A Strange Incident At Jon's Apartment

Welcome, friend. Follow me. We're going somewhere dark, somewhere dangerous. Most people would never dare enter the place we are going. There's no telling what horrors we'll find, what terrors we'll uncover. We might discover terrible monsters lurking there. Be careful. They could follow you out. Or maybe they're already inside you. Are you a foot? Good. Now you are ready to enter the warning woods.

The familiar aroma of Jonathan Cadwell's apartment wafted into the hallway when he opened the door. He dragged his oversized suitcase, which still smelled of salt water and sea breeze, inside, combining the aromas of his two worlds. He'd just returned from the greatest experience of his life: diving from a Sinastav research vessel off the coast of the East Cape of Baja, cataloging wildlife, studying behaviors. He became a marine biologist for precisely such experiences.

Sure his associate professorship at Cal Poly paid the bills, and sure he enjoyed passing his knowledge and passion down to the next generation. Okay, his students weren't that far removed from him. But watching lively creatures most human beings will never set eyes on in their natural habitats was what he truly lived for. Down there, he felt like he didn't even need to breathe, despite the heavy oxygen tank on his back.

but back on land, he did need to breathe, and eat, and sleep. Sleep is what he most needed when he arrived home. He left his suitcase in front of the T V and walked unencumbered into his bedroom. Hey Sierra, he said to the California king snake hanging from her favorite log in her terrarium on top of his dresser. Sierra's head lifted toward him. He pressed his nose against the glass. Did you miss me, girl? I missed you, yes I did. Bet you'll be hungry pretty soon, huh?

Sierra's nose tapped the other side of the glass. John, smiling, opened the top and gently dislodged his beloved snake from her perch. He held her in front of his face and gave the top of her head a gentle kiss before putting her back on the log and the lid back on top of the terrarium. People frequently asked John why he kept a pet snake if ocean life was his passion, and he would always ask, Don't you have a hobby?

Kicking off his shoes as he unbuttoned his shirt, he said, I know, I know, it's only 213. But do you know what a four-hour delay on your connecting flight feels like? For you, it's probably a lot like eating one of those big rats. Yeah, you know the ones I'm talking about. I'll get you one, uh well, tomorrow's too early. He yawned. Day after tomorrow, okay? He kicked off his pants and laid down. He stretched out on his

mattress, burying his ears in his pillow that no hotel pillow could ever match. He muttered while closing his eyes, one of the big yummy ones. Then he fell asleep. A sound woke John from a beautiful dream in which he floated still enough near a coral cave to draw an octopus near. The thudding sound, which he first debated whether came from his dream or reality, woke him, just as the octopus. Octopus had been about to touch his face.

What time is it? he murmured, feeling on his nightstand for his phone. Of course it wasn't on his nightstand. He'd never taken it out of his pocket, and his pants lay just out of reach. Standing drained some of the fog out of his head, and he whispered to Sierra, It's the middle of the night. Who cares what time it is? What the heck was that?

He looked for light and the crack under the door as he listened for any more sounds, even tiny ones like someone's low breath as they waited for him to step out of the room, groggy and blind. He saw nothing and heard nothing, but still waited and listened, just in case. Hang on, no, I'm gonna need this, he whispered, walking already bent over toward his pants.

Rather than taking out his phone, he decided to put the pants on, whispering again, I'm not getting murdered in my underwear. His shirt, too much work. He left it on the floor. Now properly dressed for a midnight flirtation with Death, he slowly opened the door. It swung silently at first, but as John knew to expect, one of the hinges made a grinding noise shortly before the door opened wide enough for him to fit through.

Did it echo? Or was its shrill tone just repeating over and over in his head? He thought it sounded loud enough to be either. Right away he saw the source of the thudding sound that woke him. His suitcase tipped on its side in the dark living room, the front flap open, half his belongings scattered on the floor in the moonlight cut by his blinds. He shouted. Get out! I'm calling the police right now.

