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. 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...
Walker Stoll stared at his name next to the blinking cursor at the end of the byline. A story by Walker Stoll. Then, nothing. Walker covered his mouth with his hand and leaned back, removing his headphones. Maybe silence would do the trick. He'd gone through each of his instrumental playlists trying to find the right vibe for his story. He supposed the real problem was he didn't have a story yet, just a feeling.
He felt motivated. He felt energized. He felt focused enough to sit at that computer and type all night if he needed to. He was only missing the spark to get the engine running. A lo-fi hip-hop beat bumped faintly from the headphones in his hand. Walker started tapping his index finger against his cheekbone as his mind wandered the ether for that one brilliant star, which he could feel so... close by. Why couldn't it just appear already?
His office door cracked open. There's a reason Stephen King says you should close your door when you work, he said. Oh, is he in here? Walker's wife, Brooke, asked. She opened the door and pretended to look around. Her eyes stopped on the blank word document. empty except for the mocking byline at the top.
Well, good thing you're not working anyway. Yes, I am, Walker argued, hiding a rueful grin under his hand. His voice betrayed him, though. Brooke rolled her eyes and tried to sit in his lap. He nudged her away, played with her. faithfully shouting, no, I really am, I swear, I'm just stuck. Brooks said, Come on, you know this. Don't sweat the first line. You can come back to it later. Just start putting something down and the rest will come. You're right, I do know, Walker chided.
The problem is, I'm not just missing the first line, I'm missing all the rest, too. I don't even have the weakest frame of an idea. I'm here, I showed up for the muse, you know. But it's like it's abandoned me. You know I don't buy into that muse stuff, Brooke replied. Anyway, I'm going to go read in bed. Join me if you can't find your idea soon. You know how you'll be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight.
Walker said, yeah, yeah, and she kissed him. If I'm not up there by the time you're ready to turn in, I'll be up shortly after, I'm sure. But almost an hour later, Walker still had not come to bed. Brooke went downstairs to check on him and make sure the doors were locked since he would likely forget. When she passed his office, she saw he hadn't bothered to close his door again. What did that guy King know anyway?
She smiled when she found Walker with his big headphones on scribbling in his notebook. That's how he always recorded his best ideas so he could use his personal shorthand without autocorrect changing key words and phrases, causing him to lose sections of his notes. She thought she passed by unnoticed, but Walker called after her. Sorry, I'll be up soon, I promise. Just gotta jot down the last bits of this. Seriously, Brooke, this might be the most incredible thing that's ever come to me.
Brooke paused in the hallway, smirked, and leaned back into his doorway. She cocked an eyebrow and said, Really? The most incredible? Walker finished scribbling something and glanced up at her. His eyes immediately returned to his notebook. Then he caught her meaning. The most incredible idea, how's that? He asked. She tread into his office slowly, leaned in, and kissed him. Tell me about it in the morning, she said. The best thing you've ever had is going to bed.
That's not quite what I said, Walker taunted. Shut up, Brooke laughed. She brushed her hand down his shoulder, up his forearm, and across his hand as she left the room. She didn't wait for him to come to bed before falling asleep. Brooke slept wonderfully and uninterrupted, waking only when her alarm chimed at 6.15. She cracked one eye open enough to find the button and shut off the alarm, then reached over to Cuddle Walker, who usually slept for another hour after she got out of bed.
Her hand found his pillow and slid down it, skating across the sheets in search of the warm lump of her husband. But he was not there. She opened her eyes. Had Walker already gotten up? Maybe his great idea prompted him to rise early and get back to work. She loved seeing him excited about a story. His pillow looked as fluffy as when she had fallen asleep next to it, though, and the comforter was still tucked into the foot of the bed on his side.
She laughed to herself. Walker must have fallen asleep at his keyboard. It wouldn't be the first time. The first time he stayed there all night, maybe, but not the first time he dozed off in his office. After opening the curtains and doing a few light stretches, Brooke put on her slippers and left the bedroom. Birds were already chirping outside as they are wont to do in the early weeks of spring when the days start growing longer.
At the top of the stairs, she could see light from Walker's office shining across the hardwood floor in the hallway. Again she laughed to herself. She peered through his cracked door and found him slumped in his chair with the back of his head turned toward her, his cheek planted on his keyboard. Brooke reached in and shut off the light to give him a few more minutes of sleep while she prepared the coffee.
