Hello, gentle listener, and welcome to Nocturnal Transmissions, the fortnightly podcast that brings you dark tales, both old and new, performed by your humble narrator, Kristen

Holland. Before we start proceedings, I'd like to take a moment to thank those of you who shared

an Edgar Allan Poe request with us, as per our little discussion

last episode. Rest assured we're having a damn good think about it, and we'll get to work on one

of these in the not too distant future. If you're yet to weigh in on which Poe classic

you would like to hear, well, you're not too late, but I do suggest you get a wriggle on. Nocturnal

transmissions can be contacted through our Instagram page,

Facebook, the contact page on our website, Patreon messages for our beloved patrons, of course,

or by simply emailing Noctranspodcast at gmail.com.

We're always happy to hear from you, you know.

Don't be a stranger.

And now to the unpleasant matter at hand.

This episode's oppressive little tale comes from the dark and troubled mind of Harley Carnell.

Nocturnal transmissions is proud to present.

Mow Missions is proud to present Mood. When I entered the flat, I saw how the mold had finally crawled around the corner.

Now it would begin its slow trickle across the other wall.

All the microscopic cracks, the unseen rivulets and crevices that the mold would seep into,

forming streams, then rivers until an entire island of mold, bobbed prominently on my

sallow walls. Even as I struggled to draw the air into my protractled lungs, even as a cough scraped against my throat,

and a bitter patter of blood leapt past my too late tissue and onto the raw shark's spatter of my carpet.

I had to admire it.

We were all just trying to survive, after all. As I went to the doctor to douse myself with medicine

...