to understand. Three months. Three months she'd been. Abe's hand lands on her shoulder. He was always going to jump. Morgan trades her gun for the pack of Lucky Strikes in her pocket. Too late, she realizes she smeared Craddock's blood on her pocket. Maybe.

My name is Troy the Valley and I'm the host of the glass cannon podcast. This is a podcast where my friends and I sit around and play role playing games and record it through improvisation using comedy and drama. We take the rules of whatever game we're playing and we turn it into a. So please, check it out, the Glass Cannon podcast, if you want some joy in your life.

Give it a listen. The Warning Woods has haunting horror stories that are sure to linger with you long after listening. I'm Miles Tridel, 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.

Hello, hello. I'm Malik. I'm Jamie. And this is World Gone Wrong, where we discuss the unprecedented times we're living through. Can your manager still schedule you for night shifts after that werewolf bit you? My ex-boyfriend was replaced by an alien body snatcher.

but I think I like him better now. Who is this dude showing up in everyone's old pictures? My friend says the sewer alligators are reading maps now. When did the kudzu start making that humming sound? We are just your normal millennial roommates processing our feelings about a chaotic world. in front of some microphones. World Gone Wrong, a new fiction podcast from Audacious Machine Creative, creators of Unwell, a Midwestern Gothic mystery.

Learn more at audaciousmachinecreative.com. Find World Gone Wrong in all the regular places you find podcasts. I love you so much. I mean, you could like up the energy a little bit. You could up the energy. I actually don't take notes. That was good. I'm just kidding. You sounded great. So did you. Kresnik always used to tell her that the second most important thing about detective work was getting paid. Doesn't matter if you solve the case or don't, he'd say.

A bloom of red across his bulbous nose. You do everything you can, and then they pay you everything they can. That's how it works. Never let them stiff you. At the time, it seemed to Morgan the pessimistic ramblings of a man far removed from reality. Kresnik had given up hope long ago. You could see it in the stack of cases he swore he'd get around to if you gave him more time.

In the cracked paint of his office, in the bottles emptied like offerings to unseen gods. The first time she met him, she told herself she'd never let things get that bad. But the city makes even those choices for you sometimes. And sometimes you let a cigarette drop from your fingertips in the middle of the street, too exhausted by the night to care where it might land. Morgan Knox looks up at the building in front of her.

Volkan Sivarek runs the Odessa Club, some sort of private society for book lovers. Bibliophiles, they call themselves. Craddock's last three victims had all been members. She'd been asking Sivarek some questions. when Craddock tried to kill him. Sivarek wanted answers. She's got only one to give him. It'll have to be enough. Smoke still clings to her blood-spattered coat as she lets herself into Sivarek's office.

It's almost one in the morning, but there's still a secretary sitting pretty at the desk, young and blonde, her hair curling up at the ends. She smiles as Morgan walks by. There are no dark circles beneath her eyes. No red lines. No signs that this schedule bothers her at all. No signs that any of the commotions troubled her either. She's got one of those faces Morgan swears she's seen before. Like Ingrid Bergman's long-lost sister.

Welcome back to the Odessa Club, Miss Knox. Knox doesn't answer her. Up the stairs, with their marble handrails. Second office on the right. The smell of old books and fresh coffee gives Sivarek away. even if there's no nameplate on the mahogany door. Two raps to warn him she's coming, the sound echoing down the empty halls. Ah, Miss Knox, he says. Come in.

The detective in her can't fail to note how casual he sounds about all of this. She files it away, along with the scant other details she's gotten. Seventy years old, a slightly stooped 5'10", maybe 150 pounds. Hairs mostly white, thin, and light, a bit like spun sugar. Likes his coffee, dark and very strong, and likes it at all hours of the night. The nurse in her notices the knobbiness of his joints.

His pale fingernail beds. His quizzical demeanor. The sort of man who read an article in the Times the other day about just this procedure and thinks that trumps her years of education. The sort of man who thinks her Puerto Rican education... Doesn't count for much at all. He rises as she closes the door behind her. She hopes he won't offer to pull out her chair. May I get you a seat? Morgan tries not to wince.

Thank you, but I think I'll stand. There's old-world hospitality in his gesture toward the carafe. Makes her think of Spaniards. The islander in her rankles at the thought. Some coffee. Then. I'm trying to keep a better eye on my sleep. I wasn't aware that you did sleep, Miss Knox. Craddock's dead. Back in her days as a nurse, she'd gotten complaints about her bedside manner.

She made no apologies. When someone's dying, people don't want you to sugarcoat their odds. The same goes for detective work. Sivarek's cup clinks against the saucer. By your hand? No. She says. I tailed him to the bridge. I was going to call her him and get some answers. It didn't work out that way. The city likes to pride itself on being a melting pot, but not everything melts the same way.