Her husband would wake up hard, she knew, probably aching. She hoped a hot mug of Colombian light roast would at least help ease him into the day. And what a beautiful day it was shaping up to be. As Brooke went around the house opening up all the curtains, yellow light blasted in. This was her favorite time of year, when the sky was pure blue and the grass unapologetically green.
Two doves sat on the power line across the street cooing at each other, and an angry squirrel chittered back at them from the old oak in the stole's front yard. feeling at ease like she had all the time in the world, a rare feeling. Brooke opted to French press the coffee that morning. walker preferred it that way so did she she just couldn't justify the added time and effort most of the time
She carried two mugs of steaming coffee to Walker's office, planning to wake him gently, then sit in his corner chair and let him walk her through her new idea. He wouldn't always admit it, but talking through his ideas with her often helped him process his own thoughts. He did not usually accept direct input, but Brooke knew how to massage the conversation until Walker came to certain conclusions on his own.
She entered his office, set his mug down on the coaster next to his head, and slid it a few inches away from him. Then she rapped on his desk twice with the knuckles of her free hand. He did not respond. She turned around to put her own mug on the small table next to the corner chair before ruffling his hair and gently placing a hand on his back. Through his shirt, Walker's skin felt cold. The muscles along his spine felt stiff.
Walker, she said, shaking him. Hey, Walker, wake up. You feeling okay? When he did not respond, she turned the light back on. Walker still gripped his pen in his right hand. His fingers frozen. His notebook lay closed on the floor beside his feet. Brooke slid her hand under his head to lift it. but Walker's neck and back were frozen too. Walker, she cried, circling around his chair to get a look at his face. His eyes gaped open.
His left eye actually touched the keys of his bloody keyboard. Streaks of red bled from the corners of both eyes, from his nose, his ears, and his crooked, open mouth. Brooks stumbled back, bumping into the small table next to the corner chair and knocking her fresh coffee over. It ran across the table and spilled down, splashing onto one of her slippers, warming it.
but she did not notice as she fell into the chair. She dialed 911 in a fugue state and did not leave Walker's office until the doorbell rang. The police interviewed Brooke in the kitchen about her last interaction with Walker. Did he seem like himself? Yes. Was he drinking or consuming any other substances? No, Walker wasn't that sort of writer.
Did he seem down or depressed at all? No. Did he ever make allusions to self-harm or suicide? Wait, how could he have done this to himself? Brooke asked. The lead officer replied, These are just the standard questions we ask, ma'am. A detective will follow up later once the coroners had a chance to, uh, investigate.
I'm really sorry to put you through this. I know it must be extremely difficult, but we have to do our due diligence, I know. Brooke finished for him, sniffing away tears. It's okay, really. I want to know what happened to him even more than you do. I'm sure, the officer replied. The coroner arrived during the interview and, after issuing condolences to Brooke, excused himself to examine Walker's body.
Only two officers and a single paramedic team remained by the time he finished his preliminary examination and asked Brooke if she would like to step outside while they removed Walker from the house. Initially, she said she could handle staying, but when she heard the zipper close on the body bag, she excused herself to the backyard. An officer followed her but gave her space. She fell to her knees at the edge of the bare flower garden she'd recently seated with Walker and wept.
Excuse me, Mrs. Stoll, the coroner said to her a few minutes later, his grim task complete for the moment. Is he, she said, standing and brushing dirt off the knees of her pajamas. We'll take care of him from here, the coroner assured her. He offered another assurance, albeit a cold and comfortless one. While I can't say anything for certain until certain checks are done and I've issued my full report, I can already say with relative certainty your husband passed quickly.
He might have experienced some mild confusion beforehand. The last page of the notebook he was writing in doesn't seem coherent. But for what it's worth, I don't think he suffered. I am so sorry for your loss. I read one of his books once, an early one I think, and I enjoyed it very much. Thank you, Brooke answered. She just wanted him to leave. For all of them to leave.
Since discovering Walker's body, she hadn't been left alone. She didn't even feel like herself anymore. She felt like a character in a movie that she could turn off at any time and return to the life she'd known before. Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify is specially designed to help you start, run,
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I am being transported by the Ecclesiade 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. ours is not a loving God, and we are not its favored children. The Heresies of Red Ulf Bundwein. Chapter 2. Coming May 1st.
After the police finally left her, telling her they would only come back if necessary, meaning if they discovered any indication that she had something to do with Walker's death, she knew, Brooke returned to his office It shocked her to see his blood-soaked keyboard still on the desk. An oversight, probably. Very little blood had gone anywhere else. Most of it drained into the keys. Should she throw it away? Was she allowed to?
