Curiosity is a Dangerous Thing

In a small, unlit corner of Washington State, there lies a little lumber town, neighboring a beautiful lake and surrounded by a thick forest. The only bus route in stops a half mile outside the town's borders, as if the outside world is scared to enter. The townsfolk are quiet, and keep to themselves, deeply distrustful of any outsiders.The name of this town? Kingscreek. And you've only barely scraped the surface.

(Background art by Sawyer Speton Harvey)

Cast & Crew

Thomas S. Dennis

He/Him

Role(s): Show Creator, Writer, Editor, Sound Designer, Damien Bachman (Voice)

James Makepeace / Kai After Kai

They/Them

Role(s): Co-Writer, Producer, Composer, Announcer (Voice)

Dharma Torres-Aguilar

She/Her

Role: Sarah Hickman (Voice)

Transcripts

Season 1 -

Season 2 -

Episodes

Season 2

Fall, 2008. ███ ██ ██ ████ ███████ █ ████ ████ ████ ██████ █ ██ █████ ████ ████ ████ ████

Season 1

Fall, 2008. Two years after the passing of his Uncle Mark, audio engineering student Damien Bachman holes up in Mark's old study, choosing to document the old man's strange and potentially supernatural findings studying the small town of Kingscreek.

204 - Invasive Species

Interview #6: Raymond (Surname Unknown)
Recording Date: 10/23/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
And Ryan Kennedy as Raymond
Also Featuring:
Aya Spiye
Hizzy Hay
Cooper Thomas
and Ruth Chenebach
Written, Directed and Edited by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai
Script Supervision by Ryan Kennedy and Brittany Dennis
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK
Sound Design by Thomas S Dennis
Extra SFX sourced from FreeSound

203 - Cracked Open

Case F-89: Oneirological Barrier Removal (Winter 2005)
Recording Date(s): 10/22/08 - 10/23/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
Written, Directed and Edited by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai
Script Supervision by Ryan Kennedy and Brittany Dennis
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK
Sound Design by Thomas S Dennis
Extra SFX sourced from FreeSound

202 - Witch in the Wood

Case A-43: Folkloric Arboreal Manifestation (Winter 2003)
Recording Date: 10/21/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
And Ash Beard as The Aunt
Written, Directed and Edited by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai
Script Supervision by Ryan Kennedy and Brittany Dennis
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK
Sound Design by Thomas S Dennis
Extra SFX sourced from FreeSound

201 - Like-Minded Souls

Case O-1: Rapid-Onset Psychotic Cognisance (Summer 1992)
Recording Date: 10/19/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
Written and Produced by James Makepeace
Directed and Edited by Thomas S Dennis
Score by Kai After Kai
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK
Sound Design by Thomas S Dennis
Extra SFX sourced from FreeSound

103 - Bigfoot Hunter

Case A-56: Mammalian Forest Fauna (Fall 1976)
Recording Date: 09/25/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
Written, Edited, and Directed by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK

102 - Echo's Blessing

Case C-34: Paranormal Ingestion Blockage (Winter 1984)
Recording Date: 09/24/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
Written, Edited, and Directed by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai
Cover Art by CyberGrapeUK

101 - Roadkill

Case A-95: Serial Roadside Phenomena (Fall 1997)
Recording Date: 09/22/08Starring Thomas S Dennis as Damien Bachman
Written, Edited, and Directed by Thomas S Dennis
Produced by James Makepeace
Score by Kai After Kai

