Ghoul!: Kool Ghoul Radio, #1

By Dillon Wylder

There is a phone number for an abandoned radio station and if you are the thirteenth caller, a DJ will request a scary story.

Tell him one and he will hang up.

Don't and you'll die in seven days.

This book collects ten short stories presented by The Kool Ghoul, your shock jock from beyond the grave.

- A young man discovers his estranged family needs his body to keep their sinister secret alive.

- Taxidermied dogs get revenge on the elderly neighbor responsible for their deaths.

- A monster hunter tracks a long-haul trucking Frankenstein to a bar on the edge of the desert.

- And more...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mutant Vision
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223994749

Dillon Wylder

Dillon Wylder grew up in the Pacific Northwest. He was raised on a steady diet of ghost stories, UFO and bigfoot sightings, and a video store's worth of straight-to-VHS B horror flicks. He writes monthly short stories for Kool Ghoul Radio on YouTube.

Book preview

Forward

Art by Sean Krummel

EVENING GROOVIE GHOULIES!

Your malicious MC has transitioned from the small screen to the even smaller screen of your iPhone, Kindle, or Nook. How exciting!

You hold in your hands the first Kool Ghoul anthology. One of many yet to come. This volume collects some of my favorite Kool Ghoul Radio stories edited into their final versions. Some stories have changed from their initial release. Don’t worry, though. The originals are still available on YouTube.

So, pour yourself a cup of Hurl Gray Tea, and settle in for a spooky read.

Yours cruelly,

The Kool Ghoul

Hidden Potential

MY BLACK ‘56 THUNDERBIRD convertible rumbled in the gravel driveway of my childhood home. I sat in the driver’s seat, picked at my nails with a pocketknife, and looked up at the aged house.

Ma would be heartbroken, I thought.

The crisp white paint had faded and turned an ugly, cold gray. Large chunks of paint peeled from the siding, revealing cracked wood beneath. On the second floor, broken tree branches pierced windows devoid of glass and missing their decorative shutters.

My eyes drifted from the house to the reason for the visit — the light blue envelope on my passenger seat. My brother had sent the letter. The first I’d heard from him in years. My old man was on his way out. He wanted to see me, make amends for not being there — to apologize for how things went down between him and my ma. She left him when I was ten. Took me with her. My dad kept Dustin, my younger brother. Something big happened, I’m not sure what, but she refused to give me a reason why we left. Even on her deathbed. She didn’t want my father or brother to know she was dying. Didn’t want them sniffing around.

Lord knows how they found me.

I considered forgetting the whole thing. Why not drive home, grab some fast food, and watch TV? I could pour a Diet Coke out for the old man from the comfort of my couch. For me, this wasn’t a reunion. I’d left so early in my childhood my brother and father might as well be strangers. I knew Ma, and I knew she probably had good reason to leave. But I needed to know for myself. I folded the knife and clipped it to my belt, then turned the ignition off and climbed out of the car into the hot California air.

The limbs of large oak trees stretched over the house and driveway like an umbrella of fingers offering little shade. Pockets of sun punched holes between their branches, highlighting the clumps of swarming gnats. The buzz and chirrup of insects filled the air. The sound reminded me of an out-of-tune radio — Rhythmic fuzz and the occasional whine of distorted voices.

Something struck the side of my head — hard. I swatted it to the ground and looked. A cockroach lay on its back, its legs and antennae waving at me. I raised my foot and crunched the bug beneath my shoe. I hate cockroaches.

Wasn’t no need for that, said a voice from the house.

A young man had descended the steps towards me. Despite the heat, he wore a hoodie, obscuring his eyes from view. I could see we had the same sloping nose that ended in a slight upturn and the same thin lips. The hoodie disguised his figure. If it wasn’t for the tight jeans that clung to his gaunt legs, you’d assume he was a healthy teenager.

Dustin? I held out my hand.

He chewed at the end of his lean thumb while he looked me over. I could see him better now. Large, watery blue eyes set into a pale-yellow face. He regarded me with hesitation. His eyes wandered down my tattoo sleeve to the scars on my hands. Knife wounds and fingernail scratches. His eyes rested on my warped pinky finger. A gift from a drunken biker I’d received while working under the table at a Honkey Tonk bar when I was fifteen. It never healed right.

Customer service job. I smiled and wiggled the pinky.

The hesitancy left his face. He brushed my hand aside and hugged me. His thin arms and elbows dug into my sides. The kid was all sharp angles. Strong too.

Easy. I pulled away. So, this is the old homestead. I barely remember it.

Still standing after all these years. Come in. I ordered out.

He led me to the house. The heavy smell of dry rot permeated the entryway. Stubby candles — their beds, large puddles of hardened wax — lined the baseboards and the tops of dusty antique hallway tables. They provided little light. Just enough to see. Ahead of us, the dining room connected to the kitchen and living room in an open floor plan. Candles lined the furniture and edges of the rooms.

Power out?

Nothing like that. We like to keep things dark.

That so? I said. Is Dad joining us?

Please, sit.

Dustin gestured to the small dining room table decorated with patches of dark fungus. Boxes of Chinese food sat next to a candle in the center. The smell of takeout mixed with the stale air and suddenly I wasn’t hungry.