HER HORRORWEEN - Stella in the Belly of the Beast

[00:00:01] Why have so many crop circles appeared around Britain? How did thousands of people demonstrate powers of telepathy? Can the dead suck the life from the living? Join me, Tim Harford, for a trip into the paranormal throughout Halloween month on Cautionary Tales. Listen to Cautionary Tales on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts.

[00:00:29] Want to immerse yourself in Wonder Woman's Amazon Tribe? Or the setting of the movie Atlantis? Or the bisexual bliss of the mummy, curse and all? You found your queer history girlies in Spirits, Mythology Legends and Folklore. Spirits is a weekly podcast where mythology buff Julia explains a different story from ancient myth or modern folklore to her childhood BFF, Amanda. They examine these stories through a queer feminist lens, drawing parallels to modern life, and

[00:00:56] asking why these stories still matter to us as human beings. Once a month, they also tell spooky stories from listeners' hometowns. Listen to Spirits, Mythology, Legends and Folklore in your podcast app every Wednesday. And as they say on Spirits, stay creepy, stay cool. Listen up, thrillers. A quick note. Tonight's Devious Audio Delight contains adult content and language. Please see the content warnings in the show notes.

[00:01:34] I do not like sleeping in the belly of a house. The belly's at the bottom, where the shit gets stuck. The house's digestive system, if you will. And things get pretty messy in there. Bellies are basements, and basements are portals. And if I could, I'd avoid them for the rest of my life. Mirrors are the toilet at the foot of my bed that flush me into another dimension.

[00:02:02] Let me back up for a minute. My mom always told me I was imagining things when I was a kid, and I'd wake up from dreams so vivid they felt like I'd traveled to another world. I'd wake up in terror, drenched in sweat, and mom would hold me and say, You're safe, Stella. I got you, my sweet star. Then she'd reach her pinky out to link with mine and whisper, Mama's promise. You're safe. But I've never felt safe a day in my life.

[00:02:33] In my dreams, I'm always running, escaping enslavement to disgusting men. Or calling 911, where they repeatedly say no. They won't be arriving on the scene to save me anytime soon. Last night was a doozy. I found myself in the middle of a circle, while a group of eight people with daggers stabbed themselves instead of me. One of the eight staggered away with the dagger pointed in my direction.

[00:03:00] As she stumbled toward a stage I couldn't see, collapsed, and bled out. Was she me? Am I her? And what the fuck does a girl gotta take around here to get eight solid hours of sleep? Most days, I wake up exhausted. Because while other people are peacefully floating through their fourth REM cycle, I'm trying to escape a sex trafficking ring in Italy that's hidden behind a purse store.

[00:03:28] Or I'm a kidnapped singer on Italian Idol, and no one believes me when I get away and pull them aside to catch them up on the horrors I've escaped. Every would-be rescuer sends me right back to the cage I clawed my way out of. Other times, I am Cassandra. Cursed to tell the truth for a hundred lifetimes. To see the end of the world before anyone else can. And have them all laugh in my face. I recognize the Greek and Roman motifs here,

[00:03:58] and wonder if some past-life beef has been working itself out in my subconscious. I don't know about you, but I believe in the multiverse. And I could be wrong, but something tells me this is my highest timeline. That this version of Stella is the best one. And I gotta stay here for as long as I possibly can. Granted, this version of me may not seem like the best. I sling drinks at Pines Barn for a living, and live with my two cats, Atreyu and Bastion,

[00:04:28] in a tiny basement apartment in Olympia, Washington. This place was the only one I could afford. So, my lifelong dream of avoiding basements will have to wait. Atreyu and Bastion have my back, though. They're always looking at things that aren't there. And somehow, I know they've been sent here to protect me. They can see what I see in my sleeping life all goddamn day. And boy, are those fuckers busy. I moved to Olympia from D.C. as a kid.

[00:04:58] From one Washington to another. Moved to this mostly white place, and stuck out like a sore thumb. A brown egg in a sea of cream. Around these parts, brown eyes are exotic. And people dare to reach out and touch my thick, black-braided hair. Is this what Matoika felt like when she landed in England? 400 years later, not much has changed. I'm not even supposed to live near the mountains. My people are from the Caribbean Sea.

[00:05:28] We're a water people. Too many trees make my skin itch. Everything about this life feels wrong. At least it's better than when I go to sleep. When I was little, my white dad used to tell me scary stories before I went to bed. Maybe that's where it all started. Or maybe he was just preparing me for the battle I'd face my entire adult life. Those rare bedtimes were his time to shine.

