“DEAD ARM” and “MR BANANA” #WeirdDarkness #ThrillerThursday

DEAD ARM” and “MR BANANA” #WeirdDarkness #ThrillerThursday

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Listen to ““DEAD ARM” and “MR BANANA” #WeirdDarkness #ThrillerThursday” on Spreaker.

IN THIS EPISODE: It’s Thriller Thursday! In the episode I share two stories: “Dead Arm” and “Mr. Banana”.

“Dead Arm” by Thaddeus James: https://www.creepypasta.com/dead-arm/
“Mr. Banana” by R.K. Gorman: https://www.creepypasta.com/mr-banana/

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Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music Library. Background music provided by Alibi Music Library, EpidemicSound and/or StoryBlocks with paid license. Music from Shadows Symphony (https://tinyurl.com/yyrv987t), Midnight Syndicate (http://amzn.to/2BYCoXZ) Kevin MacLeod (https://tinyurl.com/y2v7fgbu), Tony Longworth (https://tinyurl.com/y2nhnbt7), and Nicolas Gasparini (https://tinyurl.com/lnqpfs8) is used with permission of the artists.

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(Over time links seen above may become invalid, disappear, or have different content. I always make sure to give authors credit for the material I use whenever possible. If I somehow overlooked doing so for a story, or if a credit is incorrect, please let me know and I will rectify it in these show notes immediately. Some links included above may benefit me financially through qualifying purchases.)

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“I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.” — John 12:46

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WeirdDarkness™ – is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. © 2023, Weird Darkness.

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DISCLAIMER: Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised.


Welcome, Weirdos – I’m Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you’ll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained.

Coming up in this episode…

It’s Thriller Thursday! And in this episode I have two creepypastas to share with you: 

“Dead Arm” by Thaddeus James, and “Mr. Banana” by R.K. Gorman.

If you’re new here, welcome to the show! And if you’re already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show! And while you’re listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, and you can also join the Weird Darkness Weirdos Facebook group.

Now.. bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness!


I’ve been completely clean for about two years, now, and I owe it all to the last drug I ever took. It apparently goes by many names, and it’s not easy to get your hands on it. The people who use it only give it to close friends, or people who they mean to do harm. Nothing can prepare you for the experience, not even smack.

Myself, I did Dead Arm when I was a senior in college. Finals were getting rough. I had a group of buddies that I took things with. Not exactly the type of friends your parents hope you’ll make – none were students like me, just townies, all different ages from seventeen to almost sixty. None of us were alike in any way, except for the one thing we had in common: what we were putting in our bodies. We’d veg out, high as kites. Escaping the world. Escaping our problems.

The more pressure I felt in my “normal” life, the more I turned to smack to help me through it. I would never even associate with these other folks before I started using, but they were slowly becoming my only friends. There was this one dude whose house we went to that we only knew as “Moses”. He had a two-bedroom apartment but somehow we fit almost fifteen of us in there to chill at “parties” that he threw.

I hardly ever spoke to Moses but he took a liking to me for some reason. He’d share some of his extra-potent shit with me, at times buy me pizza and beer, and generally just acted cool. He must’ve been forty-something but never had a stick up his ass or anything. Very laid back.

One day I hit up Moses after failing a final and asked him if he was having a get-together that night. He texted back “No”, so I started making plans with other people. Like ten minutes later, he texts me again:

“Actually, yeah. But can u just come? dont bring anyone else”

Naturally, I head over to his place because I want to get fucked-up, regardless of who else is there. I knocked on his apartment door and he let me in. The place was empty.

“Woah, man. Where is everyone?” I asked.

Moses looked at me seriously, a look I had hardly seen on his face before. “Hey, [my name], listen. You’ve been pretty chill and level-headed at my parties, and I want to offer you something. I’m going to this dude Ted’s house tonight, he’s got some of this new shit that he’s super-exclusive with. He’s down for you to tag along, but you have to really keep it on the down-low. You in?”

“What is it that he’s got, exactly?”

“I…it’s just…you’ll see. But trust me, it’s out of this world. You in?”

Bitch, you serious? You might as well have just described a Thanksgiving feast to a starving man. Ten minutes later we had arrived at Ted’s apartment complex.

