EPISODE ONE
EPISODE TWO
EPISODE THREE
EPISODE FOUR
EPISODE FIVE
EPISODE SIX
EPISODE SEVEN
EPISODE EIGHT
EPISODE NINE
EPISODE TEN
EPISODE ELEVEN
EPISODE TWELVE
EPISODE THIRTEEN
EPISODE FOURTEEN
A man trapped in the star-cursed town of Jebsen must find a way to escape.
How I Wonder What You Are was written by Al Bruno III
It was produced and read by Daniel C Johnson
Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton
The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams
Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G
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I’ll
know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after
sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after
sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of
Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too
small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of
buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by
long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake
Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick
edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just
barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after
row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an
hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had
learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow
Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And
what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops?
I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in
place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t
miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a
calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the
after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town
elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of
Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A
malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their
Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You
can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way.
The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you
spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the
mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know
secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’
basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they
writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths
and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised
shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching
the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked
decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed
under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was
right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge,
momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered
it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The
sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud
of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I
would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty
but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape
lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach
out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his
skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like
and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from
where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the
car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and
died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it
not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s
distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering
ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way
out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood
immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they
might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement;
rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a
captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site,
through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link
fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt
women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by
the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The
menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They
dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or
headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave
back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen
more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s
always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is
withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep,
or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The
Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by
one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like
the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has
befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother
convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as
was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the
result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t
imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal
matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls,
gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have
to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations
away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from
the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the
age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with
maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars
now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before.
They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The
Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she
even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old
Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of
their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I
wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when
they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely
notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and
Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve
become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my
ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are
or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe
me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities.
Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the
swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of
Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that
six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their
celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I
prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their
debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They
even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up
to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone
waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and
weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be
carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.
When his close friend mysteriously disappears, Weigall encounters the disturbing reality of the soul's destiny.
It was read and produced by Aiko van Wingerden
Music was from the Flashscape Ambient Soundscape Collecton
Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton
The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams
Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G
Are you enjoying the show?
Become a recurring subscriber.
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This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike 4.0 International License
A singles cruise turns into a nightmare when a man wakes up alone and in pain, only to discover a terrifying truth lurking beneath the ocean's surface.
A corporate executive ventures into the woods alongside an elderly man, intent on negotiating a land deal, only to uncover its hidden, forbidden secrets.
Lost in the woods, a mysterious house reveals terrifying secrets and a sinister force that stalks its victims in the night.
A scam artist's get rich scheme goes awry when he purchases a mysterious creature from the internet.
It was the final late-night rush of customers that the closing crew at Burger Clown would ever have to face.
A young primatology professor forms a bond with an experiment gone wrong and faces the consequences of her actions.
Marcie's obsession with the unknown leads to her facing the consequences of what she always wanted.
A corporate executive ventures into the woods alongside an elderly man, intent on negotiating a land deal, only to uncover its hidden, forbidden secrets.
Troclidae was written by Al Bruno III
It was produced and read by Daniel C Johnson
Music was The Visitor by Shane Ivers
Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton
The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams
Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G
Are you enjoying the show?
Become a recurring subscriber.
Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!
This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License
by
"I was fifteen years old and about to begin the first day of my second time through the ninth grade. That's right, I failed the ninth grade..."
On this rainy day, I found myself at Guido's place. He was running another game of Dungeons & Dragons....
It was not a physical decay that had rotted Mountainview Mall away from the inside but an economic one.
When an elderly woman's friend is captured by shadows emerging from the darkness, salvation arrives in the form of a mysterious stranger driving a customized Monte Carlo.
Escape From Pickman’s Grove was written by Al Bruno III
It was produced and read by Auravoice
Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton
The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams
Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G
Are you enjoying the show?
Become a recurring subscriber.
This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License
Most of the streetlights on Pickman's Grove were broken, and the windows were boarded up. The manhole covers had been pried away from the sidewalks, and the stink that wafted up from them hung in the hot summer air.
Anna walked as quickly as her seventy-year-old legs could carry her, but the sounds were growing closer.
