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Thirteen days of Halloween is a production

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of I 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. Good

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morning, my friend. I

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trust your rest was adequate. Ever,

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I'm complaining. You have no

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idea how intuvenating that is to someone

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in my position. Ah

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MM HMMM, AH, fresh air. You

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know, there are weeks to time when

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I forget to step out into the world and just

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breathe it in. Welcome

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to Hawthorn manners garden

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of forking paths. Many

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architects leave the landscaping of their structures

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to the very end, an afterthought,

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or in some cases leave it to someone else

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to design entirely, but not all

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architect he planned his garden

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quite intricately. The paths

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are of particular interest to many

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of our guests. You see right

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here, the path forks. which

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path would you like to take? The left

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or the right? A

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dealer's choice. We'll

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take the left. There's

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a particular plant I'm dying to show you.

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You see, this path, by design,

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forks in numerous places

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and the wanderer is faced with a simple choice,

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left or right. It becomes in

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a sense, a sort of labyrinth of choices,

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and one that can reveal much about the

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wanderer to herself, should

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she choose to pay close attention. You,

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for instance, chose to abstain because

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you are an enigma. Ah,

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these flowers, with the indigo pedals

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and delicate curvature, our Achan

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item Vel Piston, bred

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by statesman timothy pickering. Timothy

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himself had quite a garden in which

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she would while away the hours amongst

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his plants. The singular

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thorn in his heart it

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was a small family of red foxes

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whom he could not quite exile and

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who continually burrowed in his flower

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beds, and so he did want.

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Any self respecting gardener would attempted

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to poison them with a particularly toxic strain

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of Wolf Spain that he'd grown. Unfortunately,

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he only ended up poisoning the family dog.

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His grandson never forgave him

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this cruelty and grew up to become

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quite a famous naturalist, who gave

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this plant its name, Fox

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Spain, as a dig against

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the old man. At any rate, don't

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eat that plant. Oh

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and look who we have here at the architects

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Gazebo. Now

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be gentle with her. She has a marvelous

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sort of anxiety about meeting New People,

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but you are quite easy to get along with.

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This my friend is Annie. Annie.

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This is my friend. He is quite

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the conversational list why

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don't I leave you to it? I should

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tend the roses. Here

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have a cupcake. They're my special

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recipe. That's

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all I had to do make upcakes,

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plain vanilla with vanilla icing, one

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box of mixed plus eggs, oil and

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water. The instructions look simple

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enough, but I always managed to complicate

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things. I

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was new and down trying to make

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friends. You know, what better way to make

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friends than with cupcakes?

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It was a book club or something

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like that. They're being very kind

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into me. There was even a prompt,

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an icebreaker, to get to know each other. Fun

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Facts come with a fun fact. My

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Life Wasn't fun, it wasn't

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interesting. I was even lacking

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on the facts. I was panicking,

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lipping the pure white batter with far too much

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Gusto, my shoulder

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aching. Fun

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Fact. I've

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never been in love. I

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don't think I've ever been loved either.

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Oh No, that wasn't fun at all.

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My head pounded with stress.

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My hands shook as I grabbed a bottle of

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pain of leavers. I swallowed too

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and tried to focus. I'm

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fine, it's going to be fine, I assured

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myself. I needed to add the oil.

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Or did I do that already? The eggs?

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Maybe? Maybe it was the eggs. Fun

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Fact I had to sleep the lights on, or

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fear overwhelms me? No,

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still not right. They

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were coming to my place, my small and

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personal apartment. I

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wish I hadn't volunteered. The

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throbbing in my head crescendowed

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like an ice pick and a blender stuck

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on. Sure, how

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long had I been whipping this batter for? I

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stopped stirring and lost myself

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in this thought. As

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I stared at the bowl of vanilla

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white mixture, I

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watched a single drop of Red Appear

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in its center. I

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stared at it, the Bright Crimson

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dot in the see of pure white batter. It

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was blood, my blood.

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I didn't have another mix, I had

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no fun facts, I had nothing else

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to offer. I only had

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cupcakes. Without

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really considering it, I continued

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stirring. The red mixed

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with the white, turning it a pleasing

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pinkish maybe

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blood baked out. Maybe the sugar

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would mask it. No one

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had to know. cupcakes

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died with blood were still cupcakes,

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right, they weren't ruined. We

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couldn't just throw them out like there were nothing.

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Right. Another drop

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of red. I

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stirred again. The

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batter became a darker shade of pink, more

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interesting than the white. I

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thought, surely

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this was an improvement. That's

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when I realized I was crying.

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Tears were splashing into the batter now

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too. Fun

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Fact. I sleep

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with a knife under my pillow. No,

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no, no no, there had to be something more.

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Blood dribbled from my face. I

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mixed it slowly, watching the swirls blend

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until they disappeared, creating an angry seat

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of smooth crimson. I

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could be normal, I told myself. No

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one would notice. My

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hands shook as I poured the batter into the

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cupcake pan. I had no choice. I

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had to give them something. I

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put the Pan in the oven

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fifty degrees. I stared

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ahead as the timer counted down. Add

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a little heat, a little fire and

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look at the transformation. Maybe

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it was fine, I thought, maybe

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I was fine. Fun

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Fact I

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I there

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was nothing fun about me. I

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decided to make something up, something

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no one would question. Because it was too stupid.

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Surely I could make something up, mh, but

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nothing came to mind. It

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was as if all fun had burned

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from my brain. My

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breath was loud in my tiny kitchen. I

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imagine the pain my parents went through,

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the doubt, the

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terrible and speakable truth that they

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never wanted me, a

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ticking time bomb set to go

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off and ruin their lives.

