0:00

Father Duffy looked up. You don't understand.

0:03

The 30th Gospel talks about this podcast

0:05

at this place at this time. It describes

0:07

it as terrifying, driving mad those

0:09

who hear it. We have to warn them!

0:14

Pseudopod Episode 890 This

0:18

week's story, The King in Yellow by

0:21

Karen Warren Narrated

0:23

by Petra Elliott Audio production

0:26

by Chelsea Davis Hosted

0:28

by me, Alistair Stewart Hey

0:32

everyone, welcome to Pseudopod, the weekly

0:34

horror podcast. I'm Alistair, your

0:36

host, and this week's story, audio produced

0:38

as ever by the amazing Chelsea, is

0:41

from Karen Warren. Shirley

0:43

Jackson Award winner Karen published

0:45

her first short story in 1993 and has

0:47

had fiction in

0:50

print every year since. She

0:53

was given the Peter McNamara Lifetime Achievement

0:55

Award and was guest of honour at World Fantasy 2018,

0:58

StokerCon 2019, and GizaCon 2019.

1:01

She has

1:04

also been guest of honour at Conflux

1:06

in Canberra and GenreCon in Brisbane.

1:09

She's lived in Melbourne, Sydney, Canberra

1:12

and Fiji, drawing inspiration from every

1:14

place. 2023 has

1:16

seen the publication of two novellas, The

1:19

Death Place Set from Crystal Lake and

1:21

Bitters from Cemetery Dance.

1:24

Your narrator this week is Petra Elliott. Petra

1:27

Elliott is an actor, singer and presenter

1:29

who currently spends most days as a game facilitator

1:32

for Directors of Extraordinary and Great Race

1:35

Australia, running team building events that

1:37

utilise escape room style puzzles and TV

1:39

reality game show style challenges. In 2013,

1:43

she co-hosted the Splendid Chaps podcast

1:45

celebrating the Doctor Who 50th anniversary,

1:48

which led to co-creating and starring in sci-fi

1:50

time travel comedy audio series, Night

1:53

Terrace, which she has heard

1:55

on BBC Radio 4 Extra. And it's great, and

1:57

you should listen to it.

1:59

Petra Sexual, that's a

2:02

hell of a title, good job, Petra,

2:04

debuted in 2014. As

2:06

ever, all her social media details

2:08

will be in the show notes. So

2:11

drink up, because the

2:13

King's truth is here.

2:21

The King In Yella by Karen

2:23

Warren. Narrated by Petra

2:25

Elliott.

2:29

I'm always returning to wrap town in my thoughts.

2:32

Unbidden, unwanted, I'm taken

2:34

back there. A hint of

2:36

yellow, the smell of smoke. These

2:39

things blind me to the present. I

2:43

haven't lived there for 16 years, since

2:45

I was seven. And mostly, what

2:47

I remember is dreamlike and unreal.

2:51

That's what kid memories are like, right? Blurry

2:55

and odd, not making much sense.

2:59

Sometimes I'm transported by these subtle

3:01

things. And other times,

3:03

the method is more concrete. The

3:07

arrival of the brooch was as concrete

3:09

as they come. Accompanied

3:12

by a note from my mother, sorry,

3:14

was supposed to be for your 21st, but forgot, I

3:17

am a dopey drawers. Love, mum. Such

3:20

notes stained with what I hoped was

3:23

red wine and perhaps suntan lotion,

3:26

envelope postmarked Brisbane. I

3:29

remember this brooch, although no one

3:31

I knew ever wore it. It

3:33

sat on my father's dressing table in a purple

3:36

velvet box. And every now and

3:38

then, I would sneak in to spy

3:40

on it, touch it. I

3:43

thought then it must be worth a million

3:45

dollars or more, because it was made

3:47

of a dull yellow metal that must

3:50

be gold.

3:52

My father said the king in yellow gave it to him, and

3:55

I remember the look on his face, of

3:57

reverence and of fear at the same time. When

4:01

my father died and we left Wrap Town, it

4:04

must have impacted a way. Only

4:06

my mother could answer to that. The

4:10

brooch no longer had its velvet box. I

4:12

hid it in my underwear drawer without showing my flatmates,

4:15

whom I didn't trust for a second. Not

4:18

that they would steal anything, but they'd

4:20

borrow and lose and all the rest of it. If

4:23

they weren't such a fun to be around, and if I

4:25

could afford it, I'd live alone. But

4:27

this is where we are at the moment.

4:32

Did it enter my dreams that night, my old

4:34

brooch? I

4:37

awoke with a memory of a tall man bent over

4:39

me, his breath clouding

4:41

physically over my face, the smell

4:43

of it like old wet dirt.