[00:05:57] His time to get creative and plant the seeds of my future nightmares. He'd brush my teeth and get me ready for bed, while Mom worked the graveyard shift at Providence St. Peter's. Sometimes he'd hug me tight if he remembered. When I'd ask him to read my favorite bedtime story, he'd refuse. He'd toss my beloved pile of literary treasures to the floor, point to his temple and say, Stell, who the hell needs books when you got this?

[00:06:28] How I wish he would have read the books. He told me monsters were everywhere. Under the bed, in my closet, in the toilet, as I learned to potty train. He told me I had to be brave to survive in this world, that I could never show my fear. Maybe that's when I started burying my terror in my subconscious. Mom would try to soften the edges of everything he told me. She'd rewrite his tales to have a happy ending.

[00:06:56] Monsters were just fairies planting roses under my bed to protect me. Everything that was in the other realm watching me on the potty, or nestled among my clothes in the closet, were angels, angels, guardians, light beings holding me steady and safe. She promised that nothing could hurt me if she was there. But by the time she got to me in the dark hours of the morning, the fears he planted were already fertile. Plus, there were so many nights she couldn't be there.

[00:07:27] So the minute she left, I felt utterly alone. Dad's favorite game to play was peekaboo. Where's my Stella? I can't see her. She got swallowed in the belly of the beast. He was hungry, crawled out from under her bed, and pulled her down toe by toe. Now I'll never see my girl again. I don't know why mom let him tell me this shit.

[00:07:56] I was an only child. I didn't have a sibling to look at and tell me it would be okay, or bully me and egg him on, or just agree that our dad was off his fucking rocker. He'd belly laugh when he saw the terrified look on my face. Smile. I'm joshing you. The real monsters walk around in broad daylight. I don't know why someone meant to be my protector made me feel so afraid.

[00:08:23] He never reassured me he wouldn't let the monsters in waking life get me. And maybe it was a sign of things to come. Because when his piece of shit friend babysat me whenever he was on a meth run, I saw what monsters really were. I learned that fathers don't protect you from monsters. They lead you to them. When I was ten, he put a pistol in his mouth. I told him his friend was one of the monsters he taught me about.

[00:08:52] And when he realized what I meant, I guess he couldn't live with the guilt of it all. Maybe he knew cats would be better guardians. Maybe mom knew too when she refused to let me go to his funeral. Mom was mad at herself for a long time. But I'm not mad at her. She did the best she could raising me up on her own. And she taught me what she remembered from her acuto, her taino abuela. She taught me about our semis, about the seven directions,

[00:09:23] about Atabay and how she'd protect and cleanse me. How she would take me back to the water. Even after it was polluted by piece-of-shit men like dad's beast friend. I'm not mad at him either. Dad, I mean. He fed himself to the beast when he got caught up in drugs. The veil gets pretty thin when you let yourself ride on those frequencies. All sorts of shit can get through. Maybe that's why I've never touched a substance in my life.

[00:09:52] I already feel so permeable. Like all of me is water. And anything I touch will become part of me if I sit with it for too long. I've been working on transforming myself into ice. That way nothing can get in. And if it does, I'll kill it with the cold. The ice hasn't frozen over enough to protect me yet, though. Because for the past few weeks, I've been feeling like something dark is trying to take me. And I don't have the tools to fight it off.

[00:10:21] Like perhaps Atabe herself has forgotten me out here in Olympia. And all my protections have fallen away. Maybe my guardian angels have flown the coop. And Bastion and Atreyu are pulling more than their weight to keep me alive. If I don't do something fast, I might slip on through to that other side. Get pulled under toe by toe into the depths of darkness. And never come back again.

[00:10:53] I'm feeling this way the night I take the long way to work. And find myself under a bridge. Nothing good happens under a bridge. Perhaps because they're not bridges at all. But stone daggers stabbed into the heart of the earth. Falsely named. Connecting nothing but corporations to resources. I'm thinking about my disdain for colonization. As I walk up to Tumwater Falls.

[00:11:18] Seeing an awful bridge planted right in the middle of what was once a natural waterfall. Whose free-flowing ripples now churn out the rhythm of the dam that tied her up. My white dad is descended from the family that contributed to this atrocity. His people taught the water to betray herself. Once the site of sacred ceremony for the Stachas people. This watering hole has now become a sacred site for the celebration of beer.

