S15E19 - "Voracious" - Horror Hill

Horror Hill — A Horror Fiction Anthology and Scary Stories Series Podcast

In this episode of Horror Hill, narrator Eric Peabody presents 'The Pitiful Orphan' by Micah Edwards. The story follows Pascal Millikan, a s

Key takeaways

• Pascal Millikan adopts Walter after witnessing him being thrown from a car by Peter Hobson.
• Mysterious disappearances begin with household items like ties and food, eventually escalating to much larger objects.

Main topics

• Supernatural consumption
• 1920s New York setting

Notable quotes

I take everything.

Conclusion

A chilling cautionary tale about the unforeseen costs of compassion wh

Transcript preview

Speaker 1 (0:04) The following program is a production of Chilling Entertainment and the creative team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcast Network. Visit simplyscarypodcast.com to learn more about this and our other weekly storytelling programs and become a patron today to show your support and get instant access to our extensive archive of downloadable tales of terror. Thank you for listening and enjoy the show. Speaker 1 (1:17) 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. Listener discretion is advised. Speaker 1 (1:39) Hello, listeners, and welcome back to Horror Hill. I'm your host and narrator, Eric Peabody. This evening, we continue our descent into madness with author Micah Edwards. We're in the middle of running a series of stories of his, which will continue until mid-October. As I mentioned before, there's a special announcement once we finish, so be sure to stick around. Tonight's story is titled, The Pitiful Orphan. Pascal Millikan is a man living the American dream. It's the late 1920s, and Pascal seems to have it all. A loving wife, a beautiful daughter, and a good job as a banking manager in New York City. And even with all of that success, he still does what he can to improve the lives of others. One day, Pascal sees a young boy getting tossed from a moving vehicle, and his philanthropic heart can't help but lend a hand. Sometimes, one act of kindness is all it takes to set a course for disaster. And when you're done with tonight's episode, I'd recommend checking out my new show, Degenerated, a horror fiction podcast. I know you're always looking for more scary stories, good listeners, so go indulge yourself. Speaker 1 (3:00) You're listening to the free edition of this program. If you'd like to help support Horror Hill and also remove these pesky ads, head to ChillingTalesForDarkNights.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today. You'll get instant access to hundreds of ad-free stories, so what are you waiting for? Also, if you're watching on YouTube, do us a favor and drop a like and subscribe. Become part of our Dark Circle, listeners. Speaker 1 (3:32) And now, from author Micah Edwards, I give you The Pitiful Orphan. Speaker 1 (3:42) Pascal Millikan considered himself a good man. He was a loving husband and father, a generous friend, and kind to strangers. He felt that the world was a generally good place, and why not? It had always been very good to him. He and his wife Sophie had moved to New York City in 1922. In the seven years since, life had steadily improved in every way imaginable. He had gotten a job as a bank teller on the strength of a firm handshake, a strong smile, and an innate affinity for sums. The pay was good, and the hours were reliable. Pascal excelled in his new life, working his way up to branch manager. Regular promotions and yearly bonuses had left Pascal with a nice amount in savings, which he had invested well and which was now earning money of its own. He was far from miserly, though. He wore the expensive suits befitting his job, and made sure that Sophie had equally nice outfits for their frequent evenings out. He had an automobile, a brand new Chevrolet Six, more because it was the thing to do than for any real need. He enjoyed fine dining and the arts. He patronized both live theater and the picture palaces on regular occasions. Pascal's daughter Marie had been born in 1923. He was deeply proud of the fact that she'd never known any life but that of the big city. She had just started kindergarten at the prestigious Nightingale Bamford School for Girls, and Pascal could not believe how she'd blossomed. It seemed that every day he came home to find her brimming with new words, new stories, and new skills. Sophie, too, thrived in the city. She echoed Pascal's transformation from bumpkin to banker, growing from a shy young country girl to a sharp, sophisticated woman. The city was fast-paced, action-filled, and