Keys to Dead Houses

Published Dec 25, 2022, 8:01 AM

A time of war; a powerful patron; and a permanent vocation at the very end of the world. Featuring the voices of Malcolm McDowell and Gina Rickicki. Written by Nicholas Tecosky.

Twelve Ghosts is a production of iHeart three D audio and Grimm and Mild from Aaron Manky Headphones. Recommended Listener discretion advised. Yea, The final hour has arrived, and in the forest the footsteps of all being blanketed over. History is erased. It was as if no one ever came down the path. It is the darkest hour of the year. Finally, suddenly, at last, at long last, the fire is dying. We don't let the fire die here on the darkest night of the year. Go ah h, We're halfway through the winter. From here onwards, the night will dwindle a little bit by little bit. Instead of cursing the darkness, we celebrate the slow return of the light, of warmth, of hope. Ah. But I'm just rattling on. You've told me your story. Yes, do you need more from me? It is enough? Where have the others gone? Where they go? Have you always been here? No? No, no, no, I was led here, not to like you. I suspect the person who built this place was led here the same way, though I have no idea where he went when he was done. No, I've been here a long time, but I was born and lived a life, and in the end found myself here. So you just showed up and became the innkeeper. Oh no, no, well, yes, but there's a bit of a story before that. Go on. Then you want to know how I got here? I insist. Well, in that case, another drink, Thank you for courage. I was a child when the sky caught fire. The war once so far away, an abstraction, something only spoken of in whispers around my brothers and I for so long. It finally came home to us. It was a warm home. I remember, dark wood and colorful wallpapers, bookshelves packed tightly, bursting over onto side, tables and chairs, a house of stories of laughter. Mother painted. Her mind was brilliant. She painted the fields and she painted us. She painted the stories in the books and hung them about the house. Walking the hallways was like walking through her mind, a curious, beautiful mind. We were loved, my brothers and me. That glow stays with you, even so far off, even across the is It was Christmas Eve. My mother had managed to pull together something of a feast from the rations, a little borrowed sugar, some ingenuity my father had read to us from Treasure Island, and then we had gone to bed, and then suddenly, terribly the fire, a fire so consuming that it ate away the roof, the walls, the pictures, the father and mother and the little boys. Oh but me, even at its very best, life office subtractions. If you're lucky, they came slowly, her grandfather. When you're young, perhaps an old friend after a long illness apparent in their dotage. But sometimes the subtractions come all at once. Sometimes the home collapses around you, and in the rubble you are suddenly horribly alone. And so it was for me. I remember the heat of the fire too close, the feel of the plaster falling on my face, the sky above me, blood red and roiling, a picture of a perfect hatred. I remember the sensation of weightlessness as my bed fell out from under me, and then I remember nothing else until I woke, unscathed in the center of a crater all the spoke. I called out for help, and none came. And so slowly, painfully I pulled myself up from the wreckage and stood on our doorstep. The welcome map was perfectly unscathed, not a speck of dust on it. Without thinking, I wiped my feet and stepped into the street, dazed, barefoot, bleeding. I do not remember much of the following weeks. I must have been good at stealing, for I was closed and I ate. I must have had a preternatural sense for quiet corners and secret nooks where a lad can rest une troubled, for I slept. The first thing I do remember clearly after those miserable days of wandering alone was the snow. It came suddenly and covered over so many of the scars left on the city. One night, I found myself in the remains of a warehouse that had been shelled days before. I had somehow managed to fall asleep despite the biting cold. When I dreamt, I dreamt up my mother's small studio, the sunlight coming through the west facing window in the late afternoon, How it fell upon the canvases stacked neatly against the wall. My mother sat in the middle of the room at her easel, her back straight and strong, her hand delicately flicking across the landscape forming in front of her. I stepped towards her, anxious that I would startle her, that somehow she would disappear before I could get to her. But you know, dreams the thing that you must wish to avoid is the very thing that is most likely to happen. And as I moved towards her, she froze. I heard her mumble for a moment in thought, before saying, very gently, Darling, I remember that tone of voice. It is the tone of voice that a mother uses when she very much does not want to disappoint her child, but has no other choice. A voice reserved for poor Christmas is for news of her grandmother's death. I felt it hit me before I quite understood it in my heart, the slightest ache. She turned to me and smiled sadly, My poor child, She said, how you have suffered your brothers and your father and I taken from you so suddenly, and how very