YOUR NARRATOR:

I would like to take, just for a moment, this time to talk about creativity and beauty.

there is so much of it in this world, that it is difficult to decide what to do with it; and yet we try to avoid it. Why? Because beauty, my friends, is destructive. If you dwell on it for too long, it can swallow you up and never return you to your loved ones. Beauty is a terribly manipulative thing.

But I will tell you about a man who could not do without beauty in his life.

He was a writer, of course. A writer who wrote of heartbreak, of murder and mayhem, intrigue, and long-lost lovers who just missed each other by a cliff's fall. He wrote by candlelight, tales of monsters, spirits,  demons, and cruelty. But also tales of love and beauty. Of people. He'd lose himself in a bottle of wine and the candlelight, he'd dip his quill in black ink that he could barely see for all the shadows in his small office, and entire nights would pass by without him knowing it. It was only when he saw the light peeking in through the window and the hustle and bustle of the city's daytime begin outside that he knew he had lost yet another night's sleep to the beautiful monsters in his imagination.

Now, this writer did not have many people. And we all need people.

Actually, that's not entirely true. He did have people. He just didn't realize it. He was too busy in his shadows, adoring the nighttime with his silent, diligent work. But he did have people. He had a friend who he rarely spoke with anymore. They had gone to school together and were once extremely close, but time had pulled them away from one another. His friend was now married and had a family. He had steady, reliable employment in town. He inherited a lovely home. The writer wasn't quite sure how to talk to his friend anymore, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. He had such a small, dark hovel for a home; he was never quite sure where his money would come from each month; the only thing he was sure of was his writing. And so he clung to it in the darkness, and shunned everything else.

One particular story this man had written, a story which was particularly successful at its time of publication, was about a man who fell in love with the ghost of a beautiful young woman who haunted his home. The sad ghost in the tale was accompanied often by the ghost of a gentleman, too, who was eager to drag her back to the underworld...and together, they made quite the picturesque pair. The lady was described in the story as wearing a lovely green dress and carrying a pale green parasol. The gentleman was described as wearing all black - a black suit over a black shirt and vest, and a huge black top hat. He carried a cane with a solid gold handle in the shape of an anatomically correct human heart.

Now, I tell you this, because our writer was accustomed to seeing his admirers sometimes dress like these two characters on the rare occasion that he was performing a live reading or signing autographs. At first he only did this when he really needed a few extra coins in his pocket; now, however, he wished he had offers to attend these events again. This story with the lady in green and the man in black was his most successful and was published widely, but none of his more recent work ever matched its success. And he wasn't surprised at this. He knew that story was his best. He had been taken by the images he created; the sad lady in green with the beautiful yet frightening eyes, the gentleman in black whose face was always shadowed and who could send you screaming to Hades with three taps of his golden cane...he had been in love with these characters just as much as his fans. He had never invented another character quite like them.

He was working on a new story. A mediocre tale about a man being stalked by the spectre of a large black dog with glowing red eyes. He didn't know how it was going to end, but he wrote and he wrote anyway, describing the dog, the man, the city...he would decide just where the story would go when the answer came to him, he reasoned with himself. One day, as he was aimlessly writing, he received a telegram. It was from his friend, the one from school. He was asking the writer if he would like to join him and his family for a holiday feast the next evening; perhaps they might reconnect. He missed his friend. He was worried about him, all alone as he was. The writer barely thought about the invitation; he had no clothes without holes or moths, he had no money to bring a gift, and the notion of staying in his hovel seemed so much more inviting than going outside and being among others. He pushed the letter to the side, telling himself he'd reply to it later, though he knew he never would. He kept writing.

[An eerie melody is played on guitar and sung along breathlessly to, in simple "la la la"s]

After several hours, the sun began to set, and he rose up from his desk to stretch a little. Looking out the window at the people heading from their days of work or shopping, or whatever else they did that he did not understand, he was struck for a moment by the sight of a young woman wearing green, holding a parasol over her head, seemingly staring up at his window. At least, he thought she was, not being able to see much under the parasol.