It was the dingiest shithole I had ever seen. Trash was lying around the front of the building, broken glass was scattered about, and the place just had a certain stink to it. Although I wanted to leave, my itch to get high was stronger. We went up to the third floor, where Ted’s apartment was. Moses had a brief conversation with whoever opened the door before we were let in, assuring him I was cool.

Ted’s apartment was even more disgusting than the rest of the building. Almost no furniture, just dirty blankets and towels thrown on the floor with like ten people laying around on them, still as corpses. In the corner, someone was having sex with another person who looked barely conscious. All of them were moaning in such a bizarre way, almost like a death rattle from The Grudge but a lot louder. It was freaking the fuck out of me, but I figured I wouldn’t care about it at all soon enough.

The doorman came to me and Moses.

“You guys ready? You know the deal, it’s a hundred-fifty for a hit.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Moses said, pulling out a small wad of cash. He gestured to me. “It’s this kid’s first time doing Dead Arm. Get him first.”

He handed the cash over and the doorman grunted in approval. He took a belt from off the only table in the place and from its drawer he conjured a syringe. It looked to be full of a brown substance that looked to me like liquid dirt. He wrapped the belt tight around my arm. Moses made conversation as the doorman got the needle ready.

“Where’s Ted at?” he asked.

The doorman replied, “In his room. Don’t fuckin’ bug him.”

“Fair enough. No Ben tonight?”

“Nope. Remember what happened to his arm last week? He’s too embarrassed to be seen like that, I guess.”

“Shoulda just cut it off.”

“No doubt, brother.”

The doorman approached me with the needle. I nodded at him and he stuck it into one of the protruding veins in my arm. I watched the brown liquid leave the syringe and make its way into the bloodstream.

As soon as the needle was out, I immediately and unwillingly dropped to the floor. My knees just stopped working. Everything stopped working. I couldn’t move my head, arms, legs, even my mouth was hanging open. Completely numb, completely paralyzed. My head started ringing terribly. It was terrifying. I started to try and call out, but all I could do was moan, and I realized with a jolt that the noise I was making was not at all unlike the noises everyone else in this room was making.

Then, suddenly, the ringing in my head stopped and was replaced with such a deep relaxation that I cannot even describe to you through words. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, almost otherworldly carelessness. My paralysis suddenly did not matter, my finals did not matter, nothing mattered. My muscles felt like they were being lightly tugged in every direction. It felt like my body was dissolving into a puddle onto the floor, and it was incredible.

Not long after, I saw Moses fall to the floor by my side. The doorman stepped over us both and put the syringes he had used on us away. Then he went back to standing by the door, playing on his cell phone.

An hour passed. Nothing but pure bliss and silence, apart from the moaning and the humping in the back. Soon, though, that latter noise stopped and suddenly, this bare-naked dude was standing above me, the guy who was doing the banging. He crouched down to me, this hungry look in his eyes. I didn’t care – I couldn’t care. All that mattered was that I was lying down, with my muscles being deliciously pulled by whatever this shit in my veins was. Unable to move. Unable to think. Only existing at bare minimum.

The naked stranger started whispering something to himself and licking his lips. He got closer to me, his face mere centimeters from mine.

“Hey!” the doorman yelled. The naked stranger was yanked off of me and thrown into the apartment wall. The doorman raised a fist to him threateningly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You paid for that one in the back, not this one.”

“Come on, man! Let me have this!” the naked man screamed.

“Is this going to be a fucking problem? Do I have to bring Ted in here?”

I heard the naked man whimper in fear. He shook his head, hustled to grab his clothes, and then ran out of the apartment with them.

And still I was on the floor without a care in the world. Almost raped by a stranger, and couldn’t be bothered to give the slightest shit.

I lay there for another hour. Slowly, I felt myself coming back down to Earth a bit. Although I still couldn’t move or think straight, I started becoming a bit more aware. I wondered how long I would be like this. I wasn’t worried about it, it was just genuine curiosity. I also started to ponder about where this Dead Arm stuff could’ve possibly come from and what was in it.

