Episode NotesMidnight strikes a sleepy Old West town, and a stranger has come with a sinister need to fill...Basket Hound by Scott S. Phillipshttps://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BMN3IQMusic by Ray Mattishttp://raymattispresents.bandcamp.comProduced by Daniel WilderGet Cool Merchandise http://store.weeklyspookySupport us on Patreon http://patreon.com/IncrediblyHandsomeContact Us/Submit a Storytwitter.com/WeeklySpookyfacebook.com/WeeklySpookyWeeklySpooky@gmail.comThis episode sponsored by HenFlix.comFor everything else visit WeeklySpooky.comTranscript:Orel Hamlin stared up at the night sky, wondering if the flying monkey would ever come back.This was his favorite part of the day, round about 2 AM, when it came time to empty the spittoons. They reeked, of course, from the rotten-toothed spit of a hundred cowboys and cheap chewing tobacco. On occasion, a drunk would piss in one rather than stagger out back to the outhouse, and the stink got a hell of a lot worse when someone had puked in one of them, but even that Orel could live with, because being the designated dumper-of-spittoons meant he got to go outside by himself. Mr. Teevins didn’t much let Orel go outside on his own otherwise, day or night.Orel carried a lantern in one hand and a spittoon in the other. It was black as hell out there and he didn’t want to fall in the trench again. Some nights — when the moon was real bright — he didn’t need the lantern, but bringing it meant he had to make four trips to empty the spittoons and he was happy for every one of them. Early on, right after Orel was given the task as a responsibility Mr. Teevins felt he could handle, the saloon's bartender — a one-eyed crotchety sonofabitch named Branlyn — insisted he dump all the spittoons into a big bucket and carry that out, one trip, easy and done. Orel consistently made a point of spilling the contents of the spittoons while dumping them into the bucket and Branlyn eventually gave up on the idea. Orel suspected Mr. Teevins had caught on to his scheme, but the older man never mentioned it. When it came time to dump the chamber pots from upstairs, though, Orel didn't bring the lantern. He didn't much enjoy taking the chamber pots out, and with one in each of the upstairs rooms (except for Mr. Teevins's office), Orel wanted it over with as quickly as possible.Orel was seventeen years old and had been with Mr. Teevins since he was eight, when Orel's daddy beat him senseless and he pretty much stuck that way. It was just after the war and Mr. Teevins had come west minus a leg but full of big dreams, looking to make his fortune in the liquor and whore trade. He was literally stepping off the train when he saw Orel trip and fall in the mud, doing great disservice to his best clothes but nothing to incur the sort of whipping his Daddy unleashed as a result. Mr. Teevins hop-stepped on his wooden leg into the middle of the dust-up and threw a beating on Orel's daddy that left the man with a limp of his own, not to mention a busted-up face that would insure he'd remember what he'd done every time he looked in a mirror till the day he died. The beating also did wonders for Mr. Teevins's standing in the town, since no one much liked Orel's daddy and felt it was a long time coming.Teevins had purchased the Stone House (which Orel thought was funny since the place was made out of wood), the larger of the town's two saloons, and the only one that came equipped with prostitutes and Branlyn. Teevins moved into one of the upstairs rooms, and when Orelwandered into the joint a few days later, his daddy having run off in the night, Teevins took him in. Orel's room was basically a closet at the end of the hall with a cot in it, but he'd lived there happily ever since."What you gazin' at, kid?"Orel jumped, slopping some of the spittoon's contents out onto the ground. Standing a dozen or so yards away was a man, watching him. Orel raised the lantern, trying to get a better look, but the light refused to cooperate, as i