He backed into his room and shut the door, putting his weight against it. He opened his phone to dial 911, pressed 91, then stopped. He held his breath and listened, praying to hear the sound of someone exiting his apartment. He pressed the final one, but waited to hit the call button. Before he had a dispatcher's voice in his ear, he needed to put one of his other senses on guard duty.

Keeping most of his body behind the door in case somebody came charging through the darkness, he opened it just wide enough to peer through with one eye. He saw the suitcase. He saw his passport and, lying on top of a pile of rolled socks, his iPad. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could see clearer. His garment watch sticking out from under a shirt, the noise canceling Bo's headphones his dad had given him for Christmas, knowing he had a few flights in his near future.

Everything he owned of value lay there amongst his worthless clothes. A new theory, one which made him even more hesitant to call the emergency number, unraveled in his mind. He'd partially opened the suitcase down at his car to put the thermos he'd been drinking from on the drive home inside it. Maybe he'd forgotten to zip it back up. Maybe something inside it had shifted during the night and forced the zipper the rest of the way open. Then the suitcase tipped over as everything spilled out.

During the time he spent processing this possibility, he heard no other sounds in the apartment and saw nothing move. He deleted the numbers from his phone and opened his bedroom door all the way. This time he reached around the wall and flipped on the living room light. He prematurely winced at something he expected but never came, a sudden movement or loud noise, perhaps. But in the yellow light, all remained still and quiet.

He crept out of his room until he could see his front door, see the deadbolt's thumb turn pointed toward the doorframe, which meant it was locked. He noted his keys on the kitchen counter, which meant he'd not accidentally left them in the lockset after coming into his apartment, which he'd embarrassingly done on a few previous occasions. The only other potential entry point was his living room window, but he lived on the third floor, and besides, it was locked.

Just in case, he searched his small apartment, opening the front closet, even checking under the kitchen sink. The longer he searched, the more he convinced himself of his theory about leaving the suitcase partly unzipped. He stopped in front of his strewn belongings to pick them up, but he suddenly felt exhausted again. He decided to leave the mess until morning and went back to bed.

Again, the dream about the octopus colored his sleep in soothing blues, vibrant reds and oranges, and the warm rumbling pulse of water all around him. The octopus came toward him again. He identified his approaching friend as a Caribbean reef octopus. A species advanced in its ability to change color to match its surroundings, but now it wore its neutral white spots on its red skin.

Did it know their eyes were meeting through John's diving mask? He felt like it did. He felt like they were communicating, but never considered what messages he was sending or receiving. He felt their connection, and that was enough. If an intruder had entered his apartment and found him asleep then, they might have been scared off by the ecstatic grin on his sleeping face. It was wide enough to show teeth. The octopus reached him, and one of its flat, broad tentacles petted his face.

A few suction cups tugged at his wetsuit, making him laugh. At full length, its tentacles made the octopus nearly as large as him. One sucker found the minuscule portion of exposed cheek between his hood and his mask. It felt like a kiss. This woke John, the passing sensation seeming far too real. He jolted upright, still feeling the waning touch on his cheek. Sunlight cut a fan through his blinds. His eyes fell randomly on the body length mirror mounted to his closet door facing his bed.

For only a fraction of a second, he said. He saw shimmering movement near the floor in the reflection. His carpet waved like hot pavement. He stared at that place in the mirror until he knew for certain the anomaly wasn't a trick of the light or his bleary eyes. It's like ice, he thought, like the thinnest ice that ever existed. At about the same moment he decided it was real, the shimmering retracted under his bed.

Did you see that, Sierra? He asked the snake. Sierra watched him with her unsettlingly wise black eyes. John said, Oh, you think I'm seeing things now? His main problem, not what he'd seen, but where he'd seen it go, made blood thump in his head. Also, his bladder ached.

It was so full it actually hurt when he partially rolled over to reach his phone, causing him to grunt as he picked it up. He listened intently because he surely must have alerted whatever lurked beneath him that he was awake. But when no sound came, He opened his phone camera, pressed record, then held the phone so the lens could see under his bed, but his hand remained safely behind the box spring.