Call it my inner conscience, call it God, or call it voices in my head, but something answered my bemusement:

Don’t worry about where I’m from. Just keep yourself still. You belong to me right now.

I could live with that.

Another hour gone by.

Discomfort started coming into my lower back. I still couldn’t move, but it was a bit of a relief knowing that my body was starting to respond to the things around it. Shit, even the relief itself was a relief.

Some of the other people around me who were on Dead Arm started to come out of it and stumble out of the apartment, thanking the doorman as they passed. By then it was like 2 AM.

At probably around 2:30, the doorman got off his phone and went out of my sight. I heard him knock on a door – most likely to one of the bedrooms – and call out, “Yo, Ted! I’m out, man. You still got six or seven out there so just a heads up.”

Although I could hear noises in response, I couldn’t exactly tell what was being said.

The doorman spoke again: “Yeah, alright, man. Have a good night.”

The doorman came back into my view, stepped over me, and walked out of the apartment.

Another hour passed when I heard one of the doors in the back open. At the same time someone came walking out. One of the people who had been high on the floor started coming to – a woman.

I heard her say to someone softly, “Oh! Hey, Ted. Thanks for the hit. Do you think you could help me to the door? My legs are still a little numb.”

The noise that replied almost completely killed my high. It was a mix between a scream and wet gurgle. If I had heard it a couple hours ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but I could feel myself coming down and I was suddenly absolutely terrified…but still couldn’t move.

Two pairs of feet started making their way towards the door. One after another, two people came into my line of sight: the first was a thirty-something blonde woman. She was stumbling a bit, using the wall as support before making her way out the door. Couldn’t recall exactly what she looked like.

But the second person I will remember until the day I die. He was a man, but unlike any person I have ever seen, before or since. His body looked like it had been stretched, pulled every which way like elastic. His arms were so long that his fingertips were touching the floor. His jaw was so wide open that the entirety of his mouth had to be at least a foot long, and it was full of jagged, broken and yellow teeth. The skin under his beady eyes was black and sunken. The hair on his head was grown in uneven patches. Brown patches were all over his face, arms, and legs, and they were disgustingly leaking a similar-colored liquid onto the floor – it looked quite a lot like Dead Arm.

This man was practically inhuman. Nobody in the human race, regardless of our breakthroughs in cosmetics, looked like that or was ever supposed to look like that. It was a fucking monster standing over me.

And even still I could not move.

All I could do was scream, and even then not very loudly. When I did, the wet, beady eyes of the monster-person looked down at me. The thing’s head cocked slightly and a look of confusion came over its face – as if it couldn’t understand why the fuck I was screaming at the sight of it.

It shook its head and walked out of my view, which terrified me more. I didn’t want to look at it, but I also didn’t want to be unaware of what it was. My mind was racing furiously, wondering what I should do, if maybe somehow I could roll myself to the door…

No. No. Just relax. You belong to me for now, remember? It’s not so bad. Just look at Ted.

That fucking thing was Ted?

I tried to fight the overwhelming urge to just lay there, but found myself just as helpless as before. The straining to move at least one of my muscles was fruitless and started paining me greatly. Suddenly my muscles weren’t relaxed, they were flaring up. It hurt so badly I didn’t even scream – I just passed out.

When I woke up, I was myself again. And I immediately started screaming as the memory of what went down last night came rushing back to me.

Moses, who looked like he had just woken up himself, was crouching next to me instantly.

“Dude! Get a hold of yourself!” he yelled. “Relax!”

I told him everything that had happened – from the naked stranger to the voices I had heard after taking the Dead Arm and the oozing monster that had come out of the back room. Throughout my explanation, Moses’ face fell.

He said, in a low voice, “You need to leave right now. Ted’s insecure enough as it is, and you’re not gonna help by calling him a fuckin’ monster. Thankfully for you he’s asleep right now.”

“What the fuck? Dude, he was stretched out, he didn’t even look like a person!”

“Side-effect of the Dead Arm, man. Ted knows how to party.”

“Are you fucking telling me that we could end up like that if we keep using that shit?”

“Dude, don’t you remember how good it felt? Are you telling me it’s not worth it?”