All her friends had warned her to stay away from the town of River City. "It's just not safe for a woman your age," they said, "there are such terrible stories."
The stories were terrible, that much was true: the disappearances and the reports of strange sounds and shadows that stalked the unwary at night. But Anna went just the same. The lure of rare antiques was too much for her to resist. Besides, she'd brought her best friend with her, and Tabitha still had her driver's license and was a master of Tai Chi. What could possibly go wrong?
The answer, of course, was everything. Everything and then some.
She could make out the sounds now, a chorus of snorts and meeps that were growing closer by the second. She risked a look back and saw six shapes loping after her. Their clothes were filthy and torn, their flesh was pale and rubbery.
Her granddaughter Michelle had given her one of those smartphones and an app she could use to get a ride to and from the grocery store anytime. It had worked perfectly in her neighborhood, but what about here? Anna fumbled with it, fighting past the half dozen apps she had left open to get to the one she needed.
More shapes were starting to creep out of every alley and doorway. They began to surround Anna. She grew weak at the knees, tears welled up in her eyes.
This is it. She thought, I am going to die, and no one will ever know what happened.
A jet-black Monte Carlo squealed to a halt in front of her. There were Uber stickers on every window. The passenger door sprung open. "Get in!" a deep voice shouted, "Hurry!"
Anna hurried.
Once she was safely inside, the car door shut all on its own. Anna glanced back and saw dozens of the things, but they stayed back, snarling and meeping with frustration.
"What's your name?"
Startled, she looked to the front of the car and saw the driver was wearing a blue cowl, cape, and red spandex. She tried to answer him, but all that came from her mouth was a stammering noise.
"That's ok," he smiled reassuringly, "you'll feel better once we're out of here."
One of the pallid creatures threw a brick. It bounced off the glass of the rear windshield.
"And speaking of getting out of here..." The Monte Carlo sped away with a squeal of its tires.
A superhero driving a Monte Carlo? Anna thought with disbelief. She knew about superheroes; her home city of Woldercan was
teeming with them, but those heroes flew, ran, or swung from skyscraper to skyscraper. She had never heard of one driving a souped-up Monte Carlo for Uber.
It was ridiculous!
"Who are you?" she asked.
The driver chuckled good-naturedly, "I asked you first."
"Anna," she answered, "Anna Bauer."
"Pleased to meet you, Anna Bauer." he glanced at her in the rearview mirror, "I'm Captain Hero. Maybe you've heard of me?"
"No. Never."
"Oh," the Monte Carlo paused at a red light. "I'm a Local Hero. I keep the population safe from the forces of chaos. It's a bigger job than you might think."
Anna had no idea how to respond to that.
"So," a smartphone was mounted to the dashboard; the masked man poked at the screen purposefully, "Where are you headed?"
"Home," she said.
Captain Hero chuckled again, "And home is?"
Anna gave him the address, and he nodded, "I'll have you there in a jiffy."
Four headlights began to bear down on them. Captain Hero looked in his side-view mirror; his voice was calm with curiosity. "Now, what is this?"
The light still hadn't changed. Anna looked back again and screamed, "It's them! They're coming!"
"Trucks?" the masked man turned in his seat, "Since when do they drive?"
The lights turned green. The Monte Carlo revved its engine and barreled through the intersection with two pickup trucks in hot pursuit. A handful of the monsters had crowded into the rear cab of each. They threw bricks and stones as their vehicles drew closer.
The Monte Carlo took a hard left. "What are they?" Anna asked as she held on for dear life.
"Sewer ghouls," Captain Hero said, "bit of a local problem."
Anna was struggling to get her seatbelt on. She breathed a sigh of relief when it clicked into place. The trucks were getting closer. One mounted the sidewalk and crashed headlong through a pile of abandoned boxes.
"So," he asked, "what were you doing in Pickman's Grove anyway?"
The question stunned her, "Antiquing."
"I see," he nodded, "you can find some great little shops there, great bargains too."
"My friend drove us. Her car was stolen. Then something grabbed her from out of the shadows."
"The poor dear."
One of the trucks was close enough to bump the Monte Carlo. Captain Hero pressed a button on the dashboard, and a stream of liquid squirted out of the back bumper. The truck fishtailed and crashed.