It made him angry, realizing that an admirer had discovered his address. They must have requested it from his old publisher (he had since been dropped as a writer by the company). He watched her for several minutes, but then realized she wasn't moving. She wasn't going to his door, she wasn't throwing a pebble at his window, she wasn't even waving at him. She barely seemed to realize that he was staring back. Or, perhaps, she didn't care.

He shrugged and sat down again, pouring himself another drink. Let her stand there, he thought to himself. Let her rot.

He regretted thinking that almost immediately. He regretted his anger. He wrote that character because he found her to be beautiful and tragic and terrifying....if an admirer found the same things in her, shouldn't he be pleased? His writing had clearly resonated with someone, wasn't that good?

No, he argued to himself. I wrote her for me. I found her beautiful. She is mine. And she hasn't brought me any money or food or shelter lately. Ungrateful thing, he thought, smiling to himself that he was debating the worth of a fictional character.

The next time he looked out the window, she was gone.

He wrote through the night, again, not realizing he hadn't slept in so long. At midnight, the chimes at the church across from him rang, and he poured himself another drink.

A knock came at the door. Three taps.

He stopped writing, frozen in place. Who wanted him at this hour? Was it that woman? If it was, she had some gall...

He waited a long moment, hoping the guest would simply go away. Anyone who wanted him at this hour was not someone who should be let in.

Another three taps came. He ignored them as well.

He kept writing.

The black dog in the story was watching the man he stalked through his window, snarling and growling...but to what end? To what purpose? He had to keep writing to find out.

An hour later, the writer's candle was extinguished abruptly as a chill ran through his room. Grumbling to himself, he walked to the dressed by the window. Just before he struck another match, he heard three taps against the glass.

[three taps are heard, and the sound of ghostly sighs and breaths is heard]

Suddenly, he saw the image of a man outside his window. A man in all black, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes, a smile on his motionless face.

The writer cried out and dropped the match. When he finally managed to light another, the man was gone.

Never mind that he lived on the fourth floor and had no balcony. Never mind that he saw no trace of anyone running away from the building when he peered out of the window once more. Now, someone else knew where he lived, knew he was home. He tried to push down the panic he was feeling, but it swept over him and clutched at his heart. He poured himself another drink with shaking hands.

More hours passed and he tried to keep writing, but his mind was distracted and foggy with fear and wine. He told himself that what he had seen was either an impossible vision caused by sleeplessness, or else a cruel joke being played on him. But it still didn't make the feeling pass.

And then, in the small hours of the morning, when he heard three taps coming from his bedroom, he was starting to fear that what he had seen was neither of those things.

He slowly walked towards the room. He could see the small bed from the doorway, the night table with one leg missing. He stood at its entrance. No man in black.

But, before he let himself feel relief, he turned his head to the right where he saw a young woman in a green dress.

"Don't be afraid," she said, though her mouth didn't move.

He couldn't say anything. Couldn't move.

"Am I not beautiful?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, her mouth still closed in a small smile. "Is this not a welcome meeting?"

Then, from behind him, he heard three taps.

He turned around, and the man in black stood by his desk, smiling a little too. His mouth also didn't move when he spoke. "We are not here to harm you. We are here to help you."

And, just at that time, he heard the sound of panting coming from  another corner of his bedroom.

A large black dog came trotting out, its eyes glowing red.

But it wasn't growling.

It was wagging its tail and looking up at him expectantly. Though it panted, its mouth didn't move. 

"You see?" The woman said, and she took a few steps towards him. He realized that her eyes, too, were glowing red.

"Let us help you," the man said, and he too had those same eyes.

And the dog sat at his feet, looking up at him, wagging his tail still.

They were all so inviting, so kind, so lovely, these creatures. Even as the three of them smiled at him with the sharp black teeth of a dog, and their eyes shone hungrily at him, he couldn't help but admire how beautiful they were indeed. How much more wonderful these ghouls from his mind were than anyone else outside of this apartment. And the writer's eyes welled up with tears as he realized they were here to take him away. To where? Did it matter?

The sun was beginning to appear, and the sounds of people going about their lives in the street rumbled below them. His voice sounded so distant from himself, so strange, as he admitted it for the first time. "I don't know if I want to be here anymore," he whispered. "Take me with you."