203 - Cracked Open

Content Warnings: Shouting(*Recorder clicks on.*)(*Footsteps, sounds of the outdoors.*)DAMIEN: Alright, I'm out of the house again. It took me a few online searches, but I was able to find this “Silver Platter” place. I-it’s weird, I’ve been all over this town once or twice, and I never saw it around, but apparently it’s super popular? It’s got way more online attention than places like the Misty Pond, I have no clue how I missed it. It’s like it was just some kind of… blindspot, almost? Or I’m just bad at noticing things.Anyway, doesn’t matter, because this is where Greg Garcia worked as of 3 years ago. He’s probably still working there, right? 3 years isn’t that long. And even if he’s not there anymore, he’s probably not gonna be hard to find. I have to be straightforward. Vigilant. Like Sarah, I have to go in with a goal. With a mindset like that, I can’t lose.I would say wish me luck, but I don’t need it. I’m being smart about this.(*Recorder clicks off, then back on*)(*Inside of a diner, overlapping conversations. DAMIEN is mid argument with a server*)DAMIEN: –very important that I talk to Garcia, so you need to go get him, right now!EMPLOYEE: I’m sorry sir, but as I’ve already told you, Greg Garcia doesn’t work here anymore.
DAMIEN: Well, then tell me where I can find him! I’ve been looking for him all over.EMPLOYEE: Sir, I’m not allowed to share–DAMIEN: I don’t care! I need to talk to this guy, and I’m not leaving until I–CUSTOMER (far off): Hey buddy, quit shouting! I’m trying to enjoy my dinner here!DAMIEN: You’re not a part of this dude. I’m here on important business, so I need you to–CUSTOMER: Whoa “dude”, are you buzzed or something? You’re talking at like a mile a minute. Why don’t you just take a chill pill, or waltz on over to the Misty Pond? They take anyone over there, I’m sure your shaky ass’ll fit right in among those freaks.(*Scattered laughter in the diner.*)DAMIEN: I’m not going to the Misty Pond, the person I need to find is right here! Greg Garcia saw something, knows something, and I need to know what he saw so that I can–!CUSTOMER 2: Hey wait a minute, wait a minute-- aren’t you that Bachman kid? The Creeper’s nephew, right?(*Scattered concerned murmuring, more people are paying attention*)DAMIEN: The Creeper?CUSTOMER 2: Yeah, Creeper Bachman, didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Last two years since he bit it have been the most peaceful this town’s seen in years. Good riddance, I say!(*The murmuring intensifies*)DAMIEN (furious): Hey, dickless! That’s my uncle that you’re talking about!CUSTOMER 2: The HELL you call me?!DAMIEN: You heard me! If you say one more thing about my uncle I'll hit you so hard they’ll find your jaw in another zipcode!CUSTOMER 2: That a threat, punk?DAMIEN: Nah, it’s more like a promise.CUSTOMER 2: Well, I can make you a promise. If you don’t want to eat at the Misty Pond, I promise you we can get you a nice meal in a comfy hospital bed, how’s that sound?DAMIEN: C’mon, I dare you. I DARE YOU–!(*The murmuring has continued to grow, this has drawn an audience. DAMIEN is interrupted by a friendly sounding man with a distinctive accent.*)MAN: Alright, alright, gentlemen! Let’s cool off just a tad, what say you all? Mr. Bachman– what did you say your first name was?DAMIEN: I– uh, Damien?MAN: Damien, then. Mates, I apologize for my, er, friend here. How about I buy you all a pint and we call it even, yeah?DAMIEN: What? No, did you hear what he said about my uncle? I need to–MAN: Yes, and I also heard what you said about his, er, lack of nethers. I think you two are probably about even.CUSTOMER 2: If you keep this asshole out of my face, you got a deal.DAMIEN: But–MAN: Marvelous. Come along Damien, let’s go sit down.DAMIEN: Wait, what? Why would I–MAN: I know you’re on a mission, but why not take a breather? Gather your thoughts. You look very pale, how about I get you something to eat?DAMIEN: I… fine.MAN: Excellent. It’s just this booth over here.(*DAMIEN and the MAN can be heard shuffling over to a booth and sitting down. A WAITRESS walks nearby*)WAITRESS: Bit of a commotion out there, huh? We aren’t going to have any more trouble, are we?MAN: No, no, of course not. The matter’s all settled, right Damien?DAMIEN: Yeah, sure.WAITRESS: Good enough for me. Can I get you guys started with anything?MAN: Damien?DAMIEN: Uhh… Can I get a cheeseburger?WAITRESS: Of course, and would you like a drink? Any sides?DAMIEN: just a side of fries and some water. No– wait, some lemonade.WAITRESS: And for you sir?MAN: Oh! (*laughing*) I hadn't thought about it. What do you recommend to drink?WAITRESS: Our special for today is a hard apple cider with peaches, if you like.MAN: That does sound delicious. I’ll have a pint of that. Oh, and if it's not too much trouble, can you send me that table’s drink check whenever it's convenient?WAITRESS: Uh… sure. Will that be all?MAN: Yes, thank you!WAITRESS: Alright, I'll be out with your drinks shortly.(*Footsteps as the waitress leaves.