[00:11:47] My great-grandpa was the man who built the dam. And his son, my grandpa, was the genius who came up with the slogan, It's the water. He meant well. And bless his Irish heart. But it still fills me with rage every time I see the sign welcoming folks into the park. I long to see the language of the Stachas people. Or their descendants of the Squaxin Island tribe on these signs. To know what they have to say about the medicine of these waters.

[00:12:15] Instead, white America is content to stroll through brewery park and revel in the medicine of beer. And what can I say? I'm content to sell it. Still, tonight feels different. It's dusk, and the bats are starting to appear. Nocturnal pollinators stirring. About to start their shift, too. The park is picturesque.

[00:12:42] The sunset, a beautiful cotton candy swirl of pinks and grays that seem to heal me with their warm hues. But my teeth feel itchy. Like someone's watching me. When you bartend for as long as I have, you develop a sixth sense for when creepers are staring. Or slugs. As my fellow bartender Amy and I affectionately call them. Although, that feels like an insult to slugs. Precious snails without shells.

[00:13:11] Vulnerable, soft creatures feeling and tasting the earth through each step. With their two antennae on the ground, and the other two pointed at the sky. The parts that touch the sky contain their eyes. There's a poem in there somewhere. Eyes in the sky. Tongues on the ground. What a pathetic way to get around. In some other life, there's Estella who is a poet. But this one writes poems on bar napkins.

[00:13:40] And documents her weird run-ins with dream monsters in her notes app. Maybe someone will publish it for me someday. I shake my head to refocus. Remember where I'm going. And shift my gaze from the darkening Olympia sky to the ground. To make sure I don't step on any of my slug putties. As I walk deeper into the park and past the underground grate that freaks me out every time I dare to glance in its direction, the slightest movement catches my eye.

[00:14:09] I muster up the courage to look again, and swear I see a pale, waxy finger poking through, wrapped around the rusty, cast-iron bars. I quicken my pace as I hear what sounds like a soft hum quietly pulsing. It reminds me of a trapped woman suffocating, singing herself to sleep. Like Matoaka, kidnapped and forced to survive in a cage. It's probably just a branch caught in the rusted grate,

[00:14:39] and that music is probably just some teenagers making out in the parking lot, with moody music spilling out of their closed, pot-filled windows. It's probably all in my head. Da traja anahawa, my abuela used to say. I am safe. I am safe. I am safe. I rush past the grate, hyper-focusing on the tall trees instead, looking anywhere but down,

[00:15:08] ignoring the pull of shadows that have been calling since I was a kid. I keep my eyes on the horizon, searching for the reassuring red of Pint's barn, the worn shingles a beacon of safety, bringing me back to the land of bar food and loud humans. I'd serve a whole crowd of Raiders fans losing to the Seahawks tonight if it means I can escape that grate. I adjust my neon fanny pack, the only thing I take with me to work, filled with my wallet, phone, keys, and wine key,

[00:15:38] and briefly admonish myself for walking this route again. I could just bike or drive, avoid the way my stomach drops every time I get close to this place, be at work in ten minutes flat, get home even faster after, and call it a night. But sometimes I feel like that imaginary finger, wrapped around the rust, bones pushing against skin, whispering, break free. And if I just push a little harder,

[00:16:07] those old crumbling bars will fall. I don't know what's on the other side, but at least I'll be out of there. These walks to work are becoming more common, and some nights as I'm passing through, I can't remember the end of them, like I'm actively repressing the part that scares me most. And boom, there I am, not gazing at old, rusty iron bars, but behind the bar,

[00:16:36] doing a two-ounce pour of Tito's for a Moscow mule, giving a customer their change as they begrudgingly tip me. Some days I feel like whole hours are missing, between leaving home to get to work and actually arriving. I take a deep breath and check my heart rate, the way mom taught me to as a kid. I imagine mom's smell every time she got home from the hospital. After she'd shower with that lavender oatmeal soap my abuela taught her to make. How she'd crawl into bed

[00:17:06] to protect me from my nightmares. I take three more deep breaths, and remember how abuela's hand used to feel. Paper soft, yet unbreakable in mine. I breathe deeper and try to convince myself once again that maybe my friends are right. Maybe I am imagining this creepy shit and I have been my whole life. There is no other world but this one. I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

[00:17:37] I am safe. I walk a little faster as I finally see the soothing red walls of Pint's Barn and race through the entrance. But tonight, the loss of time seems to work in reverse. One minute I'm about to start my shift, tucking my fanny pack and denim jacket safely into my work locker, spinning the heavy combination lock, typing in my pre-shift dinner order on a beat-up toast tab, and the next I'm... back?

