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Thirteen days of Halloween is a production

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of my heart, radio, blumhouse television

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and grim and mild from Aaron Mankey.

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Headphones recommended. Listener discretion

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advised. HEAR

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ANYTHING OF INTEREST? Oh

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No, no judgment. I've

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given you a taste of the mysteries here. It's only

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natural that you should seek out your

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own little thrill now and then. Today

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I will show you something truly beautiful.

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Follow this

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is one of the most awe inspiring spaces

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at Hawthorne manner and also,

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in a sense, the most storied.

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Ah, here we are, behold

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the silarium.

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It really must be seen to be

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believed. Non I

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imagine even now you're thinking,

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praise the heavens that this has been

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placed before my eyes. Just

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magnificent, several hundred

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pains of intricately stained glass telling

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the long history of Hawthorn manner,

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from inception all the way to the

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beginning of my time as caretaker,

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many, many years later. Seen

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here the architects standing under

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a deep blue sky, at the sight for the first

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time each star in that

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sky above him, a precious gemstone

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mind, from the four corners

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of the earth. And

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here, tragically, the

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death of his daughter who slipped

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from the Cupola atop the Manor House.

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Some have said that she was merely climbing

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out to be nearer to the stars,

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but will never know as certain what caused the fall.

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You'll notice the strikingly realistic

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colors in each of these, the

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Greens of summer and oranges

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of autumn distilled into their

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very essence. For instance,

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here the red of his daughter's

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blood. Normally a mixture

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of gold chloride would be used,

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but the hue was not quite right, so

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the architect instructed the artisan to

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search ever further for new minerals.

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When these efforts failed, the architect

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himself began delving into mind and

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pulling out varying shades of ore. It

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is said to have taken him twenty years

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to find a shade suitable for

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his daughter's depiction, and

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by then his hands were twisted

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and gnarled. The architect

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always got what he wanted, well,

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mostly for there Ah

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Hester, of course. Well,

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it was only a matter of time before

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we came upon our housekeeper, Hester.

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This is my friend. I'm

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sure you've been aware of his presence. I

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suppose you two may as well speak. I

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Shall Return Hester.

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Tread lightly, I

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do the windows every day around this time.

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Quite a job, but their

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breathtaking, aren't they? The

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architect and all of his secrets.

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It's all up there, but

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heaven forbid you see the arteries,

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the little specks of star dust that

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make a living organism like this function.

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Nobody really thinks to look for the housekeepers.

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You scream at us to leave you alone. When

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we dropped, I for turned down service in

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the mornings, and then, as far as

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you're concerned, we simply cease to

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exist, and that's

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fine. I prefer

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to be forgotten. That's

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when I get to eat silent

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and out of sight, feeding

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on whatever you have to offer. I've

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had you in my sight since you first walked

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through that threshold into the caretaker's

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waiting arms. You know, Oh,

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with the things you'd like to know about

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the caretaker. He's got

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secrets you wouldn't believe. His

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secrets tastes like thunderstorms

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and battery, acid but

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savory, and always

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leaves me wanting more. Those

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secrets bring me back to my days before

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the affliction took hold. Do

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you know much about that? Afflictions?

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That's one type of secret people

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often keep their ailments.

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nutritionally speaking, afflictions

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are pretty good, not

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like murders or affairs.

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Those kinds of secrets are off

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the charts. But

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afflictions aren't bad. They

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have a peculiar flavor to them,

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but they go down smooth. Mm

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Hmm, you do smell

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good, Bergamont,

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tanned leather, freshly

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tilt dirt. Your

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secret is a certain delicacy, isn't

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it? You're

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wondering what I'm talking about. The

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flavor of your secret.

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It's a gift, though I didn't

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think of it that way at first. It

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struck me rather suddenly the

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affliction. I was fine,

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how me as you please, no

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secrets to be had, idyllic.

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And then one day and

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I did something terrible, morally

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abhorrent. And

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once I've done it, I wasn't

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idyllic anymore. The

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smell was the first thing I noticed,

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the lingering air of paperback

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musk and over ripe

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plums. Nausea

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was the second thing, like a gnawing

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hunger deep within my gut.

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And so I ate, I

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ate more and more. I'd

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have two or three dinners. My

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friends would bake entire pies and bring

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them to me as gifts, and

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I'd eat until I felt fit to

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burst. But the

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food was no good. Nothing

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was satiating, nothing was

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nourishing my body. You'd

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think I'd gain weight, but

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it was quite the opposite. I

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used to spill out of my clothes

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like fibers. Couldn't contain me.

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I was meant to take up space in the world,

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to be seen, impossible

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to ignore. But

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after my secret buried its

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spurs into my lower intestine,

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it wouldn't let real food take

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hold. Like a

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parasite, my secret

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eight and eight and

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eight, and then,

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over time I became far less

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lovely. I no longer

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flowed and spilled. My

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flesh became less buoyant and

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refused to fill space. Instead

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of rising and pushing and demanding,

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it began hanging and

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sagging and dripping,

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and there was less of it. Every

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day I became gaunt,

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sallow, eaten. Before

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long I could no longer stand. I

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was bed ridden, a husk

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of what used to be a human girl, dry

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and withered, like something washed

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up and left to rot on

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the shore. When

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my death became inevitable, they

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came to visit me, my friends

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and family. They

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sat on a little wooden chair

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next to my old, sunken bed.

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They held my skeletal hand and

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looked at me through glassy eyes,

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searching for some sign of my former

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self and the tiny sliver

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of a human thing hidden

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underneath a heaping pile of blankets.