*)MAN: Oh, she seems lovely. This whole place has got such a wonderful atmosphere, I can’t believe I almost missed it! Don’t you agree, Damien?DAMIEN: What? Why are you-?MAN: OH, excuse me! I shouldn’t be calling you by name when we haven’t formally met! I’m Raymond, pleasure to meet you!DAMIEN: Uh, hi?RAYMOND: Hello! I didn’t mean to interrupt the discussion with your, er, friends over there, but I heard them right, right? Your name is Bachman?DAMIEN: Yeah, but–RAYMOND: Oh, wow. You know, that’s a name I’ve not heard in a while. Who would have thought, eh? I knew someone with that name once, a long time ago. I always thought he’d–DAMIEN: Look, I’m glad you’re taking this whole trip down memory lane, but I’ve got some questions. First of all, who the hell are you?RAYMOND: Didn’t I tell you? I’m Raymond!DAMIEN: Yes, I got that part. What I mean is, why are you here? Why did you stop me over there?RAYMOND: Ah, well. That’s a good question. I would say that it’s just because I abhor violence, but that wouldn’t be the reason why. In my experience, usually you find yourself leaving well enough alone rather than trying to get involved. But when I heard you talking, heard him call you… it- I don’t know.DAMIEN: You are being extremely weird right now. And considering the month I’ve been having, that is saying something. I’m not sure I should even be talking to you, you’re not like– wait, you couldn’t be… Sal? Is that you?RAYMOND: Huh?DAMIEN: Oh, I knew you’d come back. I knew you couldn’t just disappear like that. So what is it, a disguise? You back for more? You opening up your shop again? Or are you just here for me?RAYMOND: (*laughing*) I have no idea what you’re talking about, but based on the few less than normal things I've seen around here, I’d imagine something strange is eating you. Am I right?DAMIEN: Eating me? Are you saying I have a parasite or something?!RAYMOND: Er, no. An associate of mine did warn me there was some paranormal activity in this town, however, and I did some of my own research yesterday confirming that fact.WAITRESS: Here are your drinks!(*Clink of glasses on the wooden table.*)RAYMOND: Oh, thank you so much!WAITRESS: You’re welcome! Your food should be out shortly.(*Footsteps receding. RAYMOND takes a sip from his drink.*)RAYMOND: Oh, that is good. I tell you, nothing paranormal about a good drink, but some of the options they have for a good hard apple cider around here might convince you otherwise! Ha!(*He takes another sip and then sighs in satisfaction.*)RAYMOND (Cont’d): Drink up, Damien! You’re practically green, dehydration will kill you far faster than starvation.DAMIEN: Oh, uh… sure.(*DAMIEN gulps down some of his lemonade*)DAMIEN (Cont’d): God, I haven’t had this stuff in ages.RAYMOND: Yes, I was wondering about that. Do you have a particular fondness for lemonade, or did it just strike you as the thing to drink in the moment?DAMIEN: I don’t know. I guess I kinda felt nostalgic. I used to drink it a lot whenever I would visit my uncle. He didn’t like a lot of sweet things, but lemonade was always an exception. The stuff he would mix at home was never as sweet as the kind they serve in restaurants like this, though.RAYMOND: Your uncle, eh? …I knew someone like that once. He always said that the sour tang of the lemon was the perfect accompaniment to the sweetness of the sugar. Sort of how he approached most things, if I’m honest.DAMIEN: Yeah, I guess that makes sense.……so if you’re not Sal, but you’re from out of town and you know about the… strangeness, what is your deal? Most “normal” people here don’t really acknowledge anything that’s happening unless they have their own story to tell.RAYMOND: Really? Do they tell stories, at least? Myths and legends, and suchlike?DAMIEN: Not really, no. I have a bunch of files back home full of testimonies, but they’re pretty isolated from the norm. A lot of people just pretend like nothing is wrong, even to each other, from what I can tell.RAYMOND: Almost no social acknowledgement of the paranormal within the context of a small community? That’s… quite interesting. I had heard of a few case studies like that from some of my colleagues, but I never thought there was any validity to it. Maybe this town could be of interest in its own right…DAMIEN: Case studies? Are you like a professor, or something?RAYMOND: Uh, I suppose so, yes. I’ve never been referred to as such, but I do teach a class at Miskatonic University about Paranormal Fieldwork, just to help the students gain a better grasp of how to handle things in practice rather than theory. You meet a lot of bright young minds that way.DAMIEN: W– hold on. You’re telling me there’s, like, a whole bunch of people studying, like weird shit? Like, it’s an actual, proper scientific field? Why haven’t I ever heard about this, are you like top secret government researchers or something?RAYMOND: Well, not exactly. It’s more like human psychology doesn’t like the fact that we exist, you know? I mean, just think about how so much of the population reacts to something like, say, climate change, right? A massive existential threat that most people don’t worry about in their day to day lives, either because they refuse to believe it exists or because they simply don’t want to think about it. Now, imagine hundreds, thousands of unknowable, terrifying forces that affected people’s day to day lives, making strange things happen in much more unpredictable and