4:48

Or old wet dog, because there he was,

4:50

my dear old Rupert pressed up against me

4:52

seeking heat. I pushed him away

4:54

gently. Off you get, big fella,

4:57

I said. I really should take

4:59

him to the vet, but I knew what they'd

5:01

say, and I wasn't ready yet to

5:03

live without him. I

5:06

had work that day, eight hours typing

5:08

up insurance claims, the tedium

5:10

of it all allowing my mind to drift to places

5:13

I didn't want to drift to.

5:16

That night I found an invitation in the letterbox,

5:18

the address forwarded two or three times. My

5:21

mother had clearly forgotten I'd moved. I'd

5:24

better call and remind her. You

5:28

are invited, it said on the front, to

5:30

the launch of a book of great truths. All

5:33

proceeds to benefit our heroes, the firefighters

5:36

of Australia, and the animals who have lost

5:38

their homes. Inside,

5:41

it said, Fighting fires is thirsty

5:43

work. Please come to the Karkosa

5:45

Hotel, 998 Pell Street, Shangri-La.

5:49

Art and words by Casilda Wilde Shangri-La

5:53

was Raptown, my childhood suburb.

5:56

They changed the name because of the Raptown murders, 15

5:59

girls killed.

5:59

killed and buried here, as if that would make

6:02

it a different place somehow.

6:04

It was still wrapped down to me, now and

6:06

forever.

6:09

Tickets were $100 and the event was

6:11

that week. I laughed at the

6:13

idea of my going at that price and sent

6:15

Mum a text message to remind her I'd changed my

6:17

address. I said, I

6:20

don't know who Casilda Wilde is, but she wants $100 a

6:22

ticket. She FaceTimed

6:24

me. Don't you remember?

6:27

She said. She was a neighbour.

6:29

She looked after you and I had to go to work. You

6:32

learnt how to paint from her. My

6:35

mother was in Brisbane with her boyfriend. Scuba

6:37

diving, she said, lifting her fingers

6:39

into air quotes.

6:41

I don't want to know, Mum, I told her. Don't

6:45

go, Olivia. Don't even think about

6:47

it. We got out of Wrap Town once. You

6:50

don't want to be stuck there again. You'll be captured.

6:53

What? Captured by the

6:55

King in Yella? It was a joke,

6:58

but she snorted, him? That's

7:00

just someone your father invented to cover up his

7:02

awful behaviour. I knew

7:04

she was right, but it didn't help. I

7:06

saw the King in Yella everywhere. A flash here,

7:08

a flash there. My

7:11

father always said, the King in Yella made me do

7:13

it when he came home blind drunk, late.

7:16

When he came home with the shit bashed out of him, or

7:18

with an arm full of stolen goods, or

7:21

with scratches all over him from who knew

7:23

what. There were

7:25

so many small dangers in life. I

7:28

chose to ignore most of them. I

7:32

really didn't remember this neighbour, not

7:34

even when she came knocking at my door the next

7:36

day. Look

7:38

at you, she said, cupping my face

7:41

with her hands. They were cold

7:43

and firm, and that, perhaps, I

7:45

remembered. Little

7:48

Olivia, all grown up, you

7:50

look like your father. Handsome

7:53

man, handsome man. My

7:56

father had been skinny, pale and

7:58

pockmarked. not a handsome man

8:01

at all. She nodded

8:03

at me. Mrs Wild, she

8:05

said. Casilda, your autistic

8:08

neighbour. Casilda

8:10

insisted on taking me out for dinner, although

8:12

I assured her I didn't need the charity. It

8:15

isn't charity, my dear. I need

8:17

your help. I need your help

8:20

with my launch this weekend because I have not

8:22

one young person on board to spread

8:24

the word and help me on the day.

8:27

She had collected ash, she said. From

8:30

the bushfires and any other place where

8:32

people had lost their homes and their lives.

8:35

I have them from all down the south coast. I don't know. Maybe I

8:38

have people's houses in there. Pets,

8:41

koalas. Not knowing is

8:44

part of what makes it art.

8:46

Tears came to her eyes. It's

8:49

the tragedy of loss I want to capture and

8:52

that we are all one in ashes.

8:56

She lowered her head and said, I'm

8:58

as respectful as possible when I take the ashes.

9:02

I didn't like the way she smelled. It wasn't the ash. It

9:04

was her. Like

9:07

a marshmallow-topped meat casserole left out in the sun. Ask

9:10

me how I know how that smells. But

9:12

she had received donated funds galore and was

9:15

happy to buy vodka tonics all night. She grabbed

9:18

at my arm. Can't you just imagine the

9:20

peace? Statue of a fireman,

9:23

smudged grey, here wild, yellow,

9:25

high-visibility vest.