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And they cried and they

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mourned and one

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by one, and they

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confessed. Do

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you know what happens when you are dying, when

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there's no turning back for you, when

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there's no hope left to glean,

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people unload their secrets

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on you. You become

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a vessel to carry their mornings

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into the next world. They

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tell you their grievances, lighten

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their own load by freeing themselves

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of the burden and sleep easily

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at night, knowing their secret

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to be safely kept to

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the literal grave. You

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are bestowed with the honor of becoming

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the master of secrets.

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The first was my very

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best friend, Marabelle. She

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confessed her secret to me through thick

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tears while clutching my hand, sweet

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like sugarcane and honeysuckle.

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At that point, I was so far gone

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that I was completely immobile, but

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she leaned in close and

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sobbed her confession into

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my ear, and

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I squeezed her hand, a

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small gesture, but

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that was more strength than I

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had had in quite some time at

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that point. And

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then the others came. My

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brother, after whom I was able

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to sit upright against my pillows.

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His was tart and

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bitter like the skin

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of a peach. My

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father, whose secret

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was so vile that I could walk clear

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across the room after learning it,

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salty and herbaceous like

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Basil and sweat. After

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my mother's secret, I

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gained twelve pounds. Hers

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was a full homemade Thanksgiving

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dinner with all the fixings. Their

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secrets. They sit

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inside of me, supporting

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my organs, keeping

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my blood oxygenated and flowing

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right. I

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need them.

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But like all good things,

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this period came to an end, with

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me no longer knocking on death's door.

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People stopped divulging, so

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I had to start seeking my meals

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out, hunting them.

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It's a finely honed skill, secret

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stalking, learning to pick up

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on their particular vague

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sense. Jeeters,

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how of coin, sweetness

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that teeters on something

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else altogether. Liars

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are like different varietals of wine, sadist

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acidic to varying degrees, and

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politicians are fatty.

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Their secrets melt and coat the

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insides of your cheeks and

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leave a film across your teeth. Everyone,

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and I mean just about everyone,

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has some sort of secret wafting around

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them, secreting from

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their pores, but

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most won't volunteer it, do you, and

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those that do are rarely harboring

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anything nutritionally rich. The

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types of secrets that get volunteered

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are usually trivial,

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not like a really good deceit.

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Those secrets stink

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to high heaven, intoxicating,

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magnetic smells, and

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that's how I ended up here. I

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could smell that caretaker from

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two thousand miles away

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and I followed his scent. I

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found this place to be a gold

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mine, a Cornucopia

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of people weighed down

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by their burdensome secrets

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and lies. A twenty

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four hours morgeseport feast

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for me and my little

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ailment, and

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I've been cleaning windows and

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feeding off the guests ever

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since. Do

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you ever stop to think about the things

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the housekeepers must know about you?

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I know everything,

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from the mundane, the brand

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of toothpaste you use and whether

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you've lost your teeth, to

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the obscure. I see

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the blood and vomit on bed

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sheets and the strange

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stains that form on the mattresses

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beneath. But these

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little hints, I don't

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get much satiation from them.

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I need to know your secret intimately

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in order to be nourished by it. When

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you leave here, go to

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any room and take

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a gander into the people. It

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should be all fish eyed and distorted

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right not here.

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I've had all of the People's

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inverted by

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the time I've called housekeeping.

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I've already been studying them for quite

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some time. I

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know what they're up to in there, what

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they're hiding. I've

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been tasting their secrets since

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day one. And look

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at me now, blump

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and healthy, skin deep and

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dark and absolutely glowing. You

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look nervous. Well,

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don't worry, dear. Your

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secrets safe with me. You

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didn't think I'd sniff it out? I'm

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afraid that's not how it works, Dear. I'm

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far too seasoned of a hunter for

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that. It's

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been around, dear, he doesn't much

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care for me interacting with his guests. Afraid

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I might spill his beans, I'd imagine.

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But why would I do that? They

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keep me young. You go

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on now, get back to your

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little hunt. Everything

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we just talked about. It's

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our little secret. M

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Hm h

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Ester, you look like the cat who ate the canary.

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Well, friend, I suppose the time has come

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for Hester to get back to work. Come

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along, m

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I apologize for leaving you in her presence.

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Of all the denizens of Hawthorn manner, she

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is the only one who makes me uneasy.

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I of course, know of her little people's

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scheme. I think she's the

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only one who fully observes

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our guests, but perhaps

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she'd divulged something to you which I could

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never extract. Then

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you never tell fantastic.

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Well, my friend, time is winding

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down and I must continue my rounds. Tomorrow.

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More at

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you, my dearest

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friend. Thirteen

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days of Halloween was created by Matt Frederick

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and Alex Williams and executive produced

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by Aaron Manky, starring Keegan Michael

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Key as the caretaker. Today's

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story was written by Zoe Cooper, performed

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by Brittany Wilkerson and directed by Matt

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Frederick, with editing and sound designed

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by Miranda Hawkins, additional writing

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and script supervision from Nicholas Dakowski

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casting by Jessica loser. Only

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three days remain. Tomorrow

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another story. I'd

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heard of colonies acting odd getting gassy

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before, but this hurt.

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I felt my skin crawling and

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when I looked down there

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was a shape, shapes,

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pushing my shirt outward

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and pulling, puckering down.

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It felt like to the bone, snatching

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the fabric away. I watched the flesh

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of my belly forming a moving

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image, ripples

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like smoke. Thirteen

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days of Halloween is a production of I heart radio,

18:30

Blumhouse television and grim and mild

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from Aaron Mankey. For more podcasts

18:34

from my heart radio, visit the I heart radio

18:36

APP, apple podcasts or wherever you

18:38

listen to your favorite shows. And learn

18:41

more about thirteen days of Halloween at

18:43

grim and mild dot com.