1:50

Have

2:01

we got a nightmare for you?

2:05

The Curse of the Bottle Boy by

2:07

Woody Tismukis Even

2:10

before my son was born, my village

2:13

had made of me a black sheep. When

2:16

I was young, I would flitter between

2:18

the grasp of the elders and flitter

2:20

into the jungle unabated. I

2:23

would storm past the hills of Fire Ants

2:25

to leap atop the trunks of fallen trees before

2:28

catching a hold of a veritable vine

2:31

like some kind of red-assed macaco.

2:35

I did not see the forest for all its dangers

2:37

then, the poisoned-skinned

2:39

amphibians, the venomous vipers.

2:43

The elders did not approve of my solitary

2:45

wanderings and neither did the rest of

2:47

the village inhabitants. It is

2:49

too perilous, they would say. You

2:51

do not know all that lies beyond our

2:54

village. But I

2:56

knew even then that they did not

2:58

refer to the unknown fauna of the

3:00

forest. From an early age,

3:03

I was aware of the cruelty of men.

3:06

My own parents had been murdered by a cast

3:08

of smugglers they'd happened upon while gathering

3:10

asahi,

3:11

killed for fear that they would alert the

3:13

authorities or perhaps some

3:16

rival gang. You

3:18

must stay here, you must stay close,

3:20

the elders would go on. You must

3:23

stay where it is safe.

3:25

But they were wrong. As I

3:27

grew older,

3:28

I saw more and more men slice

3:30

their way through our lands with machete

3:33

in one hand and torch in the other. We

3:36

had never been safe. No

3:38

one doubted the elders' wisdom but me.

3:41

And though I rarely paid for my disobedience

3:44

with any meaningful reprimand, I

3:47

paid in the cold stairs and pursed

3:49

lips of the village populace. Nothing

3:52

has changed now that my son has arrived.

3:55

Only now their shade falls from me

3:58

to

3:58

him. It is not

4:00

fair,

4:01

not only because he has not

4:04

earned their ire, but because he is

4:06

a good child. He is obedient,

4:08

he is calm. He is so unlike

4:11

me in every way. The

4:14

others do not know it, but

4:16

he looks like his father too. His

4:19

skin is pale, sensitive

4:21

to the sun, his eyes

4:23

as blue as a lagoon, his

4:26

hair is straight and the color of dusk,

4:29

not the peach night of my own. I

4:32

hear whispers about the streets, that

4:35

his father is some gringo logger, that

4:37

I have slept with the very force that destroys

4:40

us. I do not give credence

4:42

to these rumors. I know nothing about the

4:44

man, but I know he is not that.

4:46

He is not evil.

4:49

My son and I spend much of our time alone.

4:52

I show him the things about the jungle I love.

4:55

The sour fruits, the untamed flora,

4:58

the silence that is not quite silence,

5:02

the isolation. He

5:04

listens closely and rarely asks questions.

5:07

Let me go on until I realize

5:09

I haven't stopped speaking. Maybe

5:12

this makes me selfish, maybe this makes

5:14

me a bad mother. I know

5:16

what the others would say. My

5:18

son never mentions that he minds. We

5:23

sleep together in a single room of our palafita.

5:26

It is small, but I am grateful

5:28

to only have to share with him. I

5:30

think he is too. Some

5:33

families live in stilted homes the size

5:35

of ours with five or six people, sometimes

5:38

more.

5:39

For us, it is perfect.

5:41

I lay with him in the dark as the

5:43

rain patters atop the aluminum of the roof.

5:46

I do this nearly every night. It

5:50

is on one such night. He is

5:52

nearly six and together

5:54

we are drifting into dream when

5:57

a sound startles me awake.

5:59

I look down at him to see if he has also

6:02

awoken, but his eyes are closed

6:04

and his breathing is measured. I

6:07

hear the sound again, and notice

6:09

it is coming from the balcony, but

6:12

it is dark outside and inside too,

6:15

and the moon is shrouded by rain clouds.