9:28

Like a king, I said. And she

9:30

looked at me strangely. When

9:32

was the last time you went back to wrap down? We

9:36

were sitting in a small dark bar, I

9:38

felt sure, housed mice. Not since I was

9:41

a kid. Since they

9:43

changed the name. No reason to go

9:45

back and if I were not upset, Mum. Not

9:47

good memories. Oh,

9:50

come on. We had some lovely times there.

9:54

I had a flashback. This woman tossing

9:57

back champagne and laughing until she fell over. in

10:00

the kitchen washing up. I

10:02

remembered what a front yard had looked like, full

10:05

of the debris of other people's lives. Car

10:07

crash parts, house fire parts, building

10:10

demolition parts, toys in a

10:12

dilapidated state.

10:14

She liked to think she was like an auntie to

10:16

us, even though she was old enough to be our grandmother.

10:21

Still, it had been a good neighbourhood. Lots

10:23

of kids, quiet streets. That

10:27

part of Raptown I remembered. I

10:31

don't like drinking to blackout stage and

10:34

rarely do, but as it happens, I

10:36

came to on the drain. I was damp

10:38

with sweat and my face felt clammy. To

10:42

my great relief, I hadn't been sick. There

10:44

were no nasty puddles at my feet. I must

10:47

have been home because I wore my only good dress

10:50

and the brooch was pinned to my breast. A

10:53

man opposite me sat nodding and grinning. I

10:57

drew my knees together and looked out

10:59

the window, my eyesight lurry.

11:03

We passed through Raptown, the train

11:05

going so fast, earning glimpsed a tumbling

11:08

pile of suitcases. But the next

11:10

stop was Raptown again, a man

11:12

in a suit squatted beside a bush. And

11:14

again, beer kegs tipped over. And

11:17

again, but this time the train slowed.

11:20

And of course, there was only one stop in

11:23

Raptown. I don't know how

11:25

we passed through it so many times or

11:27

if we did, or if, as

11:29

my mother would say, I'd

11:32

been lost in my own head again. On

11:36

the platform were men in yellow waiting to unload

11:39

and someone said, your stop. I

11:42

stumbled off. I

11:44

had been through Raptown station many times on the

11:46

train and never liked the transit. Travelling

11:50

through you heard screams sometimes and

11:52

we all ignored it. It was only

11:55

two stops to the city. No one wanted

11:57

to stop the train. They all wanted to get where

11:59

they were going. I

12:01

had not stood on Raptown Station since I was

12:03

a schoolgirl. I knew

12:05

it so well then, many hours spent waiting

12:08

for trains. So many of them didn't

12:10

stop there, from superstition and

12:12

lack of demand. Even though they

12:14

changed the name of our suburb to Shangri-La, it

12:17

was still associated with the serial killer who'd lived

12:19

and worked there decades earlier. We

12:22

used to joke that if we lived in heaven we must all be

12:24

dead, but the parents hated that

12:26

one. One had left

12:28

shopping at the station, meat, crawling

12:32

with maggots.

12:33

A homeless man squatted and ate. His

12:36

puffy white face looked like a maggot itself,

12:38

but greenish.

12:40

That could have been the light on the platform, which rendered

12:42

everything that same sickly green yellow.

12:46

He wore a tattered coat, and I thought he was

12:48

short and fat, but when he stood up

12:50

he was tall and regal, standing

12:52

there proudly as if he owned the world. His

12:55

face was jaundiced, and I wondered if he

12:57

was close to death, but as I

12:59

watched he vanished from sight, leaving

13:02

only the mess of meat, the cloak,

13:04

and a dark sharp smell. Lots

13:08

of others got off at Raptown with me. They

13:10

dispersed, disappearing into the streets.

13:13

I wondered how many were going to Casilda's launch.

13:16

Graffiti covered many of the walls as

13:18

I'd left the station and headed down the street.

13:22

I thought I shouldn't read the words, that each

13:24

one would enter my consciousness. My

13:26

mother had told me not to read the words. Don't

13:29

read them! But she wasn't a

13:31

fan of reading anything at all, to be fair. I

13:34

could smell the Raptown rot, as we

13:36

used to call it. The stench of

13:38

old rubbish and who knew what in the houses.

13:41

The grass was dry wherever I looked, and

13:44

strangely shaped rocks sat on front lawns and

13:46

blocked the footpath here and there. The

13:48

shops, including Pub, Cafe

13:51

and Butcher, were to the right of the station.