[00:18:06] At Tumwater Falls? I feel like I walked through a portal. Did I accidentally leave the closet door open before I got into bed last night? Or forget to cover a mirror at the foot of one? Shockingly, those weren't fears Dad planted in my tiny brain. I dreamt them up all on my own. I've always inherently known that closets and mirrors are doorways into other worlds, so I don't fuck with them. All closet doors are closed on my watch, and if a mirror is at the foot of a bed

[00:18:35] on the rare occasion I stay at a friend's house, I find a clean towel or sheet to throw over it. I feel the crunch of fall leaves beneath my feet, glance down to see my jacket and fanny pack on, and check my watch to see it's way past midnight. I got to work six hours ago. Where did those hours go? I open the neon zipper to find my wallet, keys, and wine key safely there,

[00:19:04] but my phone is nowhere to be found. What in the actual fuck is happening? My short-term memory certainly isn't what it used to be since I got COVID three times in a row, but Jesus Christ, shouldn't I remember how I got back into the woods? Or the sweet relief of my shift ending? Did I even do my checkout? What were my sales? I like to compete with myself, playing a numbers game in my head, assessing my value numerically,

[00:19:32] so my boss knows I'm irreplaceable because I make too much damn money for them. But I don't remember the numbers at the end of this night, or clocking out, or even eating the barn pretzel and Caesar salad I ordered for dinner. I do feel something in the back of my throat, though. Just being aware of that is enough to trigger a panic attack, so I start hyperventilating and coughing in the middle of the fucking woods with that caged-up waterfall mocking me a short distance away.

[00:20:01] Somehow, I've planted myself directly across from the treaded grave, and that triggers my panic even more. I cough and choke loudly, wondering if this is how I die. I've always thought choking was one of the stupidest ways to die, and as I find myself working harder and harder to gasp for a nourishing gulp of air, I surrender to my fate. Today's the day I choke at Tumwater Falls, and no one's coming to save me.

[00:20:30] I feel a tickle climbing up my windpipe, a scratchy, hard substance yearning to break free of my throat cavity. Just when I'm about to pass out from lack of air, the culprit shoots out of my mouth and across the way, landing right in front of that fucking grate. I could keep walking. I could call a lift and get the fuck out of this place. Shit. But I can't without my phone.

[00:20:58] Plus, I've got to know what I was choking on. I have to know what almost killed me tonight. So, I do the most counterintuitive thing I've ever done in my life. I walk toward the death rate. I walk toward the home of water-soaked fingers and trapped women and disgusting sewage and pennies that rolled away, never to be found again. I check my heart rate and ignore how it's spiking.

[00:21:26] I take deep breaths, imagining all the women in my lineage standing beside me and quickly bend down to see what the fuck I was choking on. When I get close enough to the ground, I see what appears to be a bone of some sort. Tiny as a toothpick, thick as a pencil, but without question a bone that once belonged in the body of a being, a human being by the looks of it. It's about three inches long,

[00:21:56] and I swear it has the structure of a pinky finger. Pinespern doesn't have the best food, but I know we don't serve fingers. Subpar chicken fingers, maybe. Lackluster nachos that are sometimes good if Miguel makes them. But for the love of God, what is happening to me? I start to catch my breath, consciously trying to calm my anxiety. I put my hand on my heart and feel it practically pounding out of my chest.

[00:22:26] I let my hand rest there, feeling the frantic beat to ground myself and believe I'm really here, like I'm not forgetting time, like I am safe, I am safe, I am safe. And just as I do, there's a loud clang coming from the grate. It's about a foot away from me now, and I'm hunched over with my back to it. I didn't want to accidentally peer inside when I fetched the object that tried to kill me tonight,

[00:22:54] but now I've made the rookie mistake of turning my back on the thing I fear. Sometimes I feel like I have military training in my bloodline, or maybe it's just being born a woman. Ever since I was a little kid, I could never sit with my back to any door or entrance, or underground waterfall dungeon in this case. I freeze. It sounds like someone is striking the metal bars with a tiny hammer. But this time, a few rusted chips of paint fly in my direction,

