* Authors : M. Stevenson and Jo Miles * Narrators : Andrew K. Hoe, Eric Valdes and Valerie Valdes * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums “My Custom Monster” was previously published by Fireside Fiction August 2021  “Scales” is a PodCastle original. “Scales” has a content warning for child abuse “My Custom Monster” has a content warning for depression Rated PG-13 Scales By M. Stevenson The boy stands at the edge of the forest, bare toes digging into the cold loam. Mist curls between the trees like the breath of a living thing. As if the woods are alive. Monsters live in this forest, so it’s said. Demons of scales and teeth and fur, creatures that will rend a child asunder until only the smallest bones remain. The thought wraps chilly fingers of fear around the boy’s nape. It’s hard not to be afraid of what everyone says is real. But there are other monsters too, monsters that he knows are real. He thinks of bared teeth and flying spittle, a face gone red with rage, a poker gone red from sitting in the hearth. The boy’s hand creeps to the shiny patches of skin on his bare forearm, scars where his flesh has thickened into silver scales. There are more on his legs, his back: places his clothes always cover. The monster grew more careful after the first time, when people noticed and she had to make excuses. He was playing with the poker. He tripped and fell. The boy said nothing then. He was too young. When his mother gets home, he knows it in his bones: today, she will kill him. There is no escape from a monster within its own house. His only choice: face the monster he knows, or dare to face the ones who may exist. He thinks of his sister, barely old enough to sit up in the cradle. Her skin pink and unblemished. A different father, his mother has said. A face to love, not to hate. He hopes that never changes. He can’t protect her by staying. The boy takes a deep breath, filling his skinny ribs. He steps into the forest. The trees’ embrace is as dark and cold as it looked from the edge. The boy walks for a long time. Mist twines around his ankles with each step. The ground is damp, dark water seeping up from the moss each time his foot compresses the green growth. The forest echoes with sounds he doesn’t recognize: strange skitters, a distant wail, the groan of trees rubbing together. The sun might never have existed, and soon every direction looks the same. In the distance echoes a howl of rage. A voice shrieking his name. His mother has discovered that he’s gone. The boy keeps walking, trembling, and does not look back. After a time, he sleeps, and when he wakes a monster is watching him. The boy stays still, his breath shallow. He knows that monsters welcome provocation. This one looks like the tales predicted: great moss-green eyes with slitted pupils, scales and claws and sinuous coils, a body large enough to entirely fill the boy’s house. (The monster’s house.) And yet, it also looks nothing like the tales.