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This October, the wrong station celebrates a decade of dread.

You can read the show notes to discover terrible new ways to celebrate with us.

Today's episode, The House of Shows, is written by Alexander Saxton, and performed by Abigail Turner.

Music I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm I'm On one of the rainy streets of their hometown, there was a house completely encrusted in shells.

Some were small as the head of a thumbtack.

Others were great conches the size of your liver.

The fence around the front yard was encrusted, and the gate and the pergola encrusted, and the window frames were crowded out with shells, and the mossy dwarf oaks

inside the yard were hung with strings of barnacles that swayed and clacked on the cool sea wind. As adolescence, the two of them would

sometimes sit in the scratched and slanting bus stop across the street. It was a sleepy town.

There wasn't much to do besides sit there and drink coffee and speculate and watch the rain run down the spiraled

grooves of the shells. I wonder who owns it, he asked her. I've never seen anyone come in or

out. Do you think it's abandoned? It can't be. You see that conch at the top of the arch? It was the color of a blushing cheek,

and its chalice overflowed with rain facing the sky. I see it. It wasn't there last week.

Someone's been adding shells this whole time, little by little.

Oh.

He'd only seen the house as a kind of barnacled wreck.

Now he realized it was a living reef, growing grander and more poignant each year.

But when he said that, she shook her head. No, it's a fortress or a prison. She leaned forward over her knees.

Someone in there is building their own shell to keep the world out. More keep themselves in.

...