[00:23:24] hitting me in the back of my ankle. I stand up, forgetting my lost phone, and start sprinting through the forest. I don't stop until I get to my apartment, deadbolting the door behind me, and falling back onto my bed in terrified relief. Atreyu and Bastion are immediately at my side, purring as if to say I'm safe now. And like most nights after a long shift at the bar,

[00:23:52] I pass out without washing my face or brushing my teeth. Hell, I even pass out with my sneakers and fanny packs still on. When I dream that night, I imagine my belly is a prison, and there's a ship trapped inside it. Inside the ship is a cage for monsters, and they scream for release as waves of enzymes and hydrochloric acid

[00:24:21] toss the ship back and forth, until suddenly, I appear within my own stomach with a machete, slicing them all up. How I'm able to hurt them without hurting me, I don't know. But I am triumphant, and out of breath by the time I finish. I look down to see I'm standing on top of the ship, my ankles swimming in blood, safe at last.

[00:24:50] As the feeling of safety settles around me like a warm blanket, I realize this is a lucid dream. The first time I've ever had one. Usually, I have to wake up to escape the terrors of my dreams. But this time, I beat the fuckers. I made it out alive. The sea within my stomach is churning red. Bloody memories of the creeps I cut out of myself splattered around me like monster soup. But at least the ship is quiet.

[00:25:21] I feel like I'm my own message in a bottle. A baby Medusa whose snakes outlived the coward Perseus, so no one will ever harm her again. I hear gulls flying in the distance, and notice the sky is a cotton candy pink. I look around the massive wooden ship, and see Atreyu and Bastion perched on the tall mast, cleaning their bloody paws and gazing at me lazily.

[00:25:50] They're the calmest I've ever seen them, perhaps able to rest at last, because I succeeded in massacring my demons. I look down at myself. I'm wearing my work clothes from last night, fanny pack and sneakers still on. That's a first two. The first time I've ever been wearing the exact same clothes in my dream as I wore when I fell asleep. The blood around my ankles is gone. I'm clean, without a trace of it on me.

[00:26:20] But my fanny pack is lined with a string of bones that look like the one I coughed up earlier tonight. Or was it two nights ago? How much time has passed in this dream? And why the fuck aren't I waking up? I count the bones as they dangle. Thirteen in total. My lucky number. When you're born on the 13th, it's always lucky, even if you choose alliteration over horror. I was born on a Thursday.

[00:26:50] Thursday's child has far to go. She knows more than she thinks she knows. I move my hips in the dream, and the bones jangling off the pack remind me of this VHS I had as a kid, where a woman named Dolfina taught you how to belly dance and always wore the coolest hip scarves. I shake the bones, and find at first they sound like some happy xylophone from my childhood.

[00:27:17] But then the sound transforms into a cacophony of loud classical music, which becomes heavy metal, the volume growing louder and louder, the way I used to hallucinate sound as a kid whenever I had a fever. Paracujas was what mom said it was. The music gradually devolves from the metal to the classical to the eerie clang from the great.

[00:27:48] I listen closer, but just when I think I've got a hold of the pattern, it transforms into the sound of whispers. A chorus of apologies from unworthy men on repeat. To see through unworthy boys and men has always been my curse. Perhaps when you have a shitty father, you instantly recognize every asshole who wasn't meant to share genetic treasures with women. Though if my mom had this ability,

[00:28:18] I wouldn't be alive right now. But am I alive? Or have I died and gone to lucid dream heaven? Hell, now, with all these assholes apologizing. Ugh, they're killing my victorious belly-dancing pirate vibes. I ignore their apologies and try to distract myself. I look down at my belly again and see a shiny copper zipper is now fused into my skin.

[00:28:47] It starts at the center of my rib cage and goes all the way down to my navel. Curious, I touch the cold metal and pull it down. Oh, bones spill out, like they've been hiding inside me. Another shiny zipper appears, and I pull that one down too. I do this about a hundred times, over and over and over again,

[00:29:15] and bones keep spilling out of me in waves until the deck of the ship is littered with them. How many monsters did I ingest to come to this? Did I swallow an ocean of pain to arrive on these tides? Why am I writing lucid poetry in my dreams? I check my heart rate the way Mom taught me to and realize it is the steadiest it has been in a very long time. I plant my feet on the deck of the ship,