He tilted the phone back and forth, then pulled it back up. He reviewed the footage of his dress shoe boxes and a puzzle he'd been meaning to frame for two years, He saw nothing lurking down there with them. The footage provided enough comfort to allow him to get up and waddle to the bathroom. En träfigeskiva över skyltfönstret hjälper lite. Ivs företagsförsäkring hjälper mycket. Frab Darkest corners of our imagination. Comes a game. Ridiculous than terrifying. Welcome to Tickled to Death.

I'm your host, Roz Hernandez, and I'll be guiding guests through the creepy questions and chaotic games, all to win the ultimate title of horror movie champion. Death wherever you get your podcasts and hit follow unless you want the show. He returned feeling much more agile and dropped to all fours to look under his bed.

Yeah, yeah, you can laugh all you want, but somebody's gotta keep you safe, beautiful, he told Sierra. You're lucky to have somebody who will make a fool out of himself like this. He used his phone for its flashlight this time. Besides some cobwebs in the corner, which hadn't been touched since he moved in six years before, he didn't see anything. Until, that is, he noticed something thin and brownish white on the carpet behind one of his shoe boxes. It looked like and it was

Strip of the inside of a banana peel. He pushed the shoebox aside, asking Sierra, Did you sneak out and steal a banana last night? That's so not like you. Behind the box, as if hidden there by a Naughty child rested an empty banana peel peeled only along one side, and even that only part way down. It had almost entirely browned, but some yellow still outlined its spots. John retracted it.

His hand. He hadn't eaten a banana in the apartment since before he left. Any peel that had been there long enough to have come from him should have looked like leather. This banana peel couldn't have been more than a couple of hours old, and that was being generated.

generous considering how old the bananas in his kitchen must have been at that point. The earliest this one could have been eaten, John surmised, assuming of course it had come from his kitchen, would have been right around the time he'd been woken up earlier. He took a big whiff after he noticed a slightly fishy smell mixed with the sickly sweet smell of overripe banana.

After a few more sniffs, he convinced himself his downstairs neighbor was cooking some fish for lunch. After all, it was almost noon. He stood, pulled sweatpants out of his dresser and a shirt from his closet, then went to examine his apartment closer in the daylight. He started in the kitchen, checking his wire fruit basket. A single banana remained on top of a cluster of oranges. Strange, because he thought there were at least two bananas left.

He'd considered throwing them away before he left for his trip. Had there only been one left, he probably would have just eaten it on his way out the door. So what, someone had snuck in and all they did was eat an old banana?

He heard something hiss along the carpet behind him and pivoted on his heels. Who's there were the words his brain sent, but his mouth produced only a low Who. He saw no one. From the bathroom came a sound like cracking bones. Then it repeated, the individual snapping sounds faster this time, before a cupboard in the bathroom clapped shut.

John's hand slipped into his pocket before he even thought of his phone. Apparently he'd left it in his bedroom when he got dressed. He pictured it face down on his messy mattress. So what was he supposed to do? Go ask a neighbor to borrow their phone because he'd heard some noises and found a banana peel under his bed? Don't forget whatever that was in the mirror, he reminded himself.

He gritted his teeth, bawled up his fists, and rushed past the bathroom to reach his bedroom, glancing inside as he barreled past. Seeing it empty, he slowed and backed up. He reached in to turn on the light before his hand retreated back to his chest.

The bathroom offered nowhere for someone to hide. John felt grateful for his glass shower door, believing he would have gone into cardiac arrest if he'd needed to pull back a shower curtain. But it wasn't a curtain he'd heard, was it? It was a cupboard. He shuddered in apprehension, lowering himself in front of the sink to reach the only cupboard's knob.