By the time he finished his sentence, I was already out the door. I got out of the apartment complex and turned my head. From one of the windows on the third-floor, I saw a glimpse of Ted, the monster-person, staring down at me with those tiny eyes, the impossibly-wide jaw still agape in a permanent state of relaxation.

I screamed and sprinted away. I couldn’t help it.

Ever since that night, I refused to touch another substance. I never spoke with Moses or the old crew again. And I never even once walked near Ted’s house. Not long after my night there, he was gone and I never got the invite to come back, and part of me was glad. He’s what I was afraid of the most.

Because I know someday I’m going to end up just like him.

I’m off drugs now because nothing can compare to Dead Arm. Nothing at all. I’ll find it again and will use it. This is one addiction that no amount of rehab can help. The relaxing helplessness, the stillness of the mind…

Oh, and that soothing voice, too. I hear it even today, all the time, whispering to me.

You’re still mine and I know you’ll come back.


Up next, it’s our second of two creepypastas in this episode – and though the title may not sound creepy, the story certainly is. “Mr Banana” is up next on Weird Darkness.



We’d been doing civics for the past month. I was teaching second grade at Witherspoon Elementary, struggling to teach the meaning of Gettysburg and the Battle of Princeton to a bunch of eight year-olds, especially without giving a diatribe about the evils of slavery and making them bring that shit home to their parents.

One day, I was stuttering through a lesson on a states’ rights speech by Jefferson Davis when, suddenly, Jimmy blurted out, “Mr. Johnson, you look like a banana!” The other kids laughed their asses off, latching onto the joke immediately. Yeah, a big, fat banana! A big, fat, stinky banana!

Alright, alright — I know my clothes are a little funny. I was wearing a yellow Ralph Lauren button-down and some bright, mustard khakis. Brown shoes, too — the stem, I guess. Just for today, you can call me Mr. Banana. The kids exploded after that. We didn’t accomplish much for the rest of the day, but I wondered if this whole Mr. Banana business might actually be good for them.

On the way home, I decided to buy some stuff from Greene Street: a couple of yellow button-downs, some yellow ties, a few pairs of pants. I signed the receipt Mr. Banana; the cashier didn’t notice, but I chuckled as I walked out the door.

Walking down Nassau, I had the sudden craving for banana bread, so I went to Wawa and bought some ingredients. Figured I would bake one for myself and one for the kids. When I got home, I mixed up the ingredients and put two loaves in the oven, then I pulled up an old episode of Sesame Street on YouTube. I was thinking a lot about yellow, I guess, but it had never occurred to me how magnetic Big Bird was: that lovable behemoth, always brightening everyone’s mood. There’s this one episode where he goes to school for the first time, and he tries to take his desk from the classroom because the teacher said it was “his.” I laughed thinking about having a giant bird in my classroom; everything would probably go to shit.

Anyway, once the banana bread was done, I sliced myself a big piece, squirting a little whipped cream on top. It was good but tasted a little strange. Figured I would change up the recipe if I made another batch.

The next day, I came into school in full-yellow garb; a pineapple tie, some pastel pants — even an old pair of shoes that I spray-painted yellow. Once the kids sat down, we went through our daily salutation, with a slight twist:

Gooooood morning, class.

Good morning, Mr. Banana!

Every kid got a piece of banana bread wrapped in plastic. Between the gluten and walnuts and eggs, I probably would’ve been sued if a crumb fell on the floor.

Somehow, we made some headway on the Civil War that day; I showed them segments from a documentary about Abraham Lincoln, and they actually sat still, fumbling the banana bread in their hands.

I started getting emails from parents a few days later:

Mr. Johnson,

Alice absolutely loves your class! She said you’re the funniest teacher she’s ever had — keep up the good work!

-Mrs. Goldman

It was nice to get that approval, like I was actually doing something important. Hell, maybe these kids would even remember some of the stuff I taught them.

So, I started to go all out, bringing in yellow streamers to hang across the classroom, typing up the weekly newsletter with a banana-themed border, taking showers with L’Oréal Banana Blast Shampoo. I spent hours on Google, just so I could do a “Banana Fact of the Day” for the kids. Turns out the scientific name for “banana” is musa sapientum, which means “fruit of the wise men.” Go figure.