brave you have been in the face of so much a loss. She stood and moved towards me, somehow suddenly too tall, the light around her shimmering strangely. I recognized this that something was not quite right about her, but I felt no fear. As she crossed the floor of a room suddenly too long, as the sunlight dimmed, as a sudden gust of cold enveloped me, she said, poor brave child, I recognize the strength in you, and a sun's sense of duty with no object to attach you to. But I have a mission for you, something to fill all the restless years ahead of you. Her form had grown to fill the space, and the light in the room had grown dim and cold. And I was sure now that I was not gazing upon my mother, that this being in front of me was not familiar, though seemed at the same time incredibly familiar. I became convinced that I was no longer dreaming, and a couple of shakes of the head sorted me right out. I was was in my mother's studio. I was back in the bombed out shell of the warehouse, and snow was drifting in through a hole in the roof and down onto the form that stood there. Still, I could not make sense of what I saw. The being no longer resembled my mother. In fact, it no longer seemed to resemble any person I'd ever laid eyes on. Incorporeal, translucent, it seemed made of the space between snow flakes, a nonentity, and yet somehow terribly real. It spoke to me again, this time in its own voice, a voice soft like the snow, deep, and hollow, like the cavernous space of the warehouse. I have come to offer you purpose as my agent among the living, it whispered, and reward you when the work is complete. In the meantime, you will always have a roof food in your belly, the knowledge that your days have meaning. Does this please you, child? I had been holding my breath, and when the question was asked, I released it in a great relieved sigh. Food, yes, and end the cold. Yes, yes, all very fine, but purpose. I had not realized until that moment what I had lacked. At the sound of my breath, it nodded. Then an agreement is made, m hm, And with a great gust of wind, the snow scattered and he was gone. But in the dark I noticed a pin brick of light across the expanse of the shattered warehouse, across the rail yard outside, in the trees. Just beyond there, unmistakably the warm, flickering light of a fire. Without further thought, I pulled myself off the cold foe and moved towards it, step by step through the rubble the snow over the tracks. My heart grew lighter as I moved through the trees, I saw it clearly, and in no, no, no, not until much later what I found It was a small cottage at the end of an old cemetery, the hearth fire glowing through the window, and when I went to knock, the door opened on its own. It was a small cottage, quite inviting, though sparsely decorated, a bed, a small kitchen, comfortable chair, by a cheerful fire. But the groundskeeper was nowhere to be found. I called out. I was met with silence. I thought at first that he'd gone out for the night, but to wear And why would he leave a fire so inviting, Why too, would he leave his meal on the table still steaming hot. I thought perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if I waited inside, and so I stepped inside. And then I thought perhaps he wouldn't miss it if I took a bite of his meal, And he had more than enough meat and potatoes on the plate, after all, he wouldn't miss a nibble here and there I handed up, eating my fill. Where was he? Didn't he come home? I don't know for sure where he went, but he didn't come home that night or any after. The place had been quite suddenly abandoned. Forever, and no one came looking for him. Over the following years I pieced together quite a bit about him, A simple man, quiet, lived alone, no incredible tale, just another soul who was and then wasn't. But back to that night, I thought, well, now that I've eaten this man's dinner, i'd best stick around and account for it when he returned, maybe do a little work around the place to make up for it. I sat down in the comfort chair by the fire and didn't move until the morning. And when I woke, warm and refreshed, on the small table beside me was a note written in a delicate spidery hand. Seventeen Wallace Street was all it said, Is everything all right? Would you like another drink? Oh? Yes? Okay. Nothing makes one thirst year than reviewing one's past. I had a soul passed through here years back. Couldn't finish sentences with that becoming terribly parched. I was up and down all night with him refilling his glass. Yes, do go on, friend? Oh another? Why not? And then what did she say? What was that? Seventeen Wallace Street? Nothing dust, rubble bones. It was my first assignment from my employer. He'd sent me home oh yes, oh, nothing had been cleared, though the neighbors had by then taken my family's bodies away, along with nearly anything of value that could be found. Who could blame them? I mean, we were gone and didn't need our things. All that was left was the doormat on us too. I lifted it up and found our spare key, a key to a home that no longer existed. I placed it in my pocket and turned and walked across town back to the groundskeeper's cottage, where dinner was waiting on the table. What did you do with the key? I placed it in a draw Was that what you were