6:18

I get up from the bed and walk over to the

6:20

window. Again footsteps,

6:24

but from the other side of the Palafita. I

6:27

hurry over to the other side as quietly as I

6:30

can and hold my hands up to the

6:32

window to block a glare that

6:34

is not there.

6:36

Footsteps.

6:38

Again behind me,

6:40

but louder.

6:41

I spin around and run to the door,

6:44

bursting outside onto the balcony. I

6:46

see nothing, but hear a splash from

6:48

the waters below. I crane

6:50

my torso over the railing to see only darkness.

6:54

My son, now awake and bleary-eyed,

6:57

steps up behind me. Mine,

7:00

what was that? he asks. I

7:03

turn and guide him back inside. Nothing,

7:06

go back to sleep. The

7:09

next morning I chalk the incident up to

7:11

a bad joke by one of the others in the

7:13

village, though I cannot escape

7:16

the feeling that it's not. A

7:20

week later, my son begins

7:22

to lose his teeth. There

7:24

is nothing strange about this in and of itself.

7:28

He is of the age where these things start to

7:30

happen, and the elders tell me not to

7:32

worry, as if their words mean anything

7:34

to me. But the teeth

7:36

come in a torrent. The first

7:39

day he loses three. The

7:41

day prior, not a single one was loose.

7:44

The following day comes five. He

7:47

opens his little jaws and litters

7:49

the teeth into my palm. A

7:52

canine, two incisors, a

7:54

molar, and one

7:57

that falls into too many pieces for me to

7:59

discern. His smile

8:01

is all gummy and blood. He

8:04

has learned from the others that it is not polite

8:06

to spit, so he doesn't. Instead,

8:09

he lets the blood dribble from the corners

8:12

of his mouth down his chin. It

8:14

drips to the dirt, leaving his

8:17

clothing ruined. I

8:19

try to stop the bleeding with a thin piece of cloth.

8:22

He bleeds through it in minutes. As

8:25

a mother, I am worried. But

8:28

as an observer, he is the

8:30

same quiet boy he's always been, only

8:33

absent of your teeth. His

8:35

face does not register distress. He

8:38

acts as if this is natural. I

8:40

call myself that he is right, that,

8:43

as the elders say, there is

8:46

nothing to worry about. Eventually,

8:49

the bleeding stops, leaving fleshy

8:52

craters along the ridge line of his gums.

8:56

The next day is when the new

8:58

ones start to slice through, before

9:01

all the old residents of his inner mouth

9:03

have had a chance to vacate. The

9:06

new teeth are steepled, sharp,

9:08

and sprouting quickly. By

9:11

the day's end, they have firmly taken

9:13

root in his mouth's empty spaces. I

9:16

ask him to open wide and he obeys, as

9:18

he always does, and I poke

9:21

at the newly formed enamel. I

9:23

pull my finger out quickly to find blood

9:25

caping my fingertip. But

9:28

it is not his blood. It

9:30

is my own.

9:31

His teeth now sharper than thorns.

9:35

Only two baby teeth fall this

9:37

day. There are not many left.

9:41

The fourth day, I stop counting

9:43

teeth. They all will be gone soon

9:45

anyway. What falls, I

9:48

toss into the river tide and let it be swept

9:50

away. I make him wash his

9:52

wounds with swishes of salt water. He

9:55

spits brackish saliva the color of wood. As

9:59

more time passes, I become increasingly worried

10:01

about his placated indifference. Perhaps

10:05

I am putting on a good show of confidence? I

10:07

have never been good at hiding my feelings beneath

10:10

my sleeves. No, it

10:12

is almost as if he is the one consoling me.

10:15

His eyes traverse

10:17

my face as if I am a specimen, something

10:20

he needs to figure out. We

10:22

both remain silent. That

10:26

night, I am sure the teas are all

10:28

gone. I feed him tambakee

10:30

soup and hope the fish is soft enough to slide

10:32

down his throat. As he parts

10:35

his lips, his mouth looks

10:37

like a graveyard of shattered tombstones,

10:40

each new tooth jotting awkwardly

10:42

into the meat.