13:54

Curiosity led me to the left, though, where

13:56

my house once stood. I

13:59

would go home. home first. It

14:02

had all changed, and of course memory

14:04

makes some things more important than others.

14:07

The War Memorial, a pyramid made with brass

14:09

and inscribed with names,

14:11

loomed in my mind as enormous

14:14

and covered with hundreds of names. Instead

14:17

there were only a dozen men listed on a structure

14:19

that reached as high as my shoulders. Had

14:23

someone removed the rest? Or was

14:25

I not in Raptown after all but some other

14:27

dying suburb? I

14:29

looked for familiar landmarks, graffiti,

14:32

the bus stop hidden in bushes where I was sure

14:34

assassins used to hide, the strip

14:37

of footpath where a big dog had walked

14:39

in wet cement, the

14:41

Murder House. As children

14:44

we never missed the opportunity to walk past

14:46

the Murder House. We

14:49

all knew which one it was. There were still

14:51

trenches in the front yard, along the side

14:53

and, if you looked over the side fence that

14:55

verged on a walkway, the back yard, where

14:58

the bodies of those fifteen young women

15:00

had been buried. Long before my time

15:02

of course, those bodies belonged to women who

15:05

would have been my grandmother's age if they'd

15:07

lived. The front

15:09

door to the Murder House was closed, as it

15:11

always was, and it was with

15:13

a sudden chill I realised why

15:15

the sign on my brooch was so familiar. There

15:18

it was, emblazoned on the front

15:20

door in a dull yellow paint. I

15:23

touched my brooch instinctively, as if

15:25

it could perhaps protect me, and walked on.

15:28

As kids

15:30

we used to say the King and Yella lived

15:32

in that house. I

15:35

remember once, my father came home drunk,

15:37

kicking over the milk bottles at the front door, pushing

15:40

his hand through the fly wire in an attempt to open

15:42

it, tipping over a kitchen chair when he draped

15:44

his sodden coat over it.

15:46

I heard mum patter down the stairs,

15:48

pausing half way, and

15:50

I leapt out of bed to stop her.

15:52

She told me don't let me have a go at him in that state.

15:55

I'll get it off my chest, but he won't remember.

15:58

Save it for the morning when he's sick and sorry. for

16:00

himself. It was too

16:02

late though.

16:04

She was down there shouting at him and

16:06

him vomiting in the sink and

16:08

then the back door slamming and

16:10

a terrible silence and my mother.

16:12

I didn't see

16:14

her for three days after that. She's

16:18

fucked off with the king in Yela, Dad

16:20

said next morning. Now she knows

16:22

what it's like. You can't

16:25

say no to the king in Yela. I

16:31

walked toward my street. Houses

16:33

were burnt along the way,

16:35

not repaired in the last 16 years or

16:38

burnt again perhaps.

16:40

There were many hazards to watch for.

16:42

Curved bowls of glass, jagged at

16:44

the edges, old rusty nails,

16:47

bones poking up out of the ground. I couldn't

16:51

tell which was my house. Up

16:54

ahead I swear I saw a tall man

16:56

with a yellow raincoat and it started

16:58

to rain. Riving worms on

17:01

the lawn and on the footpath made me feel sick.

17:04

We used to call them dead ducks and go

17:06

around counting them. One day

17:08

we got to 38, a very

17:10

high number to my seven year old brain. I

17:14

turned around and headed for the pub. All

17:17

this way I didn't want to miss the launch. That

17:20

town had the pub, a butcher's and a cafe

17:22

called This Blue Starlight. It

17:24

was closed and it looked dusty and deserted

17:27

inside. The butcher's

17:29

had a reddish light making everything look fresh-killed.

17:32

The smell escaping under the door told a very

17:34

different story. The

17:36

butcher, very large, pink-faced,

17:39

gave me a cheery smile and a wave.

17:41

Come and taste some sausage, he

17:43

called out and I shook my head. The

17:48

silda wild stood on the steps of the pub, near

17:50

the public bar door. She wore sensible

17:52

pants and a colourful patchwork top. You

17:55

made it, she said a voice cross.

17:58

Better late than never. I suppose."

18:01

She blocked the entrance. When

18:03

I approached, though, she smiled. "'Nice

18:07

brooch,' she said.

18:09

She had told me to wear something that reminded me of my

18:11

father.

18:12

She said, "'We are remembering

18:14

those lost in fires.' I

18:17

guess that's why my drunken self had chosen the brooch.