I decided I would bring in banana bread every Monday — something for the kids to look forward to at the beginning of the week. I added a few sprinkles of cinnamon to the second batch, but the batter still didn’t taste right to me. I figured a few strands of my banana-infused hair might do the trick; so I chopped off a few stragglers from the back of my neck and sautéed them in some olive oil. The batter had a slight punch after that — definitely an improvement.

I met with Principal Dole the next morning. Felt a little ridiculous going to a meeting in a neon-yellow Jerry Garcia, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You know, Mr. Johnson, I’ve received a lot of positive feedback about your whole fruit-themed initiative. Seems to really keep the kids focused.

Anything to improve those test scores, right?

Hey, if it works, it works. Keep it up, and you might find yourself tenured in a few years.

I’m just happy to get through to these kids, sir.

It was almost June, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out. Turns out banana peels are a good cure for the bites. I asked anyone in class if they wanted to volunteer; Jimmy had a big, nasty bite on his arm, and he wiped the peel all over his arms in front of the class — on his face, too.

How does that feel, Jimmy?

Really cool, Mr. Banana!

Anyone else want to give it a try?

Everyone in the class raised their hand.

When I got home, I turned on a documentary about corruption in Chiquita Brands International — apparently they brought cocaine to Borneo on some of their ships. Treated the plantation workers like shit, too. I thought it would be nice to write a letter to the company about my initiative. Figured they might like to know that their product was more than just a topping for oatmeal. I spent the whole night writing, and it turned into a few thousand words about my theories on elementary education. I didn’t really think much of it, but I sent it with the subject “Bananas Are More Than Just Food” to info@chiquitainternational.com — it would probably be lost among all the shit from angry customers, anyway.

It didn’t cross my mind again until that weekend, when I got a phone call on the treadmill at Planet Fitness.

Mr. Johnson? This is Sophie from the Star Ledger. Just got an email from someone at Chiquita — do you have a few minutes for an interview?

Um, yeah, of course.

I was on the cover that week. It was a photo of me, dressed in full-yellow, pointing above the camera in the foreground with all the gape-mouthed students behind me: “Mr. Banana Peels Away the Doubters.” The local CBS station stopped by the school for a segment, too.

I watched my segment that Sunday: a few minutes of my awkward teaching voice, interspersed with interviews from me, Principal Dole, and a few parents. Apparently, some other elementary school teachers were starting to do it too; Mrs. Strawberry, Mr. Blueberry — I wondered if anyone else was doing the banana, too.

Once the special was over, I went to work on my third batch of banana bread. I sprinkled the cinnamon, sautéed some of my neck hair, but the batter still tasted a little flat to me. I looked down at my hands; it occurred to me that my skin was starting to turn a little yellow — probably from all the bananas I’d been eating.

I wondered if my skin had any of that flavor, too. I grabbed the tweezers and plucked a thin piece from the tip of my thumb; it was a little salty, but definitely had a fruity taste to it. I figured I’d try it out in the batter, so I took a bowl and plucked some skin off all ten of my fingers, then I mixed it in. Tasted great.

That morning, people actually recognized me in the streets. All those Princeton kids must watch the news; I couldn’t make it more than a few steps down Washington without being stopped for a selfie or a congratulatory handshake. It was nice, actually — I never thought wearing silly clothes would make people like me so much.

I threw up in the trashcan when I walked in the classroom. Figured I’d been eating too much potassium. It was pure yellow, of course: that bright, bile-and-banana mixture — must have been churning in my stomach for days. I was there early, just so I wouldn’t have to engage in that jealous, snarky small talk with the other teachers: So you’re some sort of teaching genius, huh? I wrote the “Banana Fact of the Day” on the blackboard, then sat at my desk, shaking, waiting for the kids to arrive.

I handed out the rations of banana bread after the Pledge of Allegiance. I wondered if the kids would still eat it if they knew they were eating a piece of me — figured I should keep it a secret for the time being. Plus it was my best batch yet; they didn’t need to know how it was made.