10:44

He gnaws strangely, as

10:47

if he is learning to eat again. He

10:49

has no trouble finishing

10:52

his bowl. I

10:54

wash the dishes and put him to bed early, not

10:57

because he is tired, but because, if

10:59

I am being honest, I am

11:02

frightened. I need

11:04

the day to be over, so I end

11:06

it. My son

11:08

lays down his head, and I turn out the

11:10

lights as soon as dusk falls into night.

11:14

I lay down too, but I am restless,

11:17

and sleep does not seem to wish to come to me. I

11:20

wrestle in my sheets, toss and turn

11:22

loudly. If my son hears

11:25

me, he does not make it known. He

11:27

sleeps as soundly as always. I

11:31

tousle with my own insomnia until eventually,

11:34

my eyes close. I

11:37

am not asleep long. I

11:39

awake to what I think are the footsteps

11:41

of the week before. But quickly

11:43

I see my son through the door left ajar.

11:46

He is outside on the balcony, staring

11:48

off into the distant river. I

11:51

call his name. What are

11:53

you looking at? He

11:55

does not turn to me, does not so

11:57

much as twitch. So I guess.

12:00

up to go to him and repeat myself, what

12:02

are you looking at, Kedido? Still,

12:06

he does not turn to me, but

12:08

I can tell by a flicker of his eyes that

12:10

my voice at least registers. Can't

12:13

you hear it?

12:14

he asks. Hear what?

12:17

The singing. Can't

12:20

you hear the river singing? There

12:24

is nothing, no sound

12:26

but the waves lapping at the shore and

12:29

the cicadas cawing from the trees.

12:32

I don't know why, but I don't

12:34

want to tell him this. I don't

12:36

wish to break his trance. Instead,

12:39

I tell him,

12:40

come inside,

12:42

come back to sleep. He

12:44

does not move. He stands there, uncharacteristically

12:49

disobedient. Come,

12:51

Silio, I repeat, but

12:54

still he stays. For a moment, I

12:57

think he is going to leap into the water. I

13:00

yank his arm and wrench him

13:02

inside. He

13:03

stumbles along dolefully without

13:05

taking his eyes from the darkness. I

13:07

throw him in bed and toss the covers

13:10

over him. He resists

13:12

no further, though neither does

13:14

he close his eyes. There is

13:17

no song,

13:19

I say.

13:21

I do not sleep for the rest of the night, and

13:24

neither does he. On his

13:27

sixth birthday, the boy asks

13:30

about his father for the first time, a week

13:32

from when his last tooth fell.

13:35

I do not expect to be gutted by the question,

13:38

but I am. For years, he

13:41

has been mine and only mine, and

13:44

suddenly I feel as if some part of him

13:46

is leaving me. I have

13:48

never particularly taken to motherhood.

13:51

I've never felt pride in the act the same

13:54

way the other mothers in the village

13:56

do. They've always seen motherhood

13:59

as their duty. As a contribution

14:01

to this world, I've never

14:03

felt like I've owed this world shit. And

14:06

yet, I do feel like

14:08

my son is owed. I

14:10

feel like there is something I must give him,

14:12

something only I can give. Though

14:15

I do not know what that is.

14:19

So

14:20

when he asks me to tell him about his father,

14:23

it feels like he is taking something

14:25

I have not given him permission to hold.

14:29

My initial response is fury, to

14:31

bark at him like a starved vidalata.

14:34

But I hold my tongue and swallow my anger.

14:36

It is his birthday after all, and I

14:38

do not want to ruin it. Instead,

14:41

I tell him the truth.

14:43

A truth,

14:45

at least. I

14:47

do not know much about your father, I

14:50

say.

14:51

He frowns, not liking my answer

14:53

much. He puts his head down,

14:55

but does not ask more, even though I can

14:58

see he wants to. I

15:00

sigh and cave into his boyish demeanor.