18:20

I didn't remember pinning it on. Casilda

18:22

tore the brooch off me. "'Give us a

18:24

look,' she said, her voice thick

18:27

and rough around the edges. She

18:29

tore my dress, leaving my purple bra exposed

18:32

and the top of a tiny tattoo of a dove I had

18:34

on my left breast. "'Sorry,'

18:37

she said. "'I'll give you a free book, okay?'

18:41

One room of the pub had been set aside for her event.

18:44

There were upwards of fifty people in there, maybe

18:46

more. At a hundred dollars

18:48

a head, I guessed some money was being

18:50

raised for the Fireys, because most of

18:52

them were unpaid volunteers and this was a way to

18:54

thank them for keeping us safe. One

18:57

of the walls on plinths and shelves was

18:59

her art. Ugly

19:02

grey pieces that seemed blubbish and certainly

19:05

not beautiful. In places,

19:08

she'd repaired cracks in the walls with the same

19:10

ash. One man

19:12

dressed in a yellow firefighter's coat with a yellow

19:14

helmet called for attention. He

19:17

said, "'Some think this place

19:19

is a shit hole. Others

19:22

find refuge. People

19:25

know soon enough which one you

19:27

are. Some look

19:29

out on a fire-ravaged forest and

19:31

see devastation. Others

19:34

see a lushness they can't be

19:36

forgotten. When

19:38

we were out there, keeping you

19:40

lot safe,' there was a titter

19:43

of laughter amongst the group, as if he was

19:45

joking. These people

19:47

were well-heeled, most of them owning at least two

19:49

houses. None of them cared

19:51

if their coast houses burnt or

19:53

their bush houses. We

19:56

saw something none of you have seen.

19:59

We all saw it." It was a

20:01

giant figure leaving footprints. We

20:04

knew if we saw him, there was no

20:07

hope. Where he trod

20:09

would burn to the ground. Be

20:12

thankful he isn't here today, that fella.

20:16

He took a large swallow of beer draining

20:18

his glass. It's thirsty work,

20:20

she says,

20:22

he said, thumbing at Casilda.

20:24

Thirsty fucking work. Gonna

20:27

drink up, buy all this shit,

20:30

make us some money so we can outrun that tall

20:32

bastard. I

20:34

wasn't about to buy any of her crappy artwork, but

20:36

I did buy myself a drink called a bronze whip cocktail.

20:39

Whiskey, lemon juice, sugar syrup,

20:42

red wine, it was potent and

20:45

pretty good. I bought another and

20:48

one for the fireman who'd launched the exhibit. He

20:50

accepted it happily. Who

20:53

was he? This tall guy. The

20:55

man was solid, handsome in a red-faced

20:58

way. He wore a good cologne and

21:00

I wanted to get closer to him. Every

21:03

step he took he left fire behind.

21:06

You could see him in the flames, laughing and roaring.

21:09

The king in yellow, I said. He

21:13

looked at me. Maybe,

21:15

he said, he could be right there.

21:19

He smiled, slightly broken-toothed,

21:21

slightly crooked, one side of his mouth

21:23

slacker than the other. I

21:26

was already thinking of kissing him when

21:29

a woman grabbed his shoulder. She

21:31

was neat, blonde, beautiful, perfect

21:34

looking and I knew I'd never had a chance.

21:37

He did wink at me though. Casilda

21:41

worked the room, pressing people to buy,

21:43

buy, buy. I bought another

21:45

drink and sought a place to hide from her.

21:47

I found a small room open upstairs,

21:50

a wall of moth-eaten books, a

21:52

ceiling painted with black stars, tattered

21:55

curtains on the windows. It

21:57

seemed like a storage room more than anything else. I

22:00

sat and finished my drink, enjoying the quiet,

22:04

when I noticed one book on the shelves.

22:07

It was beautiful, different from the others.

22:10

The cover felt soft yet rigid,

22:13

like serpent skin. And

22:15

the title, well, it

22:19

was called The King in Yellow.

22:23

I would have said that's when my dad got the name,

22:26

but he never read. I

22:30

wouldn't, a voice said. It

22:32

was the pub owner, a man with a small,

22:35

fat white face but bright, clear eyes.

22:39

His name was Elvis, and they'd never seen anyone

22:41

suit their name less. They

22:43

only read that if they're going to top themselves.

22:48

This is what they call the suicide chamber.

22:52

Should be locked, it usually is. Some

22:55

bastard must have unlocked it. He

22:57

gestured me out, locking the door after

23:00

us. That much

23:02

bloody trouble when someone cocks it. I'm

23:04

not interested in another. I'm

23:07

not interested in that, I said, my protest

23:09

loud. I'd never even

23:11

thought that. Come on, love,

23:14

let's get you another, he said. I

23:17

had the book tucked under my arm, hoping

23:19

he wouldn't notice. Back

23:23

in the bar, Casilda was directing and informing

23:25

and telling people about her art.