potentially destructive ways. It’s just not something that the human mind likes to grapple with, so understandably, they choose to ignore it.DAMIEN: Wow. I guess when you put it that way…RAYMOND: Still, though, if what you’re describing is true, that’s out of the ordinary even by the standards of my work. I did a little bit of digging in the local library’s archive and was able to find an extremely high concentration of paranormal happenings in this town’s history, far more than you would expect in most supernatural hotspots. And while people are often purposefully unobservant, they’re not stupid. Strange things are usually at least acknowledged by those living within the community, usually with myths and legends and stories. Yet, no local mythology in the slightest. Very intriguing…DAMIEN: So, like, how do you get involved in something like this? This whole, “Dr. Ghost Stories, Phd” thing. Was it just the booth that seemed the most interesting on Career Day, or…?RAYMOND: You know, that’s actually a very interesting story.I guess it started that one Christmas? For context, I grew up on the outskirts of Melbourne. Unlike up north, Christmas is in the summer there, so there was usually a backdrop of sunny weather and beach trips during the holiday season rather than snow and sledding, like in the States. So, when we’d take our summer holiday, Christmas was often near the start of it..Our family liked to take the week of Christmas and go on a camping trip over by the Yarra Ranges, which are these beautiful, untouched ancient forests. You’d see all kinds of fun flora and fauna where we went (everyone knows koalas and kangaroos, but have you ever seen a quoll? Delightful little things, though they can be loud). When I was little, I would always take these trips as an opportunity to wander off into the forest and try and see what new animals I could lay my eyes on. It was on one of these trips, when I was around five or six, that I saw something that changed my world forever.It was a bright, sunny morning. Not quite as warm as it would get later in the day, though. Only around 20ish C* degrees if I had to guess. Light was streaming through the trees, and the air was pleasant, a slight breeze shaking the leaves. I was wandering around, swinging around my dented and cracked magnifying lens, not a care in the world, when I heard it. A soft rustle in the undergrowth.I froze. My mind raced with possibilities. Could it be a bush rat? A wood duck? Maybe it was even a bandicoot! I slowly squatted down, raising my lens in anticipation as the rustling got closer, and closer, and then…The creature hopped out from the bush, and my excitement immediately soured. It was a cane toad.Cane toads are an invasive species over in Australia, partially because they’re hardy little buggers. Everyone has a story about a toad that survived something ludicrous, like a fire or a dog attack. Hell, my dad always swore he once saw one hop away after getting squished by a truck. And looking at the one sitting right in front of me, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to tell if it had been run over. Ugly little bugger. It was huge, too. Probably bigger than the palm of my hand right now, let alone back then. Cane toads can get big enough that they can eat mice in a single bite, and they always look stern. Like you’re bothering them by just existing.Something I didn’t clock at the time however, maybe because I was too young, was that it was odd for a cane toad to be so far south. They’re normally an issue in the northern part of the country, but they can come on over to places like Victoria and New South Wales as stowaways on trucks and such, but that wasn’t as common as you’d think. And even then, you usually saw them in the city or the suburbs, by those trucks. One just hanging out deep in the forest was a strange sight to say the least. Yet here it was, right in front of me.The toad just sat there for a minute. The skin under its mouth inflated and deflated at a steady pace as it breathed. It croaked, blinked once or twice, took a few steps, then something… happened. I didn’t notice it at first, it was subtle. But soon I realized that it had frozen. And I mean completely frozen. The quick movement of its breathing stopped in an instant, and its eyes lids were stuck mid blink. It was like it had been turned to stone.The silence was eerie. Birds, insects, tree rustling, all the typical forest sounds had died down. All I could hear was my own steady breathing.There was something else, too. Something like… wind chimes, almost? Some form of song, anyway. It echoed through the woods, bouncing off the trees and disappearing into the forest. The toad still sat there, unmoving, for another minute or two.Then, it stood up.I don’t mean that it sat up, or adjusted its position the way a toad would. No, I mean that in one fluid motion, it balanced on its back limbs, straightened up, and stood on two legs. It stood stiff as a rod, its front legs hanging by its side and its face staring blankly forward. The toad didn’t look like a toad anymore. With the way it was standing, it seemed almost like a person. It was probably the most unnatural thing I had seen in my entire life up to that point.