15:04

He was suave and charismatic

15:08

and a good dancer, just

15:10

as I am sure you will be someday. My

15:13

son perks up a bit at this,

15:15

but still does not seem satisfied.

15:18

He considers this deeply, and

15:21

for a moment there is silence between us

15:23

and our palafita. He

15:25

opens his mouth, then hesitates,

15:28

repeats.

15:30

He is scared to say what he will, but

15:33

eventually finds the courage. Sometimes

15:36

I think I feel him, he

15:38

says. He is like I

15:41

know he is nearby, watching, but

15:44

when I look around I can never find

15:46

him. I brush

15:48

my son's hair from his eyes.

15:50

I know what you mean.

15:52

I felt the same way when my parents died,

15:54

like they were watching over me all the time. Maybe

15:58

in the way they were. It's

16:00

okay to have feelings like this. It

16:02

is how we connect with the ones who cannot be

16:04

with us. This does

16:07

not seem to settle him. I

16:09

cannot tell if he does not agree or

16:12

does not understand. He

16:14

stares off blankly ahead with a look I cannot

16:16

read. I wonder what

16:18

has stirred such sudden curiosity in

16:20

him. Whatever he

16:23

feels, it seems to be enough to abate his

16:25

questioning for now. We

16:28

celebrate his birthday, just the two of

16:30

us, with dinner in our palafita.

16:33

I make him mokeka with shrimp and

16:35

big bolu gimanjioca. We

16:38

do not have candles, so I hold

16:40

the lighter over the cake as I sing to him.

16:43

He blows out the flame and we eat, bathed

16:46

in the drowning light of dusk. He

16:48

has not completely forgotten our conversation, but

16:52

he seems amused by our modest celebration.

16:55

I tell him he can stay up late if he wants,

16:58

but he is out not long

17:00

after dark.

17:02

I have not been sleeping well the past few

17:04

weeks. My eyes flutter like

17:06

butterflies as unconsciousness waxes

17:08

and wanes. From time to time

17:10

I yawn, let my head droop

17:13

heavy before it snaps back to attention.

17:16

Time becomes loose as I drift into

17:18

an unspace and come

17:20

back again. This

17:22

is why I do not realize when my son

17:24

goes missing. Only that he is gone.

17:27

I shoot up to my feet and tear the

17:29

sleep from my eyes as I look around

17:31

the empty palafita. He is not

17:33

here. I

17:35

race out the door and

17:37

search the balcony. I try to look out

17:40

over the water and down below, but

17:42

it is too dark for me to see anything.

17:44

I bounce down the steps to the ground

17:46

and shout his name. No

17:49

one calls back. I shout again

17:51

and I'm hit with the same

17:53

silence. I wade into the water,

17:56

gripping the stilts racing through the water. increasing

18:00

our home above me. He is

18:02

not there either. I do

18:04

not cease my screams for him. I

18:06

dart down the river bank, first to the north.

18:09

The river is lazy, and I do not expect

18:11

him to up-ground. And yet

18:14

I cannot see the other side. I

18:16

don't see it.

18:17

My mind conjuring endless permutations

18:19

of horror. A couple

18:22

hundred meters farther down the river, I

18:24

see him. I call his name. I

18:27

call his name. I call his name, but he did not reply.

18:29

He is waist-deep in the current

18:32

and bent over. His back

18:34

is to me. All around him

18:36

there is an unnatural splashing of water, as

18:38

if it is raining a million tiny pebbles

18:41

I cannot see. Waiting

18:43

into the water once more,

18:45

I go to him.

18:47

He still does not respond. As

18:49

I get closer to him, I feel

18:52

something riding beneath the surface.

18:55

I push back my fear and concentrate

18:58

only on

18:58

reaching him.

19:00

The splashing becomes more intense the closer

19:02

I get. Soon I

19:04

realize what is causing it. They

19:06

are fish. A thousand different

19:08

kinds, large and small, thick

19:11

and thin, leaping to the surface uncontrollably.