packed with rewards for those ready to reach out and grab them. Pascal and Sophie had grabbed all they could hold. Unlike so many in his class, though, Pascal did not turn a blind eye to the less savory side of the city. He saw the grit and the grime beneath the glitz. He saw the people who the city chewed up and spat out. His heart ached for them when he saw them on street corners or in subway stations, especially this time of year as winter was setting in. He always had coins and a kind word to spare, but it hurt him that he could not do more. Speaker 1 (6:16) One day, walking home from work, Pascal rounded a corner just in time to see a tragic scene unfold. Less than a block ahead of him, he heard a scream and looked up to see a child thrown from a car, landing roughly on the curb. He expected the driver to stop and see to the child he'd hit, but instead, the new Model A pressed onward, ignoring the fists of furious onlookers pounding on its side panels. No one was willing to step in front of the vehicle to force a stop, though. The driver rapidly pulled away from the angry crowd. By the time Pascal got there, the child had gotten to his feet and was surrounded by a ring of would-be helpers. Aside from a trickle of blood running from his scalp, he appeared more frightened than hurt. Are you alright? someone was asking. How hard did it hit you? I wasn't hit, sobbed the boy, his face a mask of misery. That was my father's car. He threw me out. Cries of outrage went up, along with demands that the man be tracked down. Where do you live, son? What's the address? Who's your father? Uptown? I can't remember the number. We just moved there. What's your father's name? Peter? Amid all of the questions, Pascal crouched down to bring himself to the boy's eye level. What's your name? Walter. I'm Mr. Millican, Walter. It's good to meet you. And how old are you? I'm eight. We need to find your family, Walter. What's your last name? Hobson. So your father is Peter Hobson? Walter shook his head. No. He just adopted me. Okay, what's his name then? A look of panic crept onto Walter's face. He began to cry again. I can't remember. It's alright. Pascal swept the boy up into a hug. Small arms clutched tightly around his neck, grateful for the reassurance. It'll be fine. He just had a whack on the noggin. You'll remember later. We'll find him. I don't even want to go back, Walter cried. He doesn't want me. Nobody wants me. Now, don't think things like that. We'll find your father. In the meantime, I'm taking you home to get you cleaned up. You'll feel better after a bath and a meal. He straightened up and reached out to take the boy's hand. Walter put his small, trusting hand in Pascal's large one. His fingers were small and delicate. I have a daughter at home who's just a little bit younger than you are, Pascal told Walter. She'll be very happy to meet you. Walter sniffled. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and attempted to smile. I never had a sister before. Pascal laughed. Well, I don't think this is going to be as permanent as all that. This is just to get you fixed up and calmed down. After that, we're going to track down your adoptive family and find out what's going on. He saw the hurt look in the boy's eyes and looked for a way to erase the feeling of rejection he'd caused. She can be your sister for the day, how's that? You'll be part of our family while you're here, even if it's only for a little while. I understand, Walter said in a small voice. Nobody wants to keep me for very long. Pascal felt like a heel, especially when Walter pulled his hand back. They walked in silence for a little while as Pascal tried to think of something to say to cheer the morose boy back up. Do you like chicken? We're having chicken tonight for dinner. The boy looked up, hopeful. And there's enough for me? Pascal laughed. Of course, there'll be plenty. That sounds wonderful. His voice was wistful. Pascal took a closer look at the boy. He was skinny, but suddenly Pascal wondered if that was due to more than just his build. Were you being fed alright, son? Yeah, I was fine. You can tell me the truth, Pascal pressed. Walter shrugged. It wasn't his fault. My father had hit some hard times. He did the best he could for us. It broke Pascal's heart to hear the little boy continue to give the name Father to the man who'd adopted him. He'd been underfed, mistreated, and finally thrown from a moving vehicle. And still, he thought of the man as his father. Pascal still intended to track this Peter down, but he had no intention of giving the boy back to him. He would find a better