Somehow, though, I wasn’t scared. It was unnerving, but more than that it was fascinating. I was enraptured by what was taking place in front of me, something that any biologist worth their salt would scratch their head at. I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing was real, but no matter the case I could not look away. And as the wind chimes got louder, I knew I wouldn’t have wanted to miss the final twist. Because the toad had started to move again.It was moving its leg through the dirt and leaves on the ground, just as fluidly as before. The movement was strange– Well, stranger, I suppose. As the toad balanced on one leg, the other was scraping around in seemingly random but still clearly coordinated movements. Before long, I realized that its foot scraping across the ground wasn’t coincidental. The scrapes were forming a shape. A series of shapes, really. Shapes and symbols, all forming a circle around the toad. It was drawing something. Some kind of esoteric symbol collection, one that to this day, even with all my experience with supernatural symbology, I still couldn’t tell you what it meant.The toad finished, planting its feet once again. We sat in silence for what felt like ages.Then, with an almost shuddering start, it began… to dance.It lifted one leg, stretching it out at its side and balancing on the other. It’s two front legs (arms?) lifted up, coming together in an arch above its head. It was a dancer’s pose, almost like a ballerina. And that comparison was only strengthened when it began to dance. It started out slow, just a few steps at a time, but it quickly picked up the pace. The wind chimes got louder and louder as the toad’s bulky body leaped and pirouetted like it weighed nothing, drifting like a feather in the wind. It spun and bowed and sashayed and hopped back and forth, dancing far better than I had seen any human dance. The show was breathtaking, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was like I was in the front row seats to a great concert, witnessing a once in a lifetime performance as opposed to squatting in a muddy forest. I couldn’t even think to cheer it on, I was simply mesmerized.The toad’s act finally came to a close, and in its final moments, it took a step to the middle of the clearing, stood upright, and bowed. I noticed in shock that the symbols it had drawn were completely gone. The only traces left, I later discovered, were the finest, almost imperceptible layers of ash where the symbols had been. Ash that melted away in my hands when I touched it.The toad looked up, directly at me. And there it stood. It was strange. In all that time, the toad and I hadn’t really shared direct eye contact. It hadn’t even acknowledged my existence up to that point, but now? The way it stared at me, it was like… it had known me for a long time. That it was sharing something incredibly important with me, something no one else could see. Maybe something even I wasn’t supposed to.The wind chimes had stopped. It was just me and the toad, and the slowly returning sounds of the forest. We stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact or even blinking. The toad’s eyes were big, glossy, empty. Like I was looking at two voids, holes in reality. And they were looking back at me.Then the toad croaked, collapsed back onto its feet, and hopped away into the bushes.…DAMIEN: …so you got into this stuff ‘cause of a giant, dancing frog?RAYMOND: I mean, toads by definition aren’t frogs, but yes. After that encounter, I found myself wondering about all the strange and unusual things in the world. I became obsessed with Ripley’s, researched common myths and legends, and eventually found myself taking classes over at Miskatonic University in Massachusetts, studying for a degree in Paranormal Field Work. And I've been there ever since!DAMIEN: Right. That doesn’t really answer my main question though. Why are you here? Why did you stop me from trying to find that Greg guy? I was this close to knocking a few heads together to do it, too!RAYMOND: (*laughing*) Damien, all due respect, but they out numbered you 4 to one. I think I saved you from life as a red pulp on the ground of this diner. They would have had to scrape you off with a spoon before-WAITRESS: Hello! Just a casual reminder that other customers are trying to eat, and we would prefer it if you be more courteous!RAYMOND: Of course, my mistake. I apologize.WAITER: That's alright. Here’s your burger, sir.