19:15

I finally reach my son and stretch my hand out

19:17

to his shoulder, but before I can yank

19:19

him around, he turns on his own volition.

19:23

Blood saluces from his mouth like water

19:25

from a broken dam, and between

19:27

his shattered jaws, a long-whiskered

19:30

bagre wriggles for its rapidly

19:32

fading life. I hear

19:35

the gnashing of his teeth on the white flesh,

19:37

the snapping of bones as the spine

19:40

breaks. What

19:43

are you doing? I stutter. What

19:46

is happening? The fish

19:48

slips from his lips and lands limply

19:51

back into the water. He smiles

19:53

as he speaks. Bapai

19:56

told me to come to the river. Night

20:01

turns to morning, morning to

20:03

afternoon, and afternoon

20:06

to dusk. Time passes

20:08

by him like a brook. I

20:10

am a brutal boulder engulfed in rapids.

20:14

Every second feels like drowning, and

20:16

yet I do not move.

20:20

It isn't until the sun finally sets

20:22

that my sun appears as though he

20:24

is getting restless. As darkness

20:27

settles, he rises from the bed and

20:29

begins to pace about the palafita. He

20:32

walks to the window, peeks outside,

20:35

then returns to me, sits

20:37

down briefly,

20:39

then repeats.

20:41

What are you looking for?

20:43

I ask him. He looks

20:45

at me plainly. You still

20:47

don't hear it, do you? The

20:49

song? I ask, shaking my head.

20:52

No, I

20:53

don't hear it. My

20:56

son walks over to me and grabs my hand

20:58

to lead me to the window. He

21:00

tells me to close my eyes and listen. I

21:03

do not want to. I do not

21:05

see what good it will do. But

21:08

he pacifies me with his childish eyes, and

21:10

I cave into him. I

21:13

still hear nothing, only

21:15

the water lapping at the stilts of our home

21:17

as it always does. I

21:19

try, I really do, but there

21:22

is no music. Though

21:26

there is something out of the ordinary,

21:28

a

21:29

splash,

21:30

solitary but strange. I

21:33

open my eyes and squint through

21:35

the dark to see something emerging

21:37

from the waters beneath us. Panic

21:40

erupts from within me, and I shake

21:43

my son by the shoulders until his eyes open

21:45

too. You have to

21:47

hide, I tell him. A

21:49

wave of confusion crosses over him. Why?

21:53

There's nothing to hide from. I

21:55

feel a new kind of anger I have never

21:57

felt before. Never has

21:59

he so so openly and so intentionally

22:01

defied me. Do as

22:04

I tell you, I say, trying

22:06

not to shout. He shakes his

22:08

head and shrugs my hands from his

22:10

shoulders. My eyes widen.

22:13

Who is this child in front of me?

22:16

I do not know him. This cannot

22:18

be my son. On

22:21

the shore beneath us, the splashing grows louder.

22:24

We are running out of time. I grab

22:26

him again, this time lifting him into

22:28

the air and onto my shoulder. He

22:30

fights me, slams his fist against

22:33

my back with surprising strength. I

22:35

carry him to the closet and toss him in. It's

22:38

barely big enough for the clothes it contains, but

22:40

I force him in all the same and look

22:43

it. He pounds on the door with

22:45

an unrelenting fury, but I ignore his

22:47

screams and burst through the front door to get

22:49

a better look at the sun below. A

22:52

pink dolphin has beached itself.

22:55

It cries out, but the noise is

22:57

nothing like music. The

23:00

bottle rides up and down as if in

23:02

pain, and I have no doubt that

23:04

it is. Its tail has already

23:07

begun to split in two at the median

23:09

notch, though there is no blood. The

23:12

skin splits into newly formed

23:15

skin as the flukes shrink into something

23:17

like feet. Its side

23:19

fins elongate, grow thinner,

23:22

meeker. Its body grows

23:24

flat,

23:25

and its head

23:27

becomes human-like. Before

23:30

long, the thing is pushing

23:32

itself to its hands and feet. It

23:34

stands and takes a few feeble steps

23:37

as it learns to walk again. I

23:39

do not need it to walk any farther to

23:41

know it is coming for me,

23:44

for us, my son.