place for him, a foster home with parents who actually deserved a child. No boy should have to go through what Walter had. You okay, Mr. Milliken? Walter asked. Pascal realized he had clenched his fists. I'm fine, he said, releasing the tension from his hands. Just thinking about how to get you home. We'll figure it out. And I want you to know you're going to stay with us until we do. You sure that'll be okay? Definitely. I don't ever want you to think otherwise. You're supposed to have someone to take care of you, not someone who'd abandon you on the street. It wasn't like that, Walter insisted. Not really. Things have been going wrong. He was just getting kind of desperate. He shouldn't have taken it out on you, Pascal told him. It certainly wasn't your fault. Walter gave no reply, but he reached out to take Pascal's hand again. Pascal smiled as they walked along, hands swinging gently. Look, we're here, he said, leading the boy up the steps and into his brownstone. Come on in. Sophie and Marie will be very pleased to see that we have a guest for dinner. He opened the door to the apartment. Girls, I'm home, and I have a surprise. Speaker 1 (12:49) Who's this? asked Sophie, coming around the corner. Walter shrank back behind Pascal's leg in a sudden moment of shyness. This is Walter, he explained. He's having a hard day, so I've invited him for dinner. Sophie's eyes conveyed a dozen questions. Marie, however, had heard all she needed. Hi, Walter. I'm Marie. This is my house. She stepped forward and took Walter by the hand. leading him inside. I'm glad you're staying for dinner. Quite the little socialite, isn't she? Sophie remarked, watching the two walk off. It's nice that she lets us stay in her apartment. Pascal agreed. Speaker 1 (13:34) Sophie, where's my tie? Which one? The blue one. Which blue one? Pascal let out an exasperated sigh. Are any of my ties currently not on the tie rack? Not as far as I know. Then how could it possibly matter which tie I was talking about? Your only answer was going to be on the tie rack, and it's not here. Well, excuse me for trying to help. Sophie sounded hurt. Sorry. Pascal rubbed his temples. I'm running behind this morning anyway and I wanted to wear my blue tie. He picked a different blue tie from the rack and quickly nodded it. Are you going to be alright with Walter today? Of course. He's adorable. I can't believe someone just threw him out onto the street like you said. It was pretty unbelievable. Pascal picked up his briefcase and gave Sophie a quick kiss. Have a good day. Let me know if you find that tie. I still don't know which... Sophie saw Pascal's look and crossed her arms. Fine, if I find any ties flitting about the house, blue or otherwise, I'll return them to the rack. Thank you. Pascal hurried out of the house. He checked his watch and was relieved to see that he still had time to catch his train to work as long as nothing else went wrong. Just as that thought was crossing his mind, Pascal stepped on his own trailing shoelace and nearly tripped down the stairs. He jammed his fingers against the handle of his briefcase as he caught himself on the railing. Swearing quietly, he made his way down to the landing and bent down to tie the offending lace. only to find that it was broken. After a bit of shifting and tugging, he was able to coax what remained of the shoelace into a knot. It wasn't pretty, but it would keep a shoe on his foot for the day. Pascal checked his watch again and grimaced. He made an effort to make up the time, walking quickly and dodging through groups of slower-moving commuters, but reached the subway station only in time to see his train pulling away. He sighed and made his way to a shoeshine stand. At least he could get the lace fixed while he waited and show up to the bank looking presentable. The morning's mishap set the tone for the entire day. Every person he interacted with was out of sorts and ready to take offense at the most minor statement. Each one of his tellers seemed to be making basic errors. The lines stayed long for the entire day, guaranteeing that every customer was irritated by the time they reached the front. And so, the cycle continued. Pascal liked to think of his bank as a machine. with the tellers and the customers making up the cogs and gears that let the money flow through it. When it was all going well, he would just sit in his office and admire the machinery. Today, though, it was as if someone had poured in a large helping of sand. It was all he could do to just keep it functioning at all, let alone run it at peak performance. After an entire day of solving problems that