(*Clink of plate and cutlery on the table*)DAMIEN: Uh, thanks.WAITER: No problem! And for you, sir, here is the check for the other table. If you need anything else, just let me know! I’ll bring your own check soon!(*RAYMOND audibly winces*)RAYMOND: Oh, those fellas have pretty fine taste in liquor, don’t they?(*Silence as we hear Damien eating the burger– slow at first, but quickly devolving into him almost scarfing it down*)RAYMOND (cont’d): You’re pretty hungry, huh? How long has it been since you’ve eaten a proper meal?(*DAMIEN tries to speak, but there’s too much food in the way. He swallows*)DAMIEN: Uh, I don’t know. Maybe a few days?RAYMOND: And when was last you slept?DAMIEN: Uhhh…RAYMOND: I see. Well, Damien, I feel that as a teacher who’s been where you are and seen many students in a similar position, I have to tell you that it’s bad form to keep yourself in poor health when researching something. Not only is it bad for you, it’s bad for your ability to reason, to keep good notes, and to keep focus. And in your case, it seems like it makes you a lot more aggressive.DAMIEN: Oh, I’m plenty aggressive already. Part of, actually, why I keep asking you why you’re here.RAYMOND: (*chuckling*) You know what? Fair enough. I usually try to keep close to my chest, but you’re persistent enough to have gotten my life story out of me, so I haven’t done a very good job of keeping a low profile. Surprisingly, I’m not actually here for any kind of research, at least, not the kind I’m used to. I’m here because I’m looking for someone.DAMIEN: Looking for someone?RAYMOND: Yes, one of my research assistants. She used to be a student of mine, but I saw a lot of potential in her and kept her on to help me after she graduated. She’s been a great help so far, but she wanted to come visit her hometown to, er, “tie up some loose ends”, as she put it. I traveled to Seattle with her, and I was staying there until yesterday. She was supposed to come back three days ago, and I haven’t heard back from her, so I decided to investigate.DAMIEN: Oh, shit.RAYMOND: What?DAMIEN: You’re her contact from Seattle, aren’t you?RAYMOND: Contact from– wait, do you know Sarah?!DAMIEN: Yeah. And I’ve been trying to find her too.RAYMOND: Oh my, this really is a fortuitous meeting! First I meet you and your– er, interesting background, and now this? I wasn’t even sure where to start, and now-DAMIEN: Unlike you, though, I know what happened to her.RAYMOND: She’s… she’s alive, right?DAMIEN: I... think so.RAYMOND: That's a good start. Where do we go from here?DAMIEN: What?RAYMOND: We’re both looking for Sarah, right? Where do we start looking?DAMIEN: Look, it’s my fault she’s where she is, I think it’s my responsibility to-RAYMOND: Oh, hush. We do not want to play the game of who’s “responsible” for Sarah. I’m not letting you go at it alone, and you certainly wouldn’t let me take all the credit, would you?DAMIEN: …no…RAYMOND: Then I think the solution is obvious. So! What do we have to work with?DAMIEN: Okay, okay, before we do this, though, you have to promise me something.RAYMOND: What’s that?DAMIEN: After we find Sarah… I want you to take her someplace safe. Away from here, and... me.RAYMOND: What? Damien, I don’t know if you know Sarah, but she can handle herse–DAMIEN: She’s where she is because of me, okay? It’s my fault she’s stuck, fighting for her life, maybe… I can’t let that happen again.RAYMOND: Damien--DAMIEN: Raymond, please.(*A moment of tense silence, until…*)RAYMOND: …I’ll see what I can do.DAMIEN: Thank you.…We should probably get out of here. My new friends are giving us the stink eye.RAYMOND: Good instincts, though I wish we could have tried the lava cake I saw on the menu. It looked just heavenly.DAMIEN: Well if that guy gets ahold of us, you can see heaven for free.(*RAYMOND laughs once, joylessly*)RAYMOND: That’s a very optimistic reading of me, Damien. I’m going to stay here until I get the check, you can go on without me. I’ll meet you outside.(*Shuffling as Damien gets up.*)DAMIEN: Oh hell, have I had this on the whole time-?(*Recorder clicks off*)