A strong magnet held it in place, and at first he could not bring himself to deliver the force required to pop it open. But on an internal count of three, he did. His whole body tensed, ready to fight, to scream, to run. Nothing sprang from the cupboard, nor, when he peered inside it, lurked within. He closed the cupboard, then jerked it open again to catch anything inside that might have been hidden behind his miniature trash can or his extra boxes of tissues and toilet paper.

but finding nothing yet again, he closed the cupboard, muttering to himself, Did I bring some kind of curse back from Mexico? He'd seen nothing but beauty and wonder down there. The vibrant colors, oh, the vivid reds, oranges, purples, and blues, the streaks of sunlight fanning through the water, glimmering off the most beautiful animals. How could anything evil have existed there to attach itself to him?

If I picked up some kind of demon it was probably at the airport, he laughed. And as laughter can, it cured the majority of his anxiety. I'm jet lagged, probably just hearing my neighbors is all. He repacked his suitcase before dragging it into his bedroom and separating the dirty clothes from those he never wore. He plugged in his iPad and put away his watch. He was about to put his noise canceling headphones away too when an idea struck him.

Seeing as each time he heard some sound that sent him into a panic it turned out to be nothing, he thought eliminating all outside sound until his mind and body adjusted from travel might help said adjustment happen quicker. This, of course, ignored the banana peel, but he wondered if once he found equilibrium his memory of how the peel got under his bed would return.

He put on the headphones, connected them to his phone, and danced subtly to Lana Del Rey as he went about making breakfast. Or lunch, he supposed, seeing as it was now about twelve thirty. Arms loaded with a plate of waffles, a bowl of yogurt, a glass of milk, and a glass of orange juice, he plodded slowly to the couch.

He set everything on the coffee table next to the TV remote, which he picked up before falling back into the cushions. He cycled through his Hulu watch list while he waited for Swan Song, his favorite track off Lana's honeymoon album, to end. When he finally removed his headphones, he heard. It sounded like the kitchen followed. Had he left it on?

The refrigerator hid the sink from his view on the couch, but he didn't have to walk far to see the faucet was indeed on it full blast. Droplets sprayed up from the sink onto the floor and counter. He'd left nothing in the sink, so why was water splashing out instead of going straight down the drain? He snuck toward the sink. Ready to catch his slippery culprit at last.

He couldn't guess how it had evaded him so far, but he knew in his gut, perhaps due to the slightly fishy smell that met him as he neared the sink. Whatever he'd failed to catch up until now was finally out in the open. His mouth was not. And instantly dry. In the sink, below the running water. He saw the same shimmery thing he'd seen in his bedroom mirror. It writhed like heat waves from an invisible fire, but it was solid. His thoughts ceased and his body took over.

His right hand jerked forward and shut off the tap before the rest of him jumped back. The creature, knowing it had been caught, gave up its invisibility, its perfect camouflage. First it turned silver like the sink basin, revealing a familiar shape. The tips of its tentacles grew orange, giving the whole animal the appearance of a cooling metal sculpture. From their tips to their bases, shades of yellow colorized spots along those eight tentacles whose primary color was black.

Finally, the creature's bulbous head changed black as well, with eyes of burning orange. There, in his sink, John found the very discovery he had travelled thousands of miles and across an international border to find a species of octopus yet unknown to science, and one, apparently, of amphibious nature, incredible skill, and extreme intelligence.

The dark beauty climbed out of the sink, suspending itself on four tentacles. Two gripped the faucet and two either side of the basin, so it could rotate its beaked mouth, which protruded farther than any similar creature John had studied, toward him. A foul smelling liquid shot from a place behind its mouth, streaked across the kitchen, and struck in the pocket between John's right eye and nose.

In trying to wipe it away he accidentally rubbed the stuff into his eye. It burned badly enough to make him yell out, and his eyes watered until tears blinded him. His nose ran too as the burning sensation reached his sinuses. Despite the pain, John opened his lazy Susan and retrieved a lidded bowl in which he could capture his strange new octopus, not only to get it out of his apartment, but to take it to the university for study.

The octopus, however, had used its ink projection the same as it would have in the wild to escape. It was invisible again, and John's sight and smell were totally compromised.

