S15E12 - "The Bright Side of Death" - Horror Hill

**Erik Peabody** (0:02)
Chilling Tales for Dark Nights.
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Disclaimer Horror Hill is a horror anthology podcast bringing you scary stories from all corners of the internet and beyond. As such, certain stories include content that some listeners might find offensive. Specifically, one of tonight's stories involves sexual assault of a teenager. Listener discretion is advised.
Hello there, listeners, and welcome back to Horror Hill. I'm Erik Peabody, your host and narrator. Tonight, I've got two tales for you that are so damn zany that I had to double check that this was still a horror show. But don't worry, they bring the chills as well, though you might be more focused on picking your jaw up off the floor. To start, we have I Haunted a Cult That Sacrificed Me by Richard Morgan. I suppose I don't really need to provide a synopsis for this one, since it's kind of all right there in the title. After that, we'll close out with Really Bad Dreams by Heath Faff, and the opening sentence of that story tells you everything you need to know about it. Brent was killed by a slice of toast fired at high velocity from an evil, sentient toaster.
Folks, these are weird, ridiculous times we live in, and sometimes you need a couple of equally weird, ridiculous stories to help you get through them. So let's get absurd.
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And now, from author Richard Morgan, I give you, I haunted a cult that sacrificed me.
I was 17 when I died. Okay, I'm lying. I was 46, but I was 17 at heart. I was living like I was 17 I was still at home with my mother, still living in my room that I had since I was born into that house. I was also sponging off of her shamelessly. Dad had left behind a generous amount of money for both of us. I managed to piss all of my share away on beer and other things that weren't much better. When I had spent all of it, I found ways of spending mama's share. It was the same tactics that had worked when I was four years old, the same tactics that had worked when I was 10, when I was 17
She was one of those mothers, and I was one of those sons. I had denied it up until I died. I knew I was a piece of crap, but no force on earth was going to get me to admit it. My pride and my hard head guaranteed it. Well, in my current state, pride is pointless. And I checked on my head where it got left. It's got a crack in it, so it's not as hard as it used to be.
God bless my mom, but she really is as stupid as she is loving. I had been going to have a night with my guy friends, who were like me. They didn't do much after high school and sponged off their parents. Those old yearbook signatures we left for each other that said, best friends, together forever, were really quite literal, thanks to the power of alcohol and laziness.
I can still see her as I had my foot in the door. She told me to look both ways before crossing the street and not to talk to strangers, just like she talked to me when I was a kid. I had done some pre-drinking, so my rebellion levels were elevated. I told her that I was going to do whatever I damn well pleased. I strode out the door to prove it. I ran blindly across the first busy street I came to, and the one after that, and the one after that. I didn't have a license thanks to an ongoing relationship with driving under the influence. Horns honked and tires squealed, and I still managed to come to the other side yelling, Look at me now, Ma, look at me now.