Anna asked, "What did you do?"
"Oil slick," he replied, "but don't worry. I use canola oil. It's better for the environment."
The second truck came roaring up beside them. The sewer ghouls in the back started bashing the car with their homemade weapons. Anna squealed with terror.
Captain Hero said, "Don't worry. I had this Monte Carlo specially augmented. It has weapons, a nitrous oxide injection system, and the sound system will knock your socks off. Let me show you."
Smooth Jazz began to fill the car.
"That's the college station. Professor Hinkley has a show every day from ten to midnight," Captain Hero jerked the wheel, clipping the driver's side tire of the second truck, "after that, this talk radio woman comes on. She calls herself 'Morning Wood'. A bit too edgy for my tastes."
One of the sewer ghouls lept out and landed on the hood of the Monte Carlo just before the truck spun out and crashed sideways into a lamppost.
"By the way, would you like a complimentary energy drink? There's a cooler to your left. Mind the clearly labeled specimen jars. They're for a case I'm working on."
"No, thank you," she said.
The ghoul on the hood clawed at the windshield and spat. With a push of a button, Captain Hero sent windshield washer fluid spraying into its eyes. It howled and tumbled from the car.
Anna cleared her throat, "I've never heard of a... person with your lifestyle doing this for a living."
"Well, being a caped crusader doesn't pay the bills like it used to," Captain Hero explained. "So, this way, I get to make a living, set my own hours, and defend truth, justice, and the American Way."
A new vehicle careened out of a nearby garage. The wide, bulky, almost-tractor-like shape had a feral-looking man in a tuxedo behind the wheel. Captain Hero stared at his rearview mirror in wide-eyed shock. "Is that a Zamboni?"
The Zamboni fired a rocket, the blast missing the back of the Monte Carlo by inches. The nearby explosion was enough to momentarily launch the Monte Carlo into the air. It soared along for two seconds, then touched down onto two wheels. It rolled like that for a few yards, then dropped back onto its four tires.
Captain Hero shook his head ruefully, "Where are they getting this stuff?"
Anna was starting to feel carsick and airsick all at once, "They don't have any more rockets do they?"
"Sadly, in my experience, these things come in pairs." A blinding flash filled the rearview mirror, "Speak of the devil."
He hit the brakes and twisted the steering wheel, the car spun in a semi-circle. The rocket sailed past the Monte Carlo to impact the side of a long abandoned Burger Clown restaurant. The structure crumpled and began to burn.
"For years I've wanted to chase these creeps out of the tunnels, but they got a lawyer and set up all kinds of restraining orders," Captain Hero explained, "something about squatters' rights."
Now, they were facing the speeding Zamboni. Captain Hero slammed his foot on the accelerator and charged straight at the vehicle. Anna's stomach clenched, the Zamboni's headlights flared, and the music of John Coltrain gently caressed their ears.
At the last second, the Zamboni driver turned away, his vehicle hitting the curb and toppling over onto its side. The tuxedoed ghoul shook its fist at them as they sped away.
The rest of the drive to Woldercan was uneventful. Anna spent most of the time trying to figure out what she was going to say to Tabitha's bridge partner.
The car finally slowed to a stop in front of Anna's house. Captain Hero checked his phone and said, "That will be $28.50."
"What?" Anna said, more confused than upset.
"Sorry ma'am it's surge rates right now."
Anna pressed the button on her app to pay for the trip. "I'm on a fixed income. I hope a fifteen percent tip is ok."
"Every little bit helps," He got out of the car, slid across the hood, and opened the passenger door. He gently took her hand as she got out, "Although truth be told, keeping nice people like you from being subjected to unspeakable rituals and then being eaten alive is its own reward."
"Is that what was going to happen to me?" Anna looked at her phone, wondering how to increase the gratuity to twenty percent.
His dashboard-mounted cell phone chimed, and he glanced at it. "Hmmm looks like a couple of joggers have been cornered by an angry night-gaunt. Talk about a ticklish situation."
"What is a-"
The man in red spandex leaped into the Monte Carlo with a flourish of his blue cape. The tires squealed as he sped away. Anna put her hands to the sides of her head; this had been the strangest night of her life.