204 - Invasive Species

Content Warnings: Trypophobia, Strangulation(*Recorder clicks on.*)DAMIEN: Okay, day… 4? 5? Of going through this stuff again. I feel like I’ve hit a wall. It’s been… what, a week and a half now? And I’m still nowhere near figuring out anything about Sarah. It’s just like when I was running into the wall over and over while trying to figure out Crimson Apothecaries, and what happened to Uncle Mark! I feel like I'm going insane, nothing here makes sense, I’m losing sleep, and all I've ended up with is a bunch of disturbing horror stories that may or may not be real, nightmares that don’t seem to care about the difference, and no new leads.So, I’ve just been going over these files over and over again. Even if some or most of these are fake, I can’t assume that’s the case anymore. There’s got to be something I can work with. I just… I don’t know. God, I'm so tired. So… (*yawns*). I’m gotta keep… gonna keep looking, for… for...(*Slight bump of someone collapsing onto their desk. *)(*There's a moment of silence, where we can hear quiet snoring. Static volume slightly increases, we hear a BASSY, ECHOING VOICE humming, and then–*)(*Recorder clicks off, then back on*)DAMIEN (Cont’d): Okay! Okay, that wasn’t going the whole time. That’s good, I guess. God, how long was I out? I must not have closed the blinds, cause that sunrise was bright enough to wake righ me up. And-- hmm.Now, I was pretty tired last night, so I don’t remember everything that happened, but I’m pretty sure this file wasn’t… hmm. I don’t recognize it, anyway. A quick scan of it makes me want to at least give it a proper look.So let’s see here, uhhh… Okay. Case F-89: Oneirological Barrier Removal, concerning… a Craigslist post from December 18th, 2005. There's a handwritten transcript of the post here, presumably done by Uncle Mark. It had the heading “messed up door i found - will sell 4 cheap or free”. There’s no photo described, and the text body is also pretty limited– only a couple of lines:“wanna get rid of this thing but feel weird trashing it. maybe sum1 will like it idk.”After that… there’s a description of Uncle Mark arranging a meeting with the seller. Guy called Greg Garcia, who was… pff, 17? So he’d be like… 20 now. Not much younger than me. Huh.Uh.... Uncle Mark said he wouldn’t take the door off of Garcia’s hands until he told him how exactly he came about it. In exchange for telling the whole story, he offered him… Jesus, 500 dollars? Please tell me that he wasn’t giving that kind of money to everyone he talked to, he’d be bankrupt by the end of the year at that rate. I’m not even sure how he got the money he did have, to be honest. It's not like he had a job outside of this, from what I can tell.Uh, anyway: Garcia agreed to this, and then told his story, transcribed here:*Clears throat*“Alright, look man. The first thing you gotta understand is that I’m not a thief. I’m more like a scavenger than anything. Like, if a thief is a dog that nabs a sandwich right out of your hand, I'm more like a seagull or a crow that waits until you drop the sandwich and forget about it. I like collecting, but I don’t like getting in fights, basically. I mean, look at me. You think that a toothpick like me could survive a single punch? No.And it’s not like I can just go to a landfill or a junkyard either. People are weird about throwing stuff away here. Everyone makes a big deal about throwing away compost, recycling, yard waste, and everything like that in the exact right receptacles. I know that that’s important, Earth Day and not being a litterbug and all that, but for some reason I don’t think that’s why people are like this, for a couple of reasons.First of all, everyone is SUPER anal about it. I remember all my parents and my classmates' parents practically having a stroke if you put a single bit of plastic in the compost garbage. We’ve all been taught to separate our garbage to the tiniest degree, and I'll be honest, I still do it even if I don’t understand it. I don’t even know if they understand it. Secondly, I’ve been all over this town and I’ve never seen a landfill, or recycling plant, or anything; even though garbage trucks come every Monday to pick everything up. I once tried to follow one of those trucks to see where it went, but its path was so confusing that I lost track of it. And third of all, sometimes people have things that they don’t know what to do with. Something that doesn’t really neatly fit into recycling, yard waste, food garbage, etc. Maybe it’ll be an old clock, or a doll that’s falling apart. Something that usually still has a little bit of personal value, but they want to get rid of it. So what do people do with this stuff? They throw it into the forest.No, really. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to go into the forest, right? I guess to a lot of people that means that whatever goes into the forest never comes back, so if they have something they want to get rid of, they go and toss it into the woods. At least, that’s my theory, because I’ve found some crazy stuff out there, man. It can be anything, too. Books, lockets, old TVs, stuffed animals. One time I found a rusty (but still in pretty good shape) tuba. And you know something even weirder? I don’t take them all, or even most of them, but they still end up disappearing nonetheless. Maybe I’m not the only collector? I dunno.But anyway– if I’m out scavenging I’ll usually make a pass just a little bit into the forest. Not going deep in, just kinda skimming the edges, y’know? I don’t think there are any boogeymen or anything in the woods, but I won’t lie, they do creep me out a bit. So I don’t go too far in. It was on one of these trips that I found that door.Now, don’t ask me why the hell someone threw out a whole door, but I will say it seemed like it had been out there a while. There was moss growing all over the frame and surface, the white paint peeled and yellowed, and the hinges seemed almost rusted shut. It looked super cool, it was like a prop out of an old movie! And I don’t know, there was just