23:48

I run back inside, locking the door and

23:50

closing all the shutters. They are made

23:52

from soft wood and not very strong. I

23:55

know they will not hold, but I hope they

23:57

will buy me time. I hear

23:59

the footsteps. coming up the stairs and scan

24:01

the home for something to defend myself. I

24:04

settle on a dull kitchen knife I pull from

24:06

one of the drawers. Knuckles

24:09

wrap against the door as the thing announces itself.

24:12

It will not knock again. I stumble

24:15

back toward the closet, where my son still

24:17

bangs on the door and hold the knife before

24:20

me as I wait for the thing to break through. The

24:23

shatters splinter into kindling as

24:26

the bottle breaks through with his fist. As

24:28

he climbs through the window, I

24:31

see that he looks exactly as he did the day

24:33

we met. I feel as though

24:35

I have aged decades.

24:38

And yet he

24:39

is as spry and smooth-faced

24:41

as ever.

24:43

He wears the same white suit and

24:45

suave wicker hat.

24:47

As his feet slide to the ground, he

24:49

smiles and I am almost disarmed.

24:52

Yet I hold the knife steady in his direction.

24:55

The boy's father does

24:57

not come closer once he is inside. He

25:00

stands there looking at me with his hands at

25:02

his side, and I wonder if he expects

25:04

me to speak first. But

25:06

he does not wait long to say something. He

25:09

has had his sermon prepared. "'You

25:13

must know that the boy has to come with

25:15

me,'

25:16

he says.

25:17

I want to spit in his face, though

25:20

I know that would make me vulnerable, so I

25:22

try to stay as calm and still as I can. He

25:25

is my son. I raised him." "'And

25:28

you've done well, despite never having

25:31

asked for this burden,' he replies.

25:33

I knew the moment

25:35

I saw you. You have always been

25:37

bigger and better than this place, but

25:39

you have lacked the confidence to sever the proverbial

25:42

umbilical cord.

25:44

Is that what you want for your son? To

25:46

drown in this fatal riverside town?

25:49

To be taken by the beasts of the forest,

25:52

just as your parents were? Let him come with

25:55

me. Let him witness the world

25:57

you always dreamed of.'" I

26:00

feel the knife shaking in my

26:02

hand. I open my mouth

26:04

to argue, but nothing comes out. Only

26:07

the rage of hot breath. Whether

26:10

you like it or not, the boy in the closet

26:12

behind you may be your son, but he

26:15

is not the boy you raised. He

26:17

is something else,

26:19

something bigger.

26:21

It is then I realize the pounding

26:24

on the closet door has stopped. I

26:27

do not want to obey this devilish creature,

26:30

but I wonder what choice I have. The

26:33

Boto knows me,

26:34

perhaps better than I know myself.

26:38

Without lowering my knife, I

26:40

reach behind me and unlock the closet door.

26:44

The Boto is right. The

26:46

boy that emerges is not

26:48

my son. His skin

26:50

has grown pale and clammy.

26:53

His face elongated into a beakish

26:56

maw. The hair on his head

26:58

is falling out in clumps. When

27:01

he opens his mouth, it

27:03

is not his voice that emerges, but

27:05

a shrill cackle of

27:07

dolphin song. He

27:10

must get to the water, the Boto

27:13

says. Will you help me

27:14

bring him down?

27:17

My gaze oscillates between my

27:19

son and his father. Will

27:22

he die if we don't? My

27:24

voice is now soft and pathetic. One

27:27

way or another,

27:28

says his father.

27:31

I inhale deeply and hold my breath.