[The guitar and singing from earlier is heard again, soaring over the sounds of the ghostly breathing]

The creatures grinned even more broadly now and came closer and closer,  as if preparing to envelop him in all three of their embraces at once. When he realized that their hands were frigid and that their fingers  dug sharply and painfully into him, he screamed loudly. He tried to tell them to stop, that he changed his mind, he didn't realize what he was saying, but they wouldn't. They clutched him tightly, and the room he was in was starting to turn to black before his eyes - only red eyes in the shadows visible.

"My friend," the man in black whispered, "Just think of all the other beautiful creatures we will show you. Do not think of the cold and the fear. Think instead of the brightness of the moon, the blackness of the sea, the whisper of the wind..." And he did. And it calmed him. And he sank into the shadows, swallowed up by them.

He couldn't hear it, but the door to his apartment had been kicked open. A man stood in the doorway, clean and well-dressed.

It was his friend who had invited him to dinner that night.

Who can say what that man saw when he walked in? Did he see the three creatures with red eyes and wolf teeth? Did he see a black cloud trying to sweep the writer away from his world? Or did he just see his friend in the throes of desperation and agony?

He may not have known anything about storytelling and adventure, horror and beauty, spirits and monsters. But he knew a truth that his writer friend, for all his secret and dark knowledge, had never grasped. Which is that, as I said: we all need people.

He ran to his friend and clutched him tight. He wrapped his arms around him and he pulled him in the opposite direction of the monsters, even if he couldn't see them. And he whispered in his friend's ear, "I am here. I am here. Stay here. Don't go with them. Stay here."

And he did.

As soon as he decided to, they left. They left him alone. He couldn't see it, but they shrank back to the pages from which they came, where he could visit them any time he liked. But they could not come for him again.

He went to dinner that night after all.

Who am I to you?

I should like to be the friend that reminds you that you are not alone. I hope that's who I am.

Who is my Companion to me?

As he watches me from his corner of our tower, I can see the dreams of splendour and cruelty behind his eyes. Dreams that I find so alluring. Dreams that I am seeking to make a reality.

Am I wrong? Have I been wrong this whole time?

Somewhere, there is a confused angel walking the earth, all alone and heartbroken.

Somewhere, a banished, angry ghost wanders, looking for me.

Somewhere, you are listening to my voice, thinking of me.

My people.

I believe I must go find my people. I need people. Whoever they are.

Hi everyone, thank you again for listening to this episode of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is Kristen Zaza, your Narrator's friend and therefore, hopefully, I hope, I think, your friend.

I haven't been as consistent with episodes as I should be. I have no excuse that everyone else doesn't have. It's been a tricky time for me. That's not an excuse. I just want you to know that I appreciate your patience. If it hasn't been made abundantly clear, I do consider you my friends, so when I don't check in every week I feel guilty. I'm sorry. Moving on.

Quick shout-out this week to my friends over at a fabulous podcast called The Pitch-off Project. It's a really hilarious show by my friends Leete Stetson and Josef Beeby, and they recently had me on their holiday episode as a guest. I had a really great time. So! If you like great improv podcasts and/or you're a movie fan, subscribe and listen to The Pitch-off Project. On a separate note, Leete (from the Pitch-off Project) and I are going to be launching a podcast soon called "Oh Boy, It's Kristen and Leete!". It's a Quantum Leap re-watch podcast. I've never seen Quantum Leap before,  Leete has, so together we're embarking on a journey to watch every episode and talk about it. Don't worry, On a Dark, Cold Night isn't going anywhere, I'm just also going to be doing this thing that is very different from this show, too. So, if it sounds up your alley, check it out.

If you want to support the show, you can do so by listening on the RadioPublic app; it's free for you, and helps me earn money for my work as a podcaster. Plus, all Paid Listens are doubled for the month of December, so this is a really fantastic time to start using their app. SO please check out RadioPublic.

Next, you can keep in touch by following me on Twitter at @ADarkColdNight, Instagram at darkcoldnightpodcast, and on my Facebook page. You can also leave a recommendation on Facebook or a review on iTunes, Stitcher, Podknife, or any other place you can leave podcast reviews. That would be really wonderful and I'd be happy to shout you out here if you do.