Pulling her hands inside her pajama sleeves, she lifted the keyboard up and set it aside to deal with later. For now, she just wanted to sit in Walker's chair and remember him. She wished ghosts were real. She wanted Walker to return to her, and she didn't care in what form. She needed him to tell her what to do because her mind was too messy to escape from. Her thoughts kept tripping over each other, sometimes simply stalling out and evaporating. She felt lost.
Walker's notebook caught her eye after she'd cried until her tears dried up. She recalled the coroner's words. The last page of the notebook he was writing in doesn't seem coherent. Curious, she picked the notebook up. She laughed briefly to herself, imagining the dry coroner trying to decipher her imaginative husband's nonsensical shorthand and wrap his head around what Walker had believed to be his greatest idea yet.
She opened the notebook to the last written page and read the lines written diagonally with mixed capitalization and punctuation. The fragility of reality. theme or point the universe a kaleidoscope of perspectives near stars givers and destroyers supernova supernova brooke reread the all caps word aloud it seemed like walker had yet to narrow down specifically what his story would be about. The page was like a dartboard.
Becoming clearer. Gods made of dreams. Death opens the path. Chaos reveals the door. Closer. Too large. Brooke could see what the coroner meant. She'd hoped to find some insight into her husband's final thoughts in this notebook, but perhaps he had simply recorded the confusion which preceded his medical event. What if she'd stayed up with him? Could she have noticed his mind slipping and saved him? She knew she shouldn't blame herself, but it was hard to avoid.
The very last sentence Walker wrote before passing away captured her attention. It was written darker than the rest, like he'd pressed the pen into the page as hard as he could without tearing it. He'd gone over it a second time as if to emphasize its importance and underlined it. One mind is not enough to hold it. Brooke stared at these words for a long time. The way in which he wrote this final sentence looked like he'd suddenly woken up to scream it at her.
She combed through the notes again to try to piece them together, thinking maybe someday she could attempt to write whatever story or book Walker had dreamt up in his final moments. but she couldn't focus well enough to even begin to understand his scrawlings. She closed the notebook and found she was about to cry again. Archie Upchurch sat on a bench outside the auditorium where Walker's public memorial was held, wearing big sunglasses and a black fedora pulled low on his brow.
He could usually move freely in public, but he figured if he was going to be recognized anywhere, it would be amongst the 200 or so Walker Stoll fans now slowly exiting the building. The last thing he wanted right now was to be asked for an autograph or a picture. His eyes, hidden behind his dark glasses, looked too blotchy and red for pictures. Archie didn't presume to be Walker's best friend, he was, but they had been his closest brothers.
After meeting at the same writing group Walker and Brooke attended right up until Walker's untimely demise, Archie and Walker quickly grew close. even co-authoring a series of short stories about a boy who was too intelligent for his own good as their careers mutually ascended.
So closely had their careers mirrored each other that they kept egging each other on to make the New York Times bestsellers list already, the joke being once one of them made it, the other would most certainly follow soon after. Archie wiped his brow. The fedora made his forehead sore. He only wore it to the memorial because it was the only hat in his closet that wasn't a snapback.
He should have thought to buy something else during the week prior. He'd also worn the uncomfortable fedora to Walker's private funeral the previous weekend. There, Brooke had mentioned having something to give him, but she'd been too upset afterwards for him to ask her about it. He texted her the following day to say he could come by, but he hadn't heard from her yet.
Mr. Upchurch, an unfamiliar voice beside him asked. He turned only his eyes behind his glasses to see whether he could play off not recognizing the name, but when he saw who stood there, he quickly stood. She asked me to come get you," said Brooke Stoll's brother Ben. How is she? Archie asked as Ben led him back into the auditorium. Oh, better than at the funeral, Ben answered.
she's had a really tough time but i think this service today did her good there's something different about her now i think well she's not ready to move on but she's ready to start healing i think That's about as much as anyone could hope for, Archer replied. They circumvented the main auditorium where a couple dozen Walker Stoll fans loitered, then followed a brick hallway toward the back of the building, past the restrooms and a utility closet, to a small green room of sorts.