He wanted badly to rinse the ink off his face and out of his eyes, but instead stood still and listened. The apartment stayed silent. Oh please, not that music. That music gives me nightmares from my childhood. Could we get something a little bit lighter? Some lighter music here. Are you a fan of true crime TV shows? And what about Unsolved Mysteries, the show that jumpstarted all of our love? I'm Ellen Marsh. And I'm Joey Taranto. And we host I Think Not.

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He rinsed his face, splashing water in his eyes to soothe their burning. His vision returned seemingly unaffected, and he thanked God the ink hadn't done long term damage. If someone had asked him if octopus ink could damage a person's eyes, he would have told them not likely. But the pain and the unstudied characteristics of this novel amphibious species had made him fear. Now relieved, he recommenced his search.

Leaning on his knowledge, he postulated the creature had once more camouflaged itself in a hidden, likely small space. Since he hadn't heard any cabinets, cupboards, or doors this time, he narrowed his search to open areas. He swept his hand across the counters, jabbing it between his toaster, microwave, and blender. He reached his hand into the garbage disposal in case the octopus had unwisely sought refuge in the darkness there. Behind him, his TV suddenly tipped against the wall.

He spun, barely catching a shimmery glimpse of the creature navigating through the wires and cords behind his TV stand. Gotcha, he whispered, and with the lid in one hand and the bowl in the other, he hurried into the living room. He couldn't see the creature any more, so deduced it had crawled underneath the stand. Okay, buddy, he said to the octopus as he lowered himself to the floor. I don't wanna hurt you. I'm just gonna take you somewhere safer, okay?

The bowl wouldn't fit under the TV stand, so he positioned it on its side and used the lid as a scoop, sliding it across the floor under the stand. Without warning, the creature's beak, and only its beak, appeared, emerging from the invisible animal's underside less than a second before it clamped down on his thumb.

He heard the bone below his first knuckle crack before the pain reached his brain. Blood gushed from the wound. John shouted and retracted his hand, pulling it to his chest as he rolled onto his back. I said I didn't want to hurt you, he moaned, pressing his hand gently over his bleeding, broken thumb. He stole one peek at it and nearly fainted.

The octopus became visible again, crawling up the TV stand and perching above him. Then it reared back as it had in the sink and shot him with another stream of ink. This time, John turned to avoid getting hit. He retaliated by swinging the bowl down, capturing the octopus momentarily before it flattened itself and slipped through a gap at the edge of the TV stand. Its near capture turned the creature aggressive. It utilized four tentacles to swing monkey-like.

down his arm before landing on his face. John barely slipped his hand between the octopus's belly and his cheek before its sharp beak could make contact. This earned him a few more lacerations to his fingers and palms. John wrestled the gripping suckers away from his face. He would detach one tentacle only for it to stick right back to his skin when he slid his hand toward the next one. Worst of all, jets of foul smelling ink kept spraying near his mouth and nose,

It inevitably got into his eyes again, not that he could see anyway, with the seemingly bloodthirsty creature glued to his face. His ability to keep the beak away faltered more than once, resulting in small cuts to his cheeks. He had no doubt that beak could.

Pluck out his eyes without any trouble. At this point, John knew he needed help, but he didn't know where his phone had ended up. Even if it was still in his sweatpants pocket, which he could feel it was not, how could he use it without his hand? hands or voice. He considered going to the kitchen for a knife and cutting the thing off, but it was his right thumb that was broken, and he didn't trust his left hand enough to control the knife so close to his face.

He thought of his one friend in the building. His best friend in the whole world. Whether she could or would actually help him, he couldn't be sure, but he decided to give her a chance. Still, with both hands wedged between his face and the snapping beak, he rolled onto his knees and stood before.

Running blind in the direction of his bedroom. He missed the doorway by inches, striking its frame with his shoulder and getting knocked sideways. This gave him the idea to slam the octopus into the door with a headbutt, but his only reward was a jet of ink directly up his nose. nose. He spurted and spatted out, then received a tentacle in his mouth that tried to grip his tongue but thankfully failed. Sierra he cried, his voice muffled by the back of his own bleeding hand.