Some people don't like when it's a woman who follows up on their case, let alone a woman as dark and curly-haired as her. They study her just the way Sivarek's studying her now. Why not? I didn't get to him quick enough. Says Nox. But you shot him in the leg, didn't you? Sivarek answers. An injury like that. Surely he wasn't quite so fleet of foot. Fleet of foot.

What else would she expect from a rare book collector? It stopped him on the bridge. But you weren't able to catch him. I was not, she says, the answer coming quick and harsh. But when I came here earlier, you weren't able to answer any of my questions. Craddock's killed three members of the Odessa Club in the past three months. All carefully planned. All deliberate. All from a distance.

Yet you're sitting here, as calm as can be, with a cup of midnight coffee and a vague smile. I find that kind of funny, don't you? Sivarek keeps sipping from his coffee. She puts one hand on either side of his cup. Leaning over the desk. What's a trained SIS sniper doing picking off a bunch of old book lovers? When I cornered him, he kept rambling in a way that made me think I wasn't seeing the whole picture. She pauses.

Sivarek's eyes are a little narrowed, a hint of a smile on his face. But you don't look very surprised to hear that. Just like you didn't seem surprised when he interrupted us earlier. All the others he shot from a distance... But you aren't surprised he came to see you personally? Miss Knox, says Sivarek. This man. Kredok, did you say his name was?

Doubtless wanted the answers to some of his life's darker mysteries. Perhaps he thought my old books, as you called them, would help. So he killed three book collectors, Nock says. It isn't adding up. Grey's anatomy isn't going to tell him what's wrong with him. She thinks of what Kresnik would do in this situation. Pistol whip the old man and demand the truth, then take his payment from Sivarek's discarded billfold.

That isn't how she operates. Sometimes, though, she wishes that it could be. That small smile spreads across Sivarek's face. Grey's Anatomy.

Miss Knox, I think you know precisely the sort of answers he was looking for. No, I don't, or else I wouldn't be... I had my secretary look into you, he says, an army nurse during the Great War. No? You spent the majority of your tour in France with the pit fighters? Knox has been speaking Spanish and English all her life. Sivarek seems like he picked up English pretty early on, too. A mistake like that isn't the stumbling of a bilingual brain. It is a purposeful slight. The Harlem Hellfighters.

Some of the best men I ever met. Yes, yes, I'm sure, he says. That smile again. That was a war of nations. The war to end all wars. And France, well, so much ended in France in those days. She stiffens. France was good to her, and good to them. Better than the States. She still has friends over there. We're not here to talk about the war. But Craddock was. I find that war clings to the soul in much the same way ink clings to paper.

This credoc might have thought I had a way to wash those stains away, to give him a blank page. He stands. Cases of books frame him in black and green leather, in brown and gold backings. His eyes wander among them as he strokes his beard. Morgan looks to the window. Someone swept up Craddock's bloodied glass already. Sivarek doesn't seem bothered by the cold.

Outside, the city's restless night continues. More sirens. The shriek of a violinist desperate to eke out another meal. She focuses on these things, and not on the wailing that haunts her nights. Not on the faces drained of blood and will. Not the gory stumps. Not those six eternal months of waiting for the next calamity. Nor does she think of the visions that led her to Craddock in the first place.

Bones streaked in oily black. A man missing half his face. Four dead bodies locked in some macabre ritual. Sivarek doesn't need to know any of that. Can't know any of that. I don't have much time. I am being transported by the Ecclesiast vessel Markava to stand trial for heresy of the highest order. But I will not renounce my work. And to my last breath, I will speak the truth of this plague-ridden world.

that ours is not a loving god, and we are not its favored children. The Heresies of Radolf Buntwein Chapter 2, now available throughout the known world. DC High Volume, Batman. The Dark Knight's definitive DC comic stories. Adapted directly for audio for the very first time. Fear. I have to make them afraid. He's got a motorcycle. Get after him or I'll have you shot. You mean blow up the building. From this moment on, none of you are safe.

New episodes every Wednesday, wherever you get your podcasts. A detective is always in search of an answer. You're no exception, are you? That is what drove you to the profession in the first place. And yet you didn't join the storied ranks of the police. You chose to work independently. Is that because of your background, Ms. Knox?

or because your people know the weight of a government yoke. I'm not here to talk about politics, Knox says. Not with a man who uses phrases like your people, anyway. Then why are you here? Sivarek asks. He turns, smiling still. Your quarry is dead. You've informed me. Are you here for payment? Name your price and you may have it. I am good to those who are good to me. And yet you have not brought that matter up yourself, only questioned me. This is fast setting Knox's teeth on edge.

Maybe she should have just asked for the payment and put all this behind her, but she can't. I don't think this is over. Sivarek nods. Neither do I. Knox is itching for another cigarette. She resorts to tapping her finger on a nearby armchair instead. I don't think he acted alone. To know that you would be here in the middle of the night to come after you the way he did...