There, Brooke and the other members of her and Walker's family stood around, talking in somber tones. Brooke saw Archie and motioned for him to stop in the doorway. Ben gave him an apologetic wave and joined a conversation with an elderly man and woman. Thanks for sticking around, Arch, Brooks said, leading him away from the green room. Of course, he said. After the funeral, I… You're fine, Brooke interrupted. I'm not sure I could have let go of this that day anyway. It's so personal to Walker.
She produced a small faux leather notebook. I'm feeling much more at peace today, and I think Walker would have wanted you to have this. I thought about keeping it and trying to work out some of the stuff in there myself in his honor, but you're so much more similar to him in how you think. I think you could get closer to what he was maybe aiming for. Archie said. Is this... It's his idea book, yeah. Brooke replied.
She passed the notebook to him, and hesitantly, he took it. He began rifling through pages, not stopping at any particular one long enough to absorb the thoughts scribbled inside. Brooke, are you sure about this? He asked. You're right. This is so personal. I mean, you have to realize what a large piece of him this represents. Brooke looked away, and for a second Archie thought she might actually reconsider. But she turned back to him with blue resolve in her eyes and nodded once.
I do know, Arch. I do. But I have other things. I've got his desk and his computer and his... Well, it needs to be cleaned up, but I have his keyboard. Archie nodded along as she spoke, tracing the edges of the notebook's pages. Anyway, I've decided I won't ever be able to explore those ideas, and I'm not trying to put any pressure on you to do it, but I thought you might at least want to tie some of them into your own stories or something.
He just respected you so much. I think it would be a great way to honor his memory, you know? Barely holding back tears, Archie said. Then the tears broke loose. He wasn't wearing sunglasses to hide them anymore. They embraced, sharing a brief cry together. Walker's notebook bounced softly against Brooke's back with each tender sob until they finally parted ways. How does weather work? What's the secret to having a great conversation? How do most wealthy people get that way?
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Bloody Good Horror comes out every Friday, wherever you get podcasts, and we hope to see you there. Back at home, Archie went into his study and cracked open Walker's notebook. he muttered walker if you're listening i'm going to get us on that best sellers list if it kills me i'm not sure how it works up there but i hope you get to see it Some of the pages contained shorthand notes, nothing more than the frames of ideas. Others, complete scenes.
Walker had told him how he occasionally built whole stories around a single strong scene he thought of. Archie had never done so himself, but he wondered if he could pull it off with one of Walker's ideas. Before settling on one, he decided to flip all the way through the notebook to see if an idea really jumped out and grabbed him. The last words Walker ever wrote caught his eye, scratched into the page with so much intention as if they were the most important words he'd ever written.
One mind is not enough to hold it. That's what you wrote right before you dropped dead, huh? Archie questioned his late friend aloud. He felt a tingle in his knees and under his rear, like some innate instinct urging him to flee. Walker's cause of death had been conclusively linked to a spontaneous brain hemorrhage, but one mind is not enough to hold what? Archie whispered.
He studied the preceding notes, noting how Walker's handwriting became looser with each word, as if he'd progressively lost control of his fingers. Archie supposed this might be congruent with the coroner's conclusion, but could it mean something more? It seemed Walker had been wrestling with a concept too large for words preceding his untimely demise. His notes included mentions of the universe, of gods, and reality. And what was this he repeatedly wrote about growing closer?
Archie flipped to previous pages, comparing those notes to those on the final page of the notebook. He knew better than anyone, besides Brooke, maybe. Maybe. How Walker's creative mind worked. Archie observed a clear inconsistency between Walker's previous entries and the one he recorded before he died. Now, a medical practitioner would have no trouble explaining this away as a symptom of his hemorrhage, but Archie wondered if there might be a deeper layer to Walker's confused final musings.
He picked up his phone and stared at it for some time, debating whether to call Brooke. He thought it could be inappropriate to call her on the night of her husband's memorial service, but he had an inkling she might have also wanted him to decipher Walker's last notes for personal reasons in addition to honoring his memory.
Brooke, a talented imaginator herself, must have been curious about what her husband's brain concocted in his final moments, whether the product of a hemorrhage or not. He called her. I wondered if you might call, Brooke answered. Archie rocked forward, putting his phone on speaker and placing his elbows on his desk as he said, I tried not to, but, well, I'm sure you read this last page of his notebook, right? She said, I did.
What did you make of it? he asked. After a pause, she said, Well, he was obviously going out of his mind. Archie's heart sank. He tried not to betray his disappointment, but he couldn't find the words to reply. But then Brooks said, That was always his gift, wasn't it? What was? Archie asked, already knowing the answer. being out of his mind. Arch, please tell me I'm being crazy. I don't think Walker... I don't think they got it right. Not all the way. Archie scanned the open notebook.