27:34

I do not want to breathe. I

27:36

do not want any of this to be happening. But

27:39

as I exhale, I drop the knife and

27:41

step aside. My son's

27:44

father steps forward, cautiously

27:46

at first, then with more urgency

27:48

once he realizes that I have been defanged.

27:52

Together we carry our son outside,

27:55

down the steps and into the water.

27:59

It feels like he is dead. is shrinking in my

28:01

arms, but I cannot say for

28:03

sure. His body feels so

28:05

foreign to me. When

28:08

we are knee-deep, we lower him

28:10

into the tide. I watch

28:13

as he sheds his clothes, and

28:15

the rest of what is human in him fades.

28:20

His arms now fins, his feet

28:23

flukes. I glance

28:25

up at his father as he reaches his final

28:27

formation. What happens

28:30

now?

28:31

His father

28:33

sighs.

28:34

He knows the pain I feel. You

28:37

let him go. I

28:40

place a hand on my boy, for

28:42

what likely will be the last time. His

28:45

father, the Botu, dives

28:47

into the water and disappears. My

28:50

son swims a circle around me, then

28:53

takes off deeper into the river. A

28:56

moment passes. Off

28:58

in the distance, I see two

29:00

great beasts leap from the water

29:02

in unison.

29:04

It's almost

29:06

like they are dancing.

29:10

Welcome back. You've been listening

29:12

to The Curse of the Botu Boy by

29:14

Woody De Smookis, narrated

29:16

by Roxanne Hernandez.

29:21

This holiday season, switch to Boost Mobile for

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additional research or supply.

29:53

Hey, it's Mae Whitman, and I play Frankie

29:56

in the new Realm podcast, The Sisters.

29:59

Museum Curator of Medical Oddities,

30:02

who investigates the origins of a mutated

30:05

skeleton with two layers of bones.

30:08

Seven

30:08

ribs are completely fused. And

30:12

you have no idea where this came

30:14

from? No.

30:15

She was sent here anonymously.

30:16

Uh-uh. Not she... they, maybe?

30:19

Wait. I've never seen anything

30:22

like this. Soon,

30:25

she uncovers an extraordinary mystery

30:27

that connects her present with one

30:29

family's tragic past in hauntingly

30:31

dangerous ways. My grandfather

30:34

was a journalist back in the 60s and

30:36

70s. He specialized in strange

30:39

stories. Who are they? How

30:41

are they connected to the skeleton? Play

30:44

the tape.

30:45

You'll see. Listen to The Sisters

30:48

wherever you get your podcasts. We

30:51

dream about them. How often? Every

30:54

night.

31:04

What he does mook is, is a Brazilian-American

31:06

poet, author, and social advocate

31:09

living in Jackson Heights, Queens. He

31:11

is a 2018 Clarion West graduate and

31:14

is taught at University Settlement's Creative Center.

31:17

He is the author of The Way the Cowries Fall, a

31:20

poetry chapbook from the American Poetry Journal

31:23

and has had work featured in Lightspeed, Fire,

31:26

Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. You

31:29

can find him online at woody-des-mook-es.

31:33

Roxanne Hernandez is an audio-nominated

31:35

narrator and actress who records

31:37

in English, Spanish, and Portuguese.

31:40

She was born in Santa Agociré and

31:42

grew up in the United States in Rio de Janeiro,

31:45

Brazil.

31:46

She has recorded dozens of books and diverse

31:48

genres.

31:49

Young Adult, Children's, Romance,

31:52

Science Fiction, Mystery Suspense,

31:54

and Nonfiction. Nightmare

31:58

is published by Adron Press. This

32:00

podcast is produced by Skyvo

32:02

Media.

32:03

This episode is copyright 2023 by Adam and Press.

32:08

Post production was by Jim Freund.

32:10

Our music was composed and performed

32:13

by Jack Kincaid. Thanks

32:15

for listening. This is Terrence Taylor,

32:18

wishing you all the best from all of us at Nightmare

32:20

Magazine and send you back

32:22

to your reality for now.