This was personal. Someone gave him the key to the service entrance. Indeed, says Sivarek. And it would have to be someone you know, she says. So all of this talk about the war, about wanting answers, don't the people close to you already have them? I am not so open as you might imagine. A collector's most prized possessions are those he really speaks of, after all. Sivirag answers. There are those in the Odessa Club who long to know the things I know and to see the things that I have seen.

I imagine this Kredok was working for one of them. His own lust for answers fell in line with his benefactors, who saw in him a useful idiot. And so here we are. I'll need names, Nox says. Your biggest fans. I'll need to speak to all of them. Don't hold any meetings for a while, either. Do you have anywhere else you can stay? Many places.

He does not elaborate. The silence is at least preferable to the lecturing. Good. Go to one and stay there while I look into this, she says. So you will continue to work, he says. Continue to look for your own answers? I don't have much choice otherwise, Nox says. I have a hunch this is going to get worse before it gets better.

Whoever's holding Craddock's leash is going to be mad their bulldog's been put down. A hunch, Sivarek repeats. He returns to his coffee. Your hunches, do they drive your work? My secretary found all sorts of articles about you. A psychic detective. That phrase is like a knife against the chalkboard of her mind. It's all she can do not to snap at him. I wondered...

Do you hear the voices of the dead, Miss Knox? Funny. The doctors always jump to her hearing voices, too. But it isn't as simple as that. It's seeing blood dripping from the mouth of a man in the subway. Its shadows twisting into sharp knives and thick ropes. Its rotting flesh consuming the faces of those she loves. Things no one else sees.

And when she tells them that there's a man eating from a hollowed-out skull in broad daylight? She's committed. For weeks. When she gets out, he's already been arrested for murder. But no one will remember the woman raving about it in the precinct before it happened. Kresnik said the second most important part of detective work was getting paid. The third was finding answers.

But some things you aren't meant to know the answer to, he said, and it's better not to look. He said that to her a week before he died. She told him that she understood, but in truth... She couldn't disagree more. Ever since the war, the answers have been coming to find her. The truth's not something you can hide from. At least not for long. But it is something she doesn't want to talk about with a man like Sivarek.

We'll need to talk payment. His shoulder sinks. His smirk fades. He reaches into his smoking jacket for a checkbook. She watches him sign it. A big loopy signature demanding attention. and finds herself staring at the liver spots on his hands as he tears it free and holds it out to her. I find it's easier if you name your own price, he says. She realizes then that the check's blank.

It isn't about the money. Morgan takes it all the same. The check sits pretty next to the gun Kresnik's widow gave him all those years ago. The gun she pulled on Craddock tonight. Thank you, she says. I'll be in touch. See that you are, says Sivarek. My life is in your hands, Miss Knox. The night-darkened streets welcome her as they always have.

Abe's waiting outside to ask how things went, but she isn't keen on talking either. Not tonight. When she shuts her eyes, she can see Craddock's face. His outstretched hand. When she opens them... She can see the serpents wrapped around his waist, pulling him down into the river. You're listening to The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox. Narrated by Pilar Uribe. Produced by Realm. Your portal to another world. Realm. Listen away.

Oh, hey there. It's a promo for a podcast. Great. Exactly what you want to hear when you're settling down to listen to the podcast you actually want to listen to. Well, give me just a few seconds and then you can go listen to whatever it is you're listening to, your true crime podcast host.

by former child actors or reality stars, whatever it is. My name is Troy LaValle and I'm the host of the Glass Cannon Podcast. This is a podcast where my friends and I sit around and play role-playing games and record it through improvisation, using...

Comedy and drama, we take the rules of whatever game we're playing and we turn it into appointment television. That's the best way I can explain it. It truly is infectious fun. We travel the whole country playing rock clubs, turning games like this into a spectacular game. So please, check it out, the Glass Cannon Podcast. If you want some joy in your life, give it a listen.

All right, girls, this is the place. We'll get everything loaded over to the boat, and we'll lock up the truck. Don't leave anything behind. Wait, is that it? That's where we're going? Yeah, that's it. Seal Skin Rock. Wow. Return to the mysteries in Don't Mind, Seal Skin Rock. Subscribe now to catch the premiere, and we'll see you on The Rock.

The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox is written by Kay Arsenault Rivera, Brooke Bolander, Gabino Iglesias, and Sonny Moraine. Produced by Marco Palmieri and executive produced by Molly Barton. Audio production, sound design, editing, and theme music by Amanda Rose Smith.

And that's this week's show. Thank you all and everyone for another fantastic season. See you all next week at Sonic Summerstalk. And thank you, David, for continuing your adventures right here with me and for being the Sonic Summerstalk host. I'm so grateful, as I say every year, that we are friends and that we get a chance to do this together. This is really the best. It's always a pleasure, Jack, and it all began right here a few years ago on the Sonic Society.