Thursday, May 16, 2024

THIS IS THE CHANNEL AB3 PODCAST

 



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


 


 



Wednesday, May 15, 2024

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Fourteen: How I Wonder What You Are


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 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

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


Check out this episode!

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: How I Wonder What You Are

 


By
Al Bruno III


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.

 

 
 

Wednesday, May 1, 2024

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Thirteen: The Striding Place (A story I didn't write)


When his close friend mysteriously disappears, Weigall encounters the disturbing reality of the soul's destiny.

And was originally published in 1896

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.

Or make a one-time donation!

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 Share Alike 4.0 International License

 

 


Check out this episode!

Monday, April 15, 2024

STORIES IN THE KEY OF LOVECRAFT



THE OCEAN DOESN'T WANT ME

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.

 

FOREVER TILL THE END OF TIME

A divorced man's ex-wife reveals a terrifying discovery that could grant them eternal life at a terrible cost.
 

WHAT ROUGH BEAST

A young primatology professor forms a bond with an experiment gone wrong and faces the consequences of her actions.


MARCIE DID YOU KNOW 

 Marcie's obsession with the unknown leads to her facing the consequences of what she always wanted.

 

 

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Twelve: Trochildae


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.

Or make a one-time donation!

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

 


Check out this episode!

STORIES IN THE KEY OF LOVECRAFT: Trochildae

 

by

Al Bruno III

(for Valerie Jones)


The air was humid and thick with pollen. The path that led through the field was uneven and uphill. The grass that bordered it was thickly flowered with blooms the color of blood. Trees surrounded them, hemlock spruces and white cedars. Occasionally a cicada-like hum would rise up from all around and then fade away.

Joseph hurried after the old man trying to make him sell but the old man just wouldn't listen.

Creer family moved here in 1806,” the old man said. He was white haired but broad-shouldered and thickly built, “The Protestants in New York hadn’t taken too kindly to them ‘cause they kept to themselves and didn’t worship in the fine respectable churches everyone else did. They bought these acres, it wasn’t farmin’ land you see. Gully’s too deep and the ground’s no good for tillin’.”

“Mr. Fenner my company is more than willing to meet almost any price...” Joseph paused to brush a burr from his slacks, he was sure that by the time this was over his suit would be ruined. Not that he ever wore one of his really good suits when visiting these hick towns, but he still didn’t like the idea of getting grass stains or worse on what he was wearing. Something whizzed past his head, it looked like the biggest, pinkest bumblebee he had ever seen. Joseph had always hated the out of doors. Camping and long walks on the beach were not for him. He preferred the odors and sounds of the city, he’d take subway rats over bunnies and woodchucks any day.

They spied a post nearby, just a bolt of wood standing out in the middle of the tall grass. A milk bottle hung from it. The old man made his way to it and filled it from the watering can he was carrying. The fluid that trickled into the bottle was thick and syrupy. “Now the Creer family was all daughters...” he continued, “well that ain’t really true but they had no luck with the male children. Those that weren’t stillborn or simple ran away from home soon as they could.”

When the old man came back to the path there were a dozen or so ticks on his overalls. Joseph felt his skin crawl, he started brushing at his clothes self-consciously. Was there one crawling up his leg now? Was there more than one?

And why was it the old man just wouldn't listen?

The tree line was growing closer, “Now the Fenner family married into the Creers. The Fenners had made their fortunes in Mexico but they came back up north right before the Alamo fell. Soon enough all the Creer daughters married the Fenner sons. Most of ‘em settled here, they built additions onto the house and made families of their own. Some families moved in to town to make their fortunes,” the old man turned and gave Joseph a ragged grin, “but I’m the last now. Last for miles, wife and kids all gone.”

So why stay here?” They reached another post with another bottle, the old man filled it. Joseph turned to look back and grimaced at how far they had come. There was a weathered stone wheel lying near the path, there had been writing on it once but it had been reduced to mottled shapes. “All your neighbors have sold to us already. We want to break ground by the fall.”

The old man got back on the path and started walking again, “But ain’t there enough stores in the world already? Besides, if I sell and you plow all this under where will the Trochildae go?”

Tr- what?”

“Trochildae, least that’s what we Fenners call them. Ain’t got no proper names really but they’re like hummingbirds.”

Joseph groaned inwardly, he had thought the old man was a just a crazy old coot but it was worse than that, he was a tree hugger. “Mr. Fenner there is no record of any endangered species...”

“Well of course not,” the old man replied, “but they're here, been livin' here since before the Creers and the Fenners, since before any man lived at all. Some say the Old Ones brought them down from the stars.”

They followed the path into the woods, Joseph breathed a sigh of relief at the cool shade. He watched the old man fill another bottle. He began “Mr. Fenner I think we have gotten off the subject...” then his words trailed off.

They had reached a clearing in the woods, a rough circle where no plant grew and slabs of stone protruded from the ground. There were figures tied to the stones, men, women and children all bound and gagged with strips of leather. Their flesh was pockmarked and torn. To Joseph's widening eyes they looked like mummies.

But some of those mummies were writhing in place.

A sharp sting of pain made him cry out. Joseph snatched at his cheek and found his fingers warm with blood. There was something flitting around his head, moving fast and filling his ears with a heavy droning buzz.

The thing- the Trochildae- moved too quickly to be seen clearly but Joseph could see it was only bird-like in the vaguest sense of the word. The body was frail-looking and devoid of feathers, dark veins ran through its flesh and its wings moved so quickly that it was impossible to judge how many of them there were. Joseph screamed and swatted at it, backing away and in to the old man's waiting arms. The old man was strong, impossibly strong.

The forest came alive with the sound of the Trochildae as Joseph was expertly bound to a stone. Dozens of the creatures flew this way and that in anticipation.

Over and over again Joseph begged for mercy, but the old man just wouldn't listen.