never should have existed in the first place, Pascal returned home exhausted. Sophie greeted him at the door. How was work? Well, said Pascal, hanging up his hat and taking off his jacket. At least tomorrow has to be better. It certainly couldn't be any worse. He tugged at his tie to loosen it. The knot did not shift. Puzzled at first, Pascal tried pulling it a few different ways, but the knot refused to budge. Confusion shifted rapidly to anger as he focused an entire day's worth of aggravation onto the strip of cloth. doggedly clinging to his neck. Where are the scissors? I'm cutting this off. Cal, don't be silly. Sophie took him by the shoulders and stared him in the eyes. Let me get it. After a second, Pascal relaxed. Sophie turned nimble fingers to the tie and picked the knot apart. There, you're free, and no scissors required. I didn't even want to wear this tie today, Pascal grumbled. Did you ever find my blue one? I found no ties today. And yes, Walter did wonderfully today, thank you for asking. Pascal felt like a heel. Sorry. What did you do? We walked Marie to school and then we went to the park for a while. Sophie lowered her voice. Cal, I couldn't get him to tell me where he's been going to school. I'm not sure he has been. I don't know what sort of situation he was in, but I don't like it much. Well, he's out of it now. We'll find something better for him. What if he just stayed with us? He and Marie are getting along so well. I'm sure we could make it work. You know we can't just keep a child, Sophie. That's not how things operate. Well, the way they operate led to poor Walter getting thrown from an automobile. So maybe the way they operate isn't all that great. Pascal smiled and chucked her under the chin. So, you'll challenge the entire system to save one boy? If I have to, Sophie said defiantly. I believe it, Pascal told her. My wife, liberating the whole world. Marie came running around the corner. Daddy, Walter and I are drawing. Guess what we drew? I can't imagine. Will you show me? Come look. Marie seized her father's hand and pulled. Pascal allowed himself to be led away. Enjoy the art gallery. Sophie called after him. I'll get dinner on. Hello, Walter. Pascal greeted the boy as he and Marie entered her bedroom. So, what did you two draw? Marie answered first, excitedly picking up several sheets of paper covered in crayon drawings. We drew you. See, this one is you at work in your office, and here are all the people that work for you and all the people that come in to get money. I see everyone's very happy here, Pascal said, tapping the smiling faces. Of course, you're giving them money so everybody's happy. You'd really think so, said Pascal. And here's you getting ready to go to work. Marie held up another sheet showing a figure with a briefcase outside of a brown building. In the doorway, a stick person in a dress stood next to two smaller people. And that's me and Mommy and Walter waving goodbye. Very nice, Pascal told her indulgently. Walter, what did you draw? I drew the subway station, Walter said, holding up his paper. Though drawn only in black and gray crayon, the picture showed real talent. In simple lines, Walter had accurately captured the interior of a subway station, from the deep shadows in its nooks and crannies to the ever-present grime on the tiles. The tracks faded off into a black tunnel with precision shading that Pascal was certain he couldn't have managed. The station was utterly abandoned. Looking at the picture gave Pascal a chill that he couldn't explain. Somehow, he felt he didn't want to think too much about the picture. Instead, he said, That's very good, Walter. Thank you, Walter said shyly. Why aren't there any people in it? Walter shrugged. I just didn't draw any. I'm surprised you didn't draw the train. Boys usually love trains. The train's not there yet, Mr. Milliken, but it's coming. Pascal looked again at the picture, at the darkness beyond the tracks and the train lost somewhere within it, due to arrive at a dead station. He forced a smile and handed the picture back to Walter. Very good, he said again. That's an impressive picture, Walter. He was still thinking about it over dinner, and was partway through the meal when he realized that Sophie hadn't served the leftover chicken he'd expected. No leftovers tonight? Nice of you to notice my cooking, Sophie teased. Her brow furrowed slightly. And no, there weren't any left. Really? I thought there was plenty last night. So did I. I'd even swear I wrapped them up to keep after dinner. but they just weren't there when I looked. It was probably me, Walter