With his elbow he knocked the top off her terrarium and, hoping, praying, dipped his head inside. Sierra help me. He heard Sierra's false rattle. He felt multiple tentacles detach from his left cheek and ear as the octopus recognized its new threat. Please don't hurt her, John silently begged. He didn't know if he could live with himself if he allowed harm to come to his beloved snake. But Sierra feared no harm. She was hungry, and she smelt blood on the air.

She sprung between the tentacles reaching for her and coiled her muscular length around the base of the octopus's bulbous head. It detached from John immediately. He fell back, gasping. Right away he assessed his injuries. He turned to the mirror and saw a beard of blood smeared across his face and neck. Besides his thumb, all his wounds seemed superficial, and once he coughed, hacked, and spat out the ink, although getting rid of the fishy.

Taste and smell was not so simple. He turned back to the terrarium to aid his pet, his savior, his Sierra. Sierra quite obviously did not need his help. The brilliant orange ends of the octopus's tentacles protruded from different coils along the length of her twisted body, and its head had already disappeared inside her throat. Oh Sierra, no, John groaned.

His unique specimen, his first and probably the only such discovery he would ever make, went down much quicker and easier than any furry rodent. And poor John could do nothing but watch. He stood a better chance at prying the tentacles off his face than dislodging Sierra's powerful coils from them before they vanished into her mouth.

The octopus had somehow traveled home in his suitcase, surviving without nearly any contact with water for over twenty four hours. It had eaten, he assumed, a banana, but also seemed to have an appetite for flesh. Or perhaps it had simply wanted to kill him. Either way, its aggressive behavior doubled the uniqueness already established by its amphibious nature. It needed to be studied. It could have been some evolutionary link.

the answer to some mystery, or the beginning of a new one. It could have been a species humankind would not see again for dozens or even hundreds of years, if ever at all. And yes, It was dead, but it wasn't gone yet, not entirely. It still existed in the gullet of his beloved pet. But John knew what would happen if he told anyone. They would beg him, if not outright force him to hand Sierra over to be dissected.

He whispered to her, I'll never let them hurt you. Especially not after you just saved my life. And so Over the next couple of days the He watched the small lump inside Sierra diminish. imagining the potential discoveries she was digesting. At night he didn't dream of the serene coral reef or the curious octopus reaching out to touch him, but rather of Sierra, kissing blood off his face with minuscule flicks of her forked tongue. Each time he woke from this dream, he went to her,

kissed the top of her scaly head and said, When you're ready, I'm gonna get you a big ol' rat. You know the kind I'm talking about. One of the big yummy ones. And on this promise, he made good.

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The merch store and Patreon links are in this episode's description. To stay up to date, follow me on Instagram and TikTok at the Warning Woods. And when you feel ready, meet me here for another journey into the Warning Woods. Thank you for listening. The world of Sonic the Hedgehog has been thrust into a not-so-dark, not-so-stormy, hard-boiled detective story that probably Follow Sonic and the intrepid chaotics detective agency as they take on their biggest Yet this high fly.

Fighting for every quill they can find. It's one heck of a tale. Which is good. Because this story might be the only thing that can save. Well if that's all I Wait, what? All will be revealed in the world. Sonic the Hedgehog presenter The Chaotix Case Files. Listen now, wherever you get your podcast. When they were young, the five members of an elite commando group nicknamed the Stone Wolves raged against the oppressive Yeah, yeah. and dominates most of the galaxy's inhabited planets.

Fought for freedom. Defeated and disillusioned, they hung up their guns and went their separate ways, all hoping to find some small bit of peace amidst a universe thick with violence and oppression. They each try to stay alive and eke out a living. Men from the past won't let them move on, and neither will their bitterest enemy. The Stone Wolves is season 11 of the Galactic Football League science fiction series by author Scott Sigler.

GFL series beginning with season one: The Rookie. Search for Scott Sigler, S-I-G-L-E-R, wherever you get your podcasts.