The Monte Carlo's tires shrieked in protest as the vehicle sped back to her in reverse. The masked avenger poked his head out the driver's side window and said, "Oh, and if you liked your service I'd appreciate a five-star review. It really helps."
Anna nodded, "I'll get my granddaughter to help me."
And then, with a thumbs up, a cloud of dust, and a hearty "Captain Hero AWAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!" he was gone.
The last remnants of a time-lost love are uncovered when I revisit a once-thriving mall to shop its final liquidation sale...
'Everything Must Go' was written by Al Bruno III
It was produced and read by Kenneth Cooper
Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton
The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams
Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G
Are you enjoying the show?
Become a recurring subscriber.
This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License
by
Al Bruno
Fall 2000
It was not a physical decay that had rotted Mountainview Mall away from the inside but an economic one. The stores had bled away bit by bit. Some had been small businesses that never stood a chance, like a store that sold nothing but products made in Switzerland. Others had been casualties of changing tastes and fashions.
Losses like that could be dealt with, but when the mall's McDonald's closed down, it was the beginning of the end. I was there for a liquidation sale for a big box electronics store that had been placed there in hopes of reviving customer traffic. The plan had failed, and now this store was the only business left. Everything else was just empty windows and boarded-up doorways. I wasn't there to buy anything but would bring something away with me nonetheless.
Bargain hunters like me entered the mostly defunct electronics store through the front door, but there was another door to be found. It was at the back, near the nearly empty video department. All left there now was a handful of Playboy features and cheaply produced Disney direct-to-video movies. I doubt anyone would have the nerve to bring either video cassette to the sour-looking woman at the register. That second door was kept open to cool down the store, better than paying for air conditioning.
It was easy enough for me to slip through those doors and wander into The mall's darkened interior. I could see the empty spaces that had been a Woolworth's, a restaurant, and Spencer's gifts. When I was a teenager, I had frittered so many hours and dollars away in this place.
The mall's fountain had dried up long ago, the water turned off, the pennies and nickels snatched away. There was dirt and dust everywhere, as well as scraps of old paper and rat droppings, some dried and some fresh. The newspapers said that as soon as the electronics store was emptied, this mall would be knocked down, and a much more eye-pleasing shopping plaza would rise up from the ruins. There were even hushed and reverent whispers that a Target or Wal-Mart would be there.
I wondered when that would be. I was thirty-six, and so many of my life's landmarks had disappeared or changed into something unrecognizable. I asked how much longer it would be before the wrecking ball came for this place. I didn't know, but I knew this would be my last chance to get what I had left behind.
Despite the shadows and the grime, I found the spot easily. It was just an ordinary bench; I remember it faced a women's clothing store. The bench was chipped and lopsided. It creaked threateningly as I sat down. When I closed my eyes, I could remember the girl sitting beside me. The strawberry blonde, my first love.
The sounds came first, the murmur of voices, the empty din of the piped-in music. I saw myself at sixteen years old, so awkward and forever feeling like I would never measure up to the world's expectations of me.
I could tell you that my first love was as cute as a button, but that would be a lie because there wasn't a button made that could have held a candle to her. I remembered the white winter jacket she wore and the scent of her perfume. It was soft, gentle, and unique like her, and I never smelled it like it again. That day, we had been sitting side by side, joking and talking. That first kiss, my first kiss, happened so fast, and after that, nothing was ever the same again.
Did we look ridiculous sitting there, making out in full view of the world? Probably, and I suppose more than a few people didn't approve, but no one tried to separate or shame us.
Which is good because you couldn't have pried her from my embrace with a crowbar. I didn't want those kisses to end. I wanted them to go on forever.
Impossible, I know, but when you're sixteen, time moves so slowly that forever seems easy.
But there was no forever. There was just that moment, which had ended as surely as Mountainview Mall had become a faux-deco tomb. I opened my eyes, and I was thirty-six- definitely older but only maybe a little wiser. I have a wife, daughter, and an appalling number of pets waiting for me back home, and for all my mooning over the past and smartass remarks, I couldn't wait to see them.
I savored that memory, hiding it away in my mind and my heart as I brought it with me. I was sure no one would mind one less ghost haunting a place like this.