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I pulled the cupcakes from the oven. I

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glanced at the clock. Anytime

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now they'd be here. I

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popped out the cupcakes onto my cutting board.

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For a moment I stared at them,

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their red color, sickening, detached.

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I grabbed a knife and covered

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them with white vanilla icing, masking

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their bloody dome. They

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looked delicious, but

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they hid a dark secret.

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They were perfect fun

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fact. Mm Hm, I

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couldn't think of one, but I had

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cupcakes. That had to count for something.

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The guests arrived, kind and

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false. They complimented my apartment.

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They giggled and chatted. I

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interacted with them,

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but it was all superficial. I

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was an alien in my own skin.

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I hesitated, thinking perhaps I

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shouldn't offer them my treats, that

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my blood and tears weren't

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theirs to be eaten. But

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as I faked my way at normality, besieged

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with concern that I was failing, they

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found the cupcakes. They

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moaned in delight and showered

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me with praise. My stomach

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turned, but I

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smiled. Then

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they started sharing their fun facts.

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They took turns, one person

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addressing the group at a time, like

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a twelve step program for fun people

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with facts. I

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text when

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it was my turn, I hesitated.

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One of the women took pity on me and asked what

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flavor these cupcakes? They're

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delicious. I

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stared into her for a moment, then

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looked around the room at the happy people content

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with my confections. I thought

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about the Red Dot, my

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blood, my essence,

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and then welcomed guests. On a perfect white

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canvas. I

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was the red dot. I

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turned back to the woman and said Red

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Velvet. They

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all wanted the recipe. I

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muttered something about it just being from the box

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and they all laughed about how I must have a secret

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ingredient. I didn't

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mean for things to get so out of hand. It

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started small at first. People

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requested my special Red Velvet cupcakes

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for events. Then local businesses

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started paying me for them.

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They were prominently displayed behind glass

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cases, a top, lacy

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white doilies, Red

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Velvet, handwritten and delicate

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cursive on the label. I

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couldn't stop making them. More

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and more cupcakes, more white

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stained with red, more blood and tears,

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my sacrament and offering

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unknowingly demanded, unknowingly

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consumed. At

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first, I pricked my fingers until

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they pulsed with pain, until I

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could barely hold a spoon to stir the batter,

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until my blood flowed sluggishly. I

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cried endless tears and

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until I was sure no more would come.

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But they always did. More

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and more of my essence poured into sweet

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delights, devoured for someone

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else's fleeting enjoyment. Never

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enough. Still it

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rattled in my brain. Fun

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Fact. I had none

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to give, but this

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I could give. One

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day, a woman from the fun fact

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party approached me about starting a business.

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She had the money and savvy, I

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had the product. I never

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said yes, but I also

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never said No. At

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a certain point it was easier to submit

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to the ritual of it all. It

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distracted me from what I was missing. I

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named the shop. Red Velvet,

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endless trays of cupcakes and lines

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of people waiting for them with their money, their

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eyes gleaming with desire, unaware

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of what made them so desirable. Years

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passed and demand grew. I

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wasted away, shrunken

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and desiccated. I

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poured myself into the batter like another

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ingredient, nothing

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more than eggs or butter to be whipped together,

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exposed to heat, covered

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with icing and devoured. Lifetimes

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I aged, lifetimes

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I gave away. I

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became a Husk of a woman with no more

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blood and tears to give. Withered

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skin and bulging veins. Customers

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grew alarmed by my startling decline.

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They feared disease in their food. They

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were being served by a walking corpse.

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One night, my business

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part her found me alone in the kitchen, punched

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over a mixing bowl, as though I

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was being slowly absorbed by batter.

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She watched as blood trickled from

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my sinewy palms and tears leaked

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from my swollen eyes. I

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don't know how long she stood there. Horrified

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by the sight. She

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didn't make her presence known until she

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screamed. I

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caught her eyes in mine. I

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gets, how that she saw a

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single red dot soiling

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the velvet perfection I

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smiled and said fun

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fact, and

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she is lovely, is she not? Fun

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Fact, she begged a cake for

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our housekeeper's birthday last month. It

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was never touched. I will leave

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you to wander the gardens, if you like, and

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to perhaps learn about yourself in the meanderings.

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But two warnings. Whereas

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all paths will eventually lead you back

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to the manner, I suggest that

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you do not stray from them, particularly

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in the more remote portions of the garden.

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We have lost guests before who

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did not heed this warning, and I

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admit that I am growing quite fond of

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you. In second no

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matter how alluring, how intoxicating

15:48

the scent, no matter how shiny

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and lovely they seem, do not

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eat fruit from this garden. You

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almost assuredly not agree with you.

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It agrees with no. Well,

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my friend, I

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must be off to see to the others and to

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continue my search for the door. Perhaps

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we will meet again tomorrow for

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so much more, to tell you that

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you, my dear friend. Partying

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is such sweet sorrow. 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 Annie Reese, performed

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by Andrea Lang and directed by Alex

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Williams, with editing and sound designed

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by Trevor Young. Only ten

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days remain. Tomorrow

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another story. Despite

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the panic, I open the front doors as

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slowly as I couldn't tiptote

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in. I thought maybe they were just napping

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and I didn't want to wait them.

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Well, I could clearly see that they weren't on the coach

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and that

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I had a creak to my left. That's

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how quickly called out to my wife began.

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No reply, so

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I turned to the sound. Thirteen

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days of Halloween is a production of I heart

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radio, Blumhouse television and Grimm

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and mild from Aaron Mankey. For more

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podcasts from my heart radio, visit the I

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heart radio APP, apple podcasts

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or wherever you listen to your favorite shows,

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and learn more about thirteen days of Halloween

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at Grimm and mild dot com.