[00:29:44] and lush roots emerge, piercing through the bottoms of my feet and grounding me to the wooden planks, flowers growing in my wake as the bones start to rearrange themselves on the wood, spelling out a message. I reach my arms up to the stars, distracting myself from each letter slowly forming on the deck, so when I look back down, the message will already be complete. As I reach for the sky, I spot a constellation shining

[00:30:12] in the shape of my Abuela's favorite pot. I smell the soothing aroma of arroz con candules. I smell safety. I smell home. When I look back down, the ship has transformed into a jungle, the blood still gone, although the bone message is continuing to be born. The whispers are quiet now, replaced by the sounds of coqui frogs. My Abuela taught me

[00:30:41] that our people survived genocide by transforming themselves into coqui and escaping to the mountains of Borinquen. Our original ancestors were bats and frogs. No wonder I root for every tiny creature to make it across the street, to survive hidden in the darkness. The only way to survive is to hide in plain sight. Sophomore year of biology class taught me that some frogs consume prey by using a complex pulley system

[00:31:09] that reaches so deep into their throat, it headbutts their heart. To survive, you must cage your heart. Your heart must bear witness to the swallowing of prey. I look up from the jungle floor and see the sacred trees of Borinquen flourishing. I breathe in the kaleidoscopic flowers and track the celestial thread that begins in the constellation of my Abuela's pot in the distance

[00:31:37] and reaches down into my heart, bleeding into the ground where I have made roots. The galactic painting before me disappears for a moment, and I'm back at Tumwater Falls, dragging a heavy weight I can't see, removing the horrid grate and stuffing something down there. I blink, and I'm in the jungle again. But Atreyu and Bastion have grown three times their size

[00:32:06] and are now jaguars running beside me as we bolt through a field of lavender. The bees buzzing overhead, spelling something else out, making me forget about the bones and Tumwater Falls. My memory lapses and all of it. The bees buzz in my ear, and when I look closer to read what they're saying, I see the word steady spelled out in neat cursive above the lavender. Steady is exactly how I feel right now.

[00:32:36] Steady and safe in a world where no monsters can reach me. I blink again and hear the loud rush of the falls. I hear the sound of something heavy being dragged over withered fall leaves, the faded oranges and browns crushed by the weight of it. I hear the rusty grate being removed, and something sliding into it again and again, the ropes and pulley creaking, the rusty bars being removed

[00:33:06] and shoved back into place, weight after weight after weight, falling, falling, falling, deeper and deeper into the abyss beyond. I don't want to see this. I'm done with that place. I blink again, and there are the fields of lavender, miraculously growing in the jungle. There's the Caribbean Sea, the bioluminescence on Vieques, alive and well.

[00:33:33] I feel my toes in the brown sugar sand, and on the nearby shore, I spot the tiniest bottle with the teeny-tiniest ship inside. As I pick it up, I see a microscopic pile of bones that have spelled themselves into a message for me. But they're far too small now for anyone to decipher. I hold the bottle between my thumb and forefinger, tilting it back and forth.

[00:34:01] I shake it like a snow globe, like that will magically magnify the bones. I bring it close to my face, and my spirit seems to dive in. Now I'm inside the bottle, with my hands pressed up against the glass, banging, banging, clanging, like the iron bars of the grate, trying to escape. I'm so small, and I'll suffocate in here if I stay a moment longer.

[00:34:31] But it doesn't have to be this way. I'm free now. I stop fighting the glass cage, gently touch my finger to the clear surface, and it disappears. When it does, I turn around to look at the deck of the ship one last time. I can read the message now. I can see what the bones were trying to tell me all along. If you eat them,

[00:35:01] they will fall. My mind flashes to a mean bout of food poisoning I had a week ago, and the dreams that accompanied it. In waking life, I'd been the victim of a sneaky bacterial living in a salad I thought was still good in my fridge. But in the astral realm, I found myself kneeling over a giant lake inside of a toilet, vomiting up men. Whole bodies were spewing from my throat,

[00:35:30] the men naked and caked in blood. And I puked them up one after another. I stopped counting after 23. I woke up from that dream and remembered my favorite thing my mother ever taught me. When I was little and told her what dad's friend had done, after I cried and after she held me for a very, very long time, she took my face in her hands and said, Stella,

[00:36:01] I always tried to keep you safe. But now you know there will be times when I'm not there. There will be times when I can't. My little face was red from crying, and I still had the bruises he left all over me, weakening me, reminding me I was powerless. But when she said those words,

[00:36:29] all the fear left my body. I looked straight into her eyes and said, she told me there were ancient ways of protecting ourselves, as ilahurono, kenainaruno, as girls and women. She told me every man who has ever had a disgusting thought about you unwittingly gives you access to his dreams, and by default, his nightmares.