He couldn't shake the feeling Walker was trying to communicate something with the canyons he carved with his pen. He also didn't think Brooke's request to confirm her craziness sounded very genuine. He answered her with silence. You don't think so either, Brooke deduced. They didn't know him like us, Archie replied. He said, Walker talked to me many times about the concept that the key to the universe rests inside our minds, in our imaginations.
He thought religions and the fringe sciences all stem from the exploration of humanity's most imaginative ideas. From people finding the key but never grasping it, Brooke finished. Archie said. So he discussed the idea with you too. Brooke laughed. Probably a lot more than he did with you. You and I are probably the only ones who know how obsessed he was with that idea.
I never thought he was crazy, either. I... I didn't really know what to think about it, but the idea itself never really seemed too hard to believe, I guess. Not the way he would describe it. I wish he'd written it down. Maybe this was his attempt to do just that, Archie replied. No, said Brooke. The night he died, he was just trying to think of an idea for his next story. He said he felt like he was close to finding it when I went to bed. He seemed really, I don't know, bothered.
But not in a bad way. Sort of like he was obsessed. Archie said. It's clear he was wrestling with some sort of concept here. The fragility of reality, the universe is a kaleidoscope of perspectives. I can't tell if these were supposed to be individual starts of something or a continuous train of thought. A pause lingered between them before Brooke said, Arch, I feel like I've asked too much of you in hindsight.
These big existential concepts, they were really more Walker's thing. I know how hard inserting somebody else's ideas into your own work can be if they don't, you know, resonate. I really wish I hadn't put this on you. If you don't want to or if you can't work out anything to do with them, please don't worry about it. Plus, I guess it's always possible the doctors are right and he really was just experiencing delusions from the bleeding. I don't want you to waste your time on the gibberish of a-
Brooke's silence completed her sentence. Archie jumped in. Let me just spend a little more time on this. You know what, I'll go through my old texts and emails with him and search for some similar words and phrases. Maybe he's mentioned something before that'll help me crack the code. The key to his universe, Brooke murmured. Staring down at his friend's final words, Archie said, precisely. A knock startled Brooke as she made her breakfast two days later.
She hadn't spoken to Archie again, although she'd been tempted plenty of times to reach out and see if he'd made any progress but decided to leave him alone. Through the peephole, she saw two men standing on her porch, one a uniformed police officer, the other wore a polo and bore his badge on his belt. She recognized him as the detective who interviewed her about Walker in the days following his death.
She greeted them and asked if they'd like to come in, assuming their visit likely related to Walker. But it wasn't Walker they'd come to speak with her about. Mrs. Stoll, the detective began. We have a few questions to ask you, and we're hoping you might come down to the station to answer them for us.
Am I in trouble? she asked, stepping back slightly. The uniformed officer shuffled and looked uncomfortable. She recognized him, too. He'd followed her into the backyard when the coroner zipped Walker into the body bag. Uh, no ma'am, not at this time, the detective answered. We just need to clear up some suspicious, uh, I mean, strange coincidences, I guess you could say. Well, I think we can do that right here, don't you? Brooke stated as she locked eyes with the soft-faced detective.
Are you, uh, the detective asked the uniformed officer, gesturing to his body cam. The officer nodded. The detective turned back to Brooke, saying, If that's how you'd prefer it, I would. No offense. The detective shrugged. So, your husband, how close was he with a man named Archibald Upchurch? He commonly went by Archie. The ground seemed to crumble beneath Brooke's feet. Her legs felt uneven and wobbly. She grabbed the doorframe, an action not unnoticed by the authorities.
Do you need to sit down? The detective asked. She looked up at him again. What happened to Archie? He passed away sometime in the last 48 hours. The coroner's still working out when and how, but... Well, I'll just come right out and say it. We found him deceased under nearly identical circumstances as your husband. Now, I am a believer in coincidences, but could you help me understand what he was doing with your husband's notebook? We found it at his side, and also...
The detective showed some hesitation. Brooke steeled herself for whatever he was about to say. She noticed the uniformed officer tensing up. Her jaw tightened. Mrs. Stoll, it seems you were the last person to talk to Mr. Upchurch. There it was. An illusion as good as an accusation.