23:28

I wondered if anyone ever stood up to her.

23:30

I wasn't about to. She barely

23:32

noticed my existence since she stole my brooch.

23:35

She was wearing it pinned to her broad bosom. I

23:39

drank so many of those damn cocktails.

23:43

We drank to my father, the pub owner

23:45

remembered him, called him a good drinking

23:48

man, and how he said his

23:50

heart was a homing device, that

23:52

no matter how drunk he was, he'd find his way home.

23:57

He died sickly yellow, my dad, jaundiced.

24:01

His liver so bad it wouldn't function anymore.

24:05

He told people he got bitten by a mosquito, that

24:08

he had yellow fever. But no

24:10

one believed that. When

24:12

our house burnt half down, he

24:14

was the only one in it. Couldn't

24:17

even get himself out. Scavengers

24:20

got there before we did. They

24:22

were welcome to it. I

24:26

heard the train rumbling in the distance and wondered

24:28

which one I should catch. I

24:30

heard the ding and ting of beer kegs being

24:32

moved about. Now

24:35

that was a sound that brought me back to Raptown. Reminded

24:39

me of going to get Dad at the early opener, or

24:41

walking with him there. He'd

24:44

hear the ding and ting of the beer kegs and

24:46

know the pub was opening. He'd say, music

24:49

to my ears. Rubbing

24:51

his hands together, back and forward, heel

24:54

to toe, heel to toe. Casilda

24:58

snatched the book from me and flipped it open. She

25:00

began to read aloud, intoning, marching

25:03

around the room, waving her arms

25:05

dramatically, acting. I

25:08

couldn't stand the sound of her voice, so

25:11

I ordered more cocktails and entered into

25:13

a conversation with anyone who'd talked to me. I

25:16

drank so many of those damn cocktails I fell asleep

25:18

in the big armchair in the foyer.

25:21

I was watched over by a man with a big coat.

25:24

He opened and closed it every few minutes. In

25:28

my fanciful state, I thought a

25:30

deep glow came from him. A

25:33

yellow radiance. Such

25:36

nonsense. I

25:39

missed the last train.

25:41

I fumbled with my phone to order a taxi,

25:43

but the pub owner told me there was a room upstairs put

25:45

aside for me.

25:46

Your father used to crash there, love. Many

25:49

of others were staying over as well. There

25:53

might even be a toothbrush left up there by

25:55

a previous tenant, he said in a kindly

25:57

voice, adding, and

25:59

women. are always leaving cumplugs behind if you need

26:02

one of those. He had waxy

26:04

looking ears that he cupped his hand behind, as

26:07

if he was hard of hearing. I

26:11

woke with my mouth so dry

26:13

I couldn't breathe. There

26:15

was a small sink in my room but no glass, so

26:18

I cupped my hands and drank thirstily.

26:22

The water was lukewarm and had a rusty flavour,

26:25

and once I quenched my thirst I went in search of something

26:27

to take the taste out of my mouth.

26:30

The party was still going in the bar. I

26:32

didn't know the time but it felt like about 3am.

26:36

I took a drink and saw what looked like an

26:38

altar at the end of the bar, and my

26:40

brooch pinned to it. I'd

26:43

forgotten about that, and the

26:45

fact that my dress was torn and my bra peeking

26:47

through, and one of the men in the room took

26:49

an interest in me. I'd

26:51

grab it back later, when none of them were

26:53

looking. The whole room

26:56

seemed filmed with a layer of ash. In

26:58

one corner was a mound of ash. Casilda

27:01

was tear-streaked, blind drunk. They've

27:04

smashed it all, she said. She

27:07

smashed it herself, Elvis said. Read

27:10

that whole bloody book, then destroyed

27:12

everything. He shook his head. She

27:16

still owes me if she hasn't spent at all.

27:20

A greenish light washed over everything. It

27:23

was like the moss growing on a grave, or

27:25

like green twigs burning. The

27:29

smell of young wood burnt too

27:31

soon, a life used

27:33

up too soon. Someone

27:37

put a drink in my hand, a deep yellow

27:39

dessert wine, and I drank quickly, and

27:42

then the next. In

27:45

the morning the sun woke me, creeping

27:47

in through a crack in the old blinds. I

27:50

wondered how I'd slept at all, because the

27:52

room was uncomfortably warm and the bed lumpy.