[00:36:58] that every time a sick man dares to violate you in his fantasy, he opens a portal to the dream world, where you have all the power. In waking life, they may be bigger and stronger, but in the land of dreams, they are no match for you, my bright star. In the land of dreams, you can be the monster. You can eat them before they ever hurt you

[00:37:27] in the real world. I took Mama's advice to heart that day, and every day since, I've been eating them for a long time now. The ones who have the sickest thoughts welcome me into their nightmare world, but they don't know I'm unbreakable here, and I eat them before they cause any real pain in the waking world. I thought it was harmless,

[00:37:57] for a while, a way to transmute all my rage from what happened to me. Even my therapist said it was harmless, a fascinating way to process trauma, but harmless overall. Until the missing posters started showing up all over Olympia, until the men I consumed in the dream world never woke up again in this one. The ship transforms into that peaceful

[00:38:27] jungle again. The bones disappear, I wonder how many days it's been, how long I've been living here. Did they get someone to cover my shifts at Pints Barn? Who is feeding Atreyu and Bastion? I look up to see my lost cell phone perched on the tallest ceba tree, right next to my sweet feline guardians. I fly up there because, why not? In this world,

[00:38:56] I can do anything. I sit beside them on a sturdy branch and grab my stupid phone, knowing I'm meant to read whatever's on the screen. It's an article from the Olympian, dated September 20th, 2024. My picture's on the front page, a picture of Atreyu and Bastion below it. Look, Ma, we made it! I laugh to myself as my eyes drift down to the headline. Local girl chokes in sleep.

[00:39:26] Cats lead neighbor to body. God damn it! Stupid way to die. At least my guardians were loyal to the end. I look back up to the stars and see Abuela's smiling eyes. Mom's, too. I remember what Abuela told me the day before she died. The coqui didn't hide in the mountains. They leapt up to the stars. They hid in the star galaxy.

[00:39:56] And that's how our people survived. By traveling between worlds until we were safe again. Abuela is calling for me now. She's braiding stars into my hair. And Mom's hand is reaching for mine, pinky extended for one more promise. They're ready. And I suddenly realize I'm so very tired. With all this dream vigilantism,

[00:40:26] I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since... maybe ever. I hear the coqui chirping a lullaby and the waves dancing with the earth in the distance. I forget the monsters, instead imagining all the gentle souls who won't endure what I did because I ate the men preying on us. I kiss Atreyu and Bastion on their furry little heads and their jaguar forms appear,

[00:40:57] nuzzling my belly, purring incessantly. Together, we run up the trees into Skyworld where I find my way to the women. To all the women in my lineage. Their hands are linked and they form an infinite circle that goes back beyond the beginning of time. The coqui sing. They sing to all of us and their lullaby begins to take shape like spun gold.

[00:41:28] It transforms into star crowns that glisten upon my ancestors' heads and tiny bats perch in their hair, resting. I take my place in the circle. The circle is my crown. Abuela's papery hand envelops mine on one side while Mom's firm grip embraces the other. How I've missed them

[00:41:59] will heal together, safe. Ours are shining so bright now. I can barely keep my eyes open. I hold tight to the women and breathe. The only thing left to do now.

[00:42:41] Stella in the Belly of the Beast Written by Kyla Tukaya Garcia Performed by Kyla Garcia You've been listening to Ominous Thrill Her Horrorween. It's created, produced, directed, and sound designed by myself, Jeff Schmidt. If this is your first Ominous Thrill episode, please look back in the feed to find other stories you might enjoy. There's plenty of devious audio delights to choose from. The best way to help support making more Ominous Thrill is to subscribe

[00:43:11] to the ad-free feed, The Red Room, on Patreon and Apple Podcasts. Find links in the show notes. It's greatly appreciated. Next best is to share this story with everyone you think might enjoy it. Help spread the word. Use the share icon in your listening app of choice. And the easiest way is to leave a five-star rating and a positive review. It doesn't do much for the algorithms, but it helps other listeners decide if they'll listen. Thank you. This has been Ominous Thrill

[00:43:40] of Her Horoween, and until next time, thrill you later. The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.