Yo, peeps, and welcome to Nocturnal Transmissions, the short horror story podcast where every two weeks we keep it on, fleak, as they say. See, we're hip, we're down with the kids here at

nocturnal transmissions. Certainly, we enjoy our time-honored dusty classics here on the podcast.

We think they're fully lit. But heaven knows we embrace the new with equal vigor.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Now, the story will be sharing

with you this episode is certainly new, and also at times, quite blue.

If you're one of our younger listeners, I'm afraid on this occasion I must say to you,

Swerve, this story is not for you. It contains very adult themes. As a matter of fact,

the potential for offence triggering and general uncomfortableness in this little tale is such that I am compelled to provide a warning before its commencement.

Enter at your own risk, gentle listener.

Well, that was uncharacteristically foreboding, wasn't it?

Said no one ever.

Hmm, you see what I did there?

It takes quite a bit of work to stay fluent in millennial, you know.

Humble, brag.

Anyway, let's lighten the mood for a moment by welcoming our newest Patreon acolytes to

the nocturnal transmissions fold.

Rayshon Baxter, welcome.

Rufus, the dead cat.

I do look forward to seeing the picture you send me for your membership card.

Welcome. Andrew Page. What a wonderfully literary name. Welcome. And thank you.

And a special thank you to our acolyte, Donica Shelley Moody, who has increased her pledged amount.

In light of her generosity and welcome contributions to our discord discussions,

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