27:56

I stood in a patch of something sticky near the door

27:58

and cursed. I didn't

28:00

want to know what it was. I

28:02

limped to the shared bathroom. Stained

28:05

lino covered in cigarette burns. A shower

28:07

with no curtain. One toilet with

28:09

no seat.

28:11

I had no towel and nothing to change into.

28:14

But at least I could wash my face and get that sticky

28:16

stuff off my foot. I

28:18

had little to gather, just my bag and phone.

28:21

Then I went out by the back stairs. I

28:23

really didn't want to run into any of the late night

28:26

party goers. Call it day

28:28

after regret. Call it fear of sunlight

28:30

reality. I didn't want

28:33

to see them. The

28:35

first train wasn't for another half hour, so I thought

28:38

I'd try the old neighbourhood again. Today,

28:40

everything seemed familiar.

28:42

Almost too familiar, as if I hadn't left

28:44

at all.

28:45

I found my way easily to my childhood home.

28:49

It stood, half burnt. Was

28:52

it never repaired? Clearly

28:55

no one lived there. The lawn was grown thigh high.

28:58

There were advertising flies in massive piles by

29:00

the letterbox.

29:01

The door was half of its hinges.

29:04

A painted yellow crown on the door itself,

29:06

as it had been on other derelict houses.

29:09

And I thought the council should devise a clearer warning

29:11

symbol for dangerous buildings. Still,

29:15

I pushed my way inside.

29:18

It was dark, the dust so thick

29:20

I couldn't breathe. I

29:23

didn't think anyone had been there since we ran, and

29:26

my father killed himself in the fire. He'd

29:29

handcuffed himself to the radiator, they

29:31

said, because he was a weak man and didn't

29:33

want to be able to change his mind. I

29:37

heard a voice beside me, intoning,

29:39

low. It

29:42

was Casilda, reading that

29:44

book aloud to me, wearing

29:46

my brooch,

29:47

the one my father left to me, proof that he did

29:49

love me and remember me,

29:51

that he thought of me as he died.

29:54

Give me my brooch back, I

29:56

said, low-voiced. I'd

29:59

ordered men of interest. industry with that voice,

30:01

another so-called tough guys. She

30:04

put her hand over it, kept reading. I

30:07

moved through the house, wanting to see if we'd

30:09

left anything behind, wanting

30:11

to get away from her. In

30:14

the room where my father died, and

30:17

I could see the dark stain in the lino,

30:19

the spread of the burn, in the

30:22

corner where the radiator was,

30:24

I saw the remnants of his handcuffs.

30:27

Casilda, reading, came

30:29

into the room. She finished and

30:31

closed the book. There, she

30:34

said, all done. She

30:36

smiled at me. I read

30:39

to you through the night, she said, and

30:41

beside me the boys took it in turns to

30:43

watch. They liked you sleeping

30:46

there, limbs all loose and friendly.

30:49

I lunged at her, pushing her backwards.

30:52

For all her sterniness, she was old and

30:54

weak, and I tore the brooch from her, distended

30:57

the pin, and thrust

30:59

it deep into her eye. I

31:03

don't know what possessed me. To

31:06

this day, I don't understand what made me do

31:08

it, but the sight of her made

31:10

me so furious. I grasped

31:12

her throat and pressed. As

31:14

I'd done, I remembered

31:17

to my dear old dog, Rupert. Or

31:20

had I? Was that me? Or

31:22

had I watched it? I could

31:24

no longer tell my own memories from others,

31:28

until she finally sputtered and

31:30

stopped speaking. Then

31:34

I let her sink to the ground, and

31:37

I took back my brooch. There

31:43

was a hole in the floor, and by folding

31:45

and bending, I got her down there and covered

31:47

the space with some wood I found in the backyard.

31:50

A neighbor watched me over the fence, a tall

31:53

man, but it was only a tree with yellow

31:55

blossoms.

31:56

I needed to wash up, and there was no running

31:58

water in this old house.

32:00

So I ventured back to the pub. Elvis

32:03

was at the bar. Tomato

32:05

juice and vodka is the answer for you, he said,

32:08

pouring it for me. I'll

32:11

make sure he gets back to you, Father, he said,

32:13

raising his glass to me.

32:15

He held out his hand, and instinctively

32:18

I placed the brooch in his broad, soft,

32:21

white palm. I

32:23

felt a burning inside me, so hot

32:26

and terrible I couldn't speak, let

32:28

alone talk. And yet

32:30

I could run for the train, and catch

32:33

it, and sit, gazing

32:35

through the fogged window at the buildings and graffiti

32:38

and backyards and car frames

32:40

flashing by. Of

32:42

Raptown, I

32:44

recall little else.