That night, I got another email from Mrs. Goldman:

Good evening, Mr. Johnson,

Congrats on your fifteen minutes! Alice just loves the idea that her teacher is famous! We really appreciate all of your effort — especially baking for the kids every week. Just a heads-up: Alice found a hair in her banana bread this evening — make sure you’re keeping things clean at home. We don’t want her to get sick and miss out on class!

-Mrs. Goldman

I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Still dressed in my work clothes, it occurred to me that I was really starting to look like a banana. I gelled the top of my hair into a curved, pointed stem and turned sideways, arching my back. For a second there, my face in the mirror disappeared; I was perfectly smooth, perfectly curved, perfectly ripe. I almost cried thinking about changing into my pajamas. Instead of a delicious, yellowish pulp, I was just a freckled, overweight sack of blood and bones.

I peeled off my clothes and walked into the kitchen. Just to make sure, I took a kitchen knife and made a small incision on my forearm. The blood immediately oozed out, and dark, purple sludge began to drip onto the floor. I sliced the other arm to the same result, then sat down, watching the blood sputter angrily onto my thighs.

I woke up a few hours later, shivering, caked in a brown, metallic crust. I ate some breakfast, took a shower, then put on my full-yellow outfit. Figured I should wear long sleeves for the next few days.

On Friday, the students performed a little play about Appomattox Courthouse. Sitting in the back of the classroom, I wiped my eyes and typed an inquiry into Google: Did the confederate soldiers eat bananas?

I spent the weekend at home, lights off, watching the same episode of Sesame Street on repeat: Big Bird yanking, yanking, on the desk, the nails screeching from the force. You said it was mine! You said it was mine!

On Sunday night, I chopped off my left pinky and fried it in the skillet. I sliced it into tiny pieces and mixed it into the batter. The banana bread came out darker than usual — a little savory, but still delicious. I wrapped my left hand in gauze and went to bed.

I woke up late the next morning — only had a few minutes to get ready. I slid into an Average Joes T-Shirt and a pair of yellow khakis, stuffed the banana bread into my backpack, and walked out the door.

The kids stared at me warily as they walked into the classroom. Once they sat down, Jimmy raised his hand.


Mr. Banana, what happened to your hand?

Oh, this — just a little accident. Nothing to worry about.

I held up my hand for the whole class to see.

Were you climbing a tree?

No, Jimmy. Just an accident in the kitchen.

What are those scratches on your arms?

I looked down. My forearms were crusty with blood — must’ve opened up the cuts again, somehow. I hadn’t showered in days.

Don’t worry, kids. Let me run to the bathroom and clean up.

I rushed out of the classroom into the bathroom across the hall. I took the gauze off my left hand, then I pounded my fist against the hand dryer until every bone shattered.

I woke up to the sound of a faint whisper behind me. I stood up and turned around; it was a banana — slightly bruised, but a beautiful shade of yellow, with sharp lines protruding from the stem. He turned sideways, revealing his perfect curvature, and flashed me a big smile.

I walked toward him, closer and closer, until my nose was inches from the glass.

Then he reached up and grabbed the top of his stem, stretching it sharply to one side. Slowly, he pulled it apart, revealing that incredible white flesh inside: radiating, breathing, beautiful.

So I did the same: dragging my fingernails down my scalp, carving into my bones. The fresh, airy pulp coated my forearms, and clumps of yellow shrapnel fluttered to my feet.

And then I was naked for the first time, staring into my own eyes, my own flesh, panting, finally believing that I was something more. I pressed my lips against the glass, a cool breeze rushed to my core, and then I was gone.


Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters, or unsolved mysteries like you do! You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at darren@weirddarkness.com – and you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter, including the show’s Weirdos Facebook Group on the CONTACT/SOCIAL page at WeirdDarkness.com.

Stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction, and links to the stories or the authors can be found in the show notes.

“Dead Arm” by Thaddeus James

“Mr. Banana” by R.K. Gorman

Again, you can find link to all of these stories in the show notes.

WeirdDarkness™ – is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions.

Now that we’re coming out of the dark, I’ll leave you with a little light… Psalm 22:19 = “But you, LORD, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.”

And a final thought… “Many times what people need is not a brilliant mind that speaks, but a special heart that listens.”

I’m Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.

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