The detective continued, Like I said, I believe in the odd coincidence, but the sheer amount of similarities between these two deaths occurring so close together, I'm sure you can understand why we have some questions. Brooks swallowed her anger. She couldn't believe Archie was dead now too, although the news didn't surprise her as much as she expected it to. Why? Had she doomed Archie by giving him that notebook? One mind is not enough to hold it.
What if Walker had been talking about the very idea itself? What if it had been too, too enormous for either his or Archie's minds to contain? Well, she couldn't run that possibility by the police now, could she? She could understand their suspicion, but she knew there wasn't any real evidence tying her to either death. There couldn't be. If she just answered their questions honestly.
Archie and I talked on the phone a couple of nights ago, she said, making sure to clarify. He called me. We talked about Walker and this big idea he had, the one he was working on when he died. I understand what you're implying about coincidences, detective, but I'm not sure I can give you a better explanation. Why don't you walk us through what you remember about that call? Don't worry about what seems important to you. We can sort that out. Just tell us everything you can remember.
As Brooke recounted her chat with Archie, she had a fantastic memory. Words and phrases from Walker's last notes continuously popped out at her. the fragility of reality, the universe, a kaleidoscope of perspectives. It's near. Stars, givers, and destroyers. Supernova. Becoming clearer. Gods made of dreams. Death opens the path. Chaos reveals the door. Closer. Too large. Okay, Brooke, if it's too large, zoom out. What was he trying to say?
She was answering questions on autopilot. Walker's words had caught hold of her mind and she couldn't shake them. Automatically, her mind rearranged some of his fragmented thoughts. An understanding beyond words suddenly aligned the abstract phrases into perfect reason. Mrs. Stoll, are you sure you don't need to sit down? The detective's distant voice asked.
She didn't know if she responded or not. She felt the front of her mind rip like a portal opening up, and suddenly she didn't know where she was anymore. The fragility of reality. Bits and pieces of her life from times past, present, and future seen both by her and everyone she'd ever known encircled her mind like a tornado of memories. A kaleidoscope of perspectives. She felt the front of her head explode and her hands shot to her forehead, trying to keep her skull from breaking apart.
Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and held her upright. Lights flashed all around her, glowing, expanding, going dark. Hundreds of millions of lights. Stars. Givers and destroyers. Then they all erupted at once. Supernova. Her heart rate accelerated until her chest could no longer contain it. It reached a speed of vibration. She could still feel the hands on her shoulders, but in her mind other hands were reaching down, enormous hands made of blue light. Gods made of dreams.
Brooke tried to break free of these thoughts and images, but the hands continued to reach for her. She was not in control. She pictured Walker laying dead on his keyboard, blood running out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. Death opens the path. I don't want to die, she screamed aloud. Distantly, she heard the detective shouting. She heard the crackle of a radio morphing into static, echoing away. Memories like film strips streamed upward all around her.
Some crossed over one another, creating collages of events disconnected by time yet synonymous or complementary to one another. Then all of the ascending memories coalesced and froze, and through them all, Brooke saw a pinprick tunnel, a guiding light. Chaos reveals the door. One of the hands had almost reached her. She felt the hard ground beneath her as heavy physical hands pressed into her chest again and again, forcing air in and out of her lungs.
The blue hand closed into a fist, opening again directly in front of her mind's eye, presenting… no, a key. The hand turned, aiming the key at the opening in the front of her mind. No, this is what he wanted, not me, she screamed internally. But the hand pushed forward. The key grew. Closer. She knew before it reached her, the key was far. Too large. Your mind is not enough to hold it.
Hey, hey, the detective yelled at the officer, pulling him off of the unmoving woman on the porch. Blood had started streaming out of her eyes and ears, mouth and nose. Come on, we can't just let her die in front of us, the officer insisted. But the detective held him back, shaking his head. I don't know what the hell is going on here, but she's gone. You made it out. Congratulations.
For ad-free episodes and bonus Into the Woods episodes, become a patron with the link in the description. You can also support the show by buying merch. That link is also in the description below. To stay up to date, follow me on Instagram at TheWarningWoods. And if you feel ready, meet me here next week for another journey into The Warning Woods. Alright 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. Whoa. Subscribe now to catch the premiere. In humanity's search for other worlds, we found something It's a massive collection of tiny pocket realities, and each one is a story. So we can actually transcend our usual four dimensions of space and time to go physically into these stories? Yes, using the MusePod. But when we explored those stories, things didn't go as planned. None of us have been the same since...
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