32:53

Are there facts that haunt you? Informational

32:56

ghosts that show up when you least expect

32:58

them. Banquos of trivia,

33:00

but never themselves trivia all. I

33:04

have a couple. One of them is the Centralia

33:06

Fire. Centralia,

33:09

Pennsylvania, United States, since

33:11

at least May 27th, 1962, has been on fire, beneath

33:17

the surface of the earth. Its

33:19

original cause and start date is still a matter

33:21

of debate, but the coal deposits

33:23

beneath the town are, at their current

33:26

rate, scheduled to continue to burn

33:28

for over 250 years.

33:33

This fire is, of course,

33:36

perceivable on the surface, and it

33:38

has quietly, methodically, with

33:41

the speed and determination of geology

33:43

itself decimated Centralia,

33:46

to the extent that as of 2017, only 56 people were

33:48

left in town. Centralia,

33:53

for reasons

33:55

I'm sure you will understand if you're familiar with

33:58

it, is one of the inspiration

33:59

for Silent Hill.

34:02

The ground in Centralia is

34:04

on fire. It has been on fire

34:07

for longer than we have been alive in many

34:09

cases and will continue to be

34:11

on fire after the vast

34:13

majority of us are dead. No

34:16

one can do anything. No

34:18

one will do anything.

34:20

So now Centralia is

34:22

just 56 people making

34:24

their way across burning ground that is slowly

34:27

and inexorably collapsing

34:29

beneath them.

34:32

There is an undeniable resonance to that

34:34

in 2023. Not just

34:36

the environmental disasters that mount up

34:39

every year, but that sense of

34:41

surviving in persistent, relentless

34:43

trauma, even as it eats a little

34:45

more of your shelter away as

34:48

you watch. That's

34:50

how the world's felt for a lot of folks for a

34:52

long time.

34:54

That's one of the reasons this story is so good

34:57

and so familiar.

35:00

I've talked a lot about the horrors

35:02

of small-town life, but what Warren does

35:04

here is use the horror as both a filter

35:07

and a lens. There

35:09

is no monster in this story because this

35:11

story is the monster. Our

35:13

perspective locked into what is either the killers

35:16

of victims or more likely both. Yellow

35:20

as a symbol of decay and order, firefighters

35:23

holding the line against the thing they think they

35:25

see in the woods and not quite

35:28

worshipping it. Instead,

35:30

drinking heavy yellow wine to

35:33

persuade themselves that they're fine and they're

35:35

keeping it at bay, even as their

35:37

livers are just the latest sacrifice

35:39

in a decades-long,

35:41

relentless parade. The

35:45

ground is always on fire. The

35:47

world is always collapsing. Have

35:50

another drink. Welcome

35:52

home. This is

35:55

a good one. Thanks

35:57

to Karen, Petra, Chelsea and of

35:59

course course to you.

36:02

We're an independent production and one

36:04

powered entirely by you. We rely

36:07

on you to pay our authors, our staff and

36:09

cover our server costs. There's

36:11

a recession, there's a pandemic and

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yet here we are making art

36:15

for you and we can only make art

36:18

for you if you help us. We

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have PayPal and Patreon subscriptions that

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start at five bucks a month. Both of those get

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help out if you can, it is always

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needed especially right now. If

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you can't help financially we understand completely

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we could ask you instead to invest a little time

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37:25

you to all those of you who already help and

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those of you who don't but would like to

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perhaps this will give

37:31

you some options.

37:32

We will return next week with the magnificently

37:35

titled how to win a dance contest

37:38

during an apocalypse in nine easy steps

37:40

by Gwendolyn Keist audio produced once

37:42

again by Chelsea and hosted by Cat. Then

37:45

as now we will be a part of the Escape Artists

37:47

Foundation a 501c3 nonprofit

37:51

and this episode and all

37:53

our episodes are distributed under the Creative Commons

37:56

Attribution Non-commercial No Derivatives 4.0

37:59

International. license. And to close

38:01

out, Sudapod wants to remind you

38:03

that in eternity, where there is no

38:06

time, nothing can grow. Nothing

38:09

can become. Nothing

38:11

changes. So death created

38:13

time to grow the things that it would kill, and

38:16

you are reborn but into the same life

38:18

that you have always been born into. We'll

38:22

see you next time. Have fun, folks.

38:28

An arm appeared from nowhere

38:30

on the shape, seemingly projected

38:33

like the pseudopod of a protozoan.

38:36

It's a pseudopod. It's a bigfoot. It's

38:38

all about podcasts

38:39

these days.