employer wanted? I had no idea what my employer wanted, except that the next morning I found another address written in that spindly handwriting, this time my house on the outskirts of town that had simply fallen into ruin. But there, under a sun bleached garden, home the key. I took it home with me and placed it in the drawer. And the next day, same thing, and the next and so on. I was gathering keys to the dead houses. And I didn't know why, and I didn't know how to contact my employer, But every day there was a new address, a new burned husk or dusty shell that was once a home, a new key to collect. How long did this continue? Well, all my life, your entire of life, every day of it the same thing. Oh. I traveled around from time to time, took a knapsack along with me, would stay gone for weeks, seeing the world. But no matter where I lay my head, I'd wake up with an address beside me. So I'd collect a key, toss it in the bag, and I got so I could tell how long I'd traveled by the weight of it. But I always return learned to the cottage, which was always clean and warm upon my return. Many years passed in this manner. I occasionally found a friend, occasionally found love. But the more keys I found, the more drawers and boxes were filled, the less use I had for the living. Mine was a world of liminal spaces, the in between places, and empty homes where no one would sleep again. It was a life of adventure, and though I spent it alone, I was never lonely. And then one day I woke up in the cottage and there was no address waiting for me. I was quite an old man by that time. There was very little space left in the cottage, what with all the keys. But there was still the hearth, the fire crackling happily as it did every other morning. But this morning a figure was sitting in the chair, your employer, Yes, one and the same. He was no giant, no strange spirit of snow and empty space. He was quite short in fact, and quite young looking. He wore a dark suit, simple but well tailored. He had sharp, pale eyes. I got the impression when he smiled at me that he was not much accustomed to smiling. But he was warm and familiar, and furthermore, I knew why he'd come. My time collecting keys was at an end. My time doing anything on earth was at an end, like you. When you arrived, I was dead and didn't yet know it. He asked me to take a walk with him, so I did. We walked quite a long way that morning, out of the city, across the country, and finally into a deep dark wood. He led you here and led me through the front door, and I was home. A hearth, warm fire, a light that leads lost souls out of the wood, a wasteation, a place to rest, an end to life's journey. He offered me a second job. Then it is my privilege to give troubled spirits rest. I have done it very proudly since the day I arrived. I collected this key at one four seven nine Hemlock Road, a farmhouse. Three children were born there, led into the world by a country doctor. The last of those children took over the farm when he grew up, but could not keep it. When I found it, the roof had caved in, but the kitchen was still perfectly clean, as if waiting for the family to come home. No one had been there in a generation. Yeah, this key is yours, Annabel. Take it. Your door is at the very end of the hall on the left. What's on the other side of the door? Respite? What troubles you? It's oh, well, did you ever see your family again? You're asking if you'll see yours. When I first entered this place, my employer handed me the very first key I ever collected, the key to my home, the key my mother had placed under the mat in case one of her boys lost his own. He told me that I my own room here as well, and that it would feel more like home than any place I'd been in a long, long time. This place has many, many rooms, Annabelle, many rest here. If you wish to see your mother again, you will go now up the stairs the last door on the left. That key will fit. Thank you good night, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rat. The fire still burns, the wine is warm on the stove. The door. An will arrive one of these nights. They're perfect, not a thing out of place. None too soon, because coming good evening, I've been expecting you come. In Twelve Ghosts starring Malcolm McDowell as the Innkeeper and Gina Rikiki as Annabelle. Episode twelve Keys to Dead Houses written by Nicholas Dakowski, editing by Chris Childs and Stephen Perez, directed by Nicholas Takowski. Original score and sound design by Chris Child's. Executive producers Aaron Mankey, Matt Frederick, Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski. Supervising producer Josh Thay. Producers Chris Child's and Stephen Perez. Casting by Sunday Bowling c s A and Meg Mormon c s A. Production coordinator Wayna Calderon. Recorded at Lantern Audio in Atlanta, Georgia, engineered by Chris Gardner. Aeros Sound and Recording in Ojai, California, engineered by Ken Arros. Twelve Ghosts was created by Nicholas Takowski. Then is a production of iHeart three D Audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Mankey. Learn more about the show at Grim and Mild dot com and find more podcasts from I Heart Radio by visiting the i Heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.

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