volunteered. I probably ate more than you were expecting. Don't be ridiculous, Sophie told him. You ate just like the rest of us, and if you'd had more, that would have been fine too. I just didn't make as much as I thought, that's all. I don't want to be a problem, Walter said in a small voice. You're never a problem, sweetie. Enjoy your dinner, there's plenty more. Pascal was puzzled. He, too, was sure that there had been plenty left over. He could recall it sitting on the table at the end of the meal. And if Sophie said she'd packaged it up, then she had. So what had happened to it? He sneaked a look at Walter, at the boy's thin frame. He wondered again about the situation he had been in and what habits he might have developed. Later in bed, he said to Sophie, I think Walter might have snuck the rest of that chicken during the night. I think so too. I didn't want to embarrass him, and it doesn't really matter. He should be able to eat as much as he wants. I just hope he learns he doesn't have to hide it from us. Well, we'll set a good example and hope he learns. Pascal agreed. Speaker 1 (23:39) Pascal did not usually dream, not that he could recall. But when he slept that night, he found himself standing in the abandoned train station from Walter's drawing. It was echoing and empty. Pascal could not see a single living soul, even himself. He waited there, bodiless, both hoping for and dreading the inevitable arrival of the train. He waited the entire night, knowing it was on its way. but the train still had not arrived when he woke up. Speaker 1 (24:14) Breakfast was sparse. Oatmeal? Pascal asked in surprise as he entered the kitchen. Sophie looked unusually harried as she sliced fruit for the cereal. Sorry, honey, it's what we had on hand. Did the eggs go off? Oh, did the refrigerator go on the fritz again? Pascal cast a glare at the machine squatting in the corner of the kitchen, but it was buzzing loudly away and giving every appearance of working. It's fine, Sophie said. She shot him a glance that clearly said, not in front of the children. Pascal thought that over as he spooned oatmeal into his mouth. What could be wrong with the eggs that they wouldn't be able to discuss in front of Marie and Walter? The bacon was also missing from the table, but Pascal assumed that too was unlikely to be a suitable topic for discussion. Surely Walter hadn't eaten the breakfast food in the night. There had been a dozen eggs and probably a pound of bacon, all uncooked. He would have made himself sick eating all of that. But he sat here now, scraping his spoon across the bottom of the bowl and still looking ready for more. Distracted by his thoughts, Pascal set his coffee cup down on the edge of his placemat. It teetered and spilled, slopping hot coffee across the table and towards the children. Pascal lunged for it, trying to right the cup, but managed only to catch the bowl of oatmeal with his elbow as he did so. The contents leapt free, splattering all over Pascal's shirt and pants. Daddy! Marie shrieked. Tipping backward in her chair, she leaned away from the encroaching liquid. Sophie grabbed the chair and planted it firmly on the ground before their daughter could add to the chaos. Pascal swallowed a curse and frantically corralled the coffee, mopping it with his napkin before it could reach the edge of the table. Walter, who had been simply staring, grabbed his own napkin and joined in. Their combined efforts contained the spill in short order, but Pascal was left with two sopping wet napkins dripping coffee onto his oatmeal-stained clothes. He took a deep breath. I'm going to go clean up. In the bedroom, Pascal set the soiled clothes aside for Sophie to deal with and pulled a clean set from the wardrobe. He dressed hurriedly, aware that with this setback he was once again in danger of being late. As the branch manager, there would be no one to reprimand him if he was, but it was the look of the thing he liked to set a good example. Clad in clean clothes, Pascal hustled back into the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. I'll just grab... He stopped. The compartment was very nearly bare, holding nothing but a couple of bottles of milk and a stick of butter. Even the remainder of the meatloaf Sophie had made yesterday was absent. There was nothing to take on the go. Sophie caught his eye as he looked up and darted her own eyes toward Walter. who was oblivious to the silent conversation going on over his head. Pascal frowned. He wasn't certain how much food had been in the refrigerator, but it had definitely been too much for one boy to eat, no matter how starved he