something… interesting about it, y’know? You can’t always explain why you like something. I just thought the door looked neat. So that’s why I took it home.It somehow fit almost perfectly in my room. I have a bunch of trinkets and stuff that a lot of people call “junk” in there, but I managed to find a good spot. It leaned upright against the wall, the light catching it at an interesting angle and casting a stretching shadow across the picture frames and posters. I looked at it for a moment, admiring the patterns, before I found myself suppressing a yawn. It was getting kinda late when I returned, so pretty soon after, I ended up going to bed. I had school in the morning, and work afterwards, after all. I can remember, just before I closed my eyes, catching one last glimpse of the door, leaning against the wall, facing me in my bed. Standing upright like a late night sentinel. Then, I drifted off.The first time started out small. I was dreaming, in the middle of some other nighttime fantasy thing; maybe I was having a nightmare about my teeth falling out or whatever, I don't know; but something pretty unremarkable. Whatever I was doing, though, was interrupted when I noticed the door. It was strange, it wasn’t like there was a bright, shiny aura around it or anything or a big arrow, but somehow it stole my attention all the same. Before I knew it, I had left whatever dream I was having and was grasping the handle, pulling the door open. I’ve never heard a sound so clearly in a dream as I heard the creaking of those rusted hinges, seeming like they’d never been opened before.And once I opened it, I don’t know if I could have expected what I found on the other side.Have you ever read one of those books about the universe? Like, one of those picture encyclopedias they have in science teacher’s classrooms that have those big, multi-page splashes of a picture of a galaxy? It was like that, but if it were a whole… I don't know, room? Space? I walked through the door and it was as if I had stepped outside of a spaceship. Stars glimmered and sparkled, galaxies swirled all across the sky and nebulas shone all around. It was all so vivid and colorful that it shocked me awake.It was after midnight, the rain pricked against my window, and all was quiet. I looked over at the door, and it seemed… normal. It wasn’t open to a universal diorama or anything, it wasn’t even open. It was simply the same old, almost rotting door I had found in the woods. I just had a weird dream about it. A vivid dream, one that I actually remembered. I thought about it for a moment more, then shrugged and went back to sleep.That was the first dream. But it wasn’t the last.I had several over the next few nights. They’d always start with me opening the door, walking through, and finding myself in a new place. There was one night where I was on a road, covered in rain. It was cold, and kind of boring, though, I don’t remember staying very long. One night I found myself in a vineyard. It was bright, sunny, but there was something off about the light. It felt a little… gray, almost. As I walked down the rows, I saw something mixing with the grapevines. Another plant, darker, more jagged. As I went further and further into the vineyard, these darker plants seemed to overtake the grapes, leading to the massive growth at the center. Taking a closer look at them, it seemed like the darker plants might have been some kind of weird iteration of a blackberry bush? Without any actual blackberries, admittedly. But I don’t know how else you explain all the thorns.The strangest thing about that journey however wasn't the bush. It was that when I woke up. I felt something scratching against my leg under my covers. Pulling it up, I found a single, tiny thorn, as if broken off from a dry blackberry bush.One other night, I was underwater. I didn’t have to hold my breath or anything, but I was definitely swimming around. The water was dark, and cold, and I could barely see the bottom. It seemed like I was sinking, slowly. The moonlight shining down from the surface was slowly waning, and the bottom was coming closer into view. Even in the dark, though, the bottom strangely glimmered. It was like everything was covered in a layer of glitter, or crystals. It was calming, far more calming than I ever thought I would be sinking to the bottom of a lake.But then, something in the water, deep below, moved. One solid, jerky motion, and something had slithered away. Something big. That was enough to shock me awake yet again. This time, though, my pajamas were damp. Not wet, damp. As if they had been drenched hours before but had mostly dried since.It was still uncomfortable to wear, though, so I got up to change. As I did, I glanced over in the direction of the door, and stopped. Underneath the door, the floor was shiny. Wet. There was a puddle at the bottom of the frame. The door was still shut tight, but nonetheless, it seemed as though some of the water had… leaked out.Realistically, this probably was just leftover moisture from the moss or the door being out in the rain, but it still stuck with me. Even so, this all didn’t hurt my opinion of the door. In fact, if anything, it made it more interesting and enticing. Now this Door, which previously just looked kinda cool, now had this kind of strange, mysterious aura, something that made it exciting to own. I know people in this town don’t really like talking about weird stuff like this, but I don’t know, it was kind of exciting! It was a mystery all on its own, like I had my own little piece of local folklore. And that's largely how I felt about it, until things took a turn last week.The night started out the same as any of the others– I was having another, unremarkable dream. Then I came across the door, opened it, and found myself in a new place. The strange thing, though, was that there wasn’t really a new place. Or any place at all. I was in this, like, weird, black void, almost. There wasn’t any texture, any sound, any gust of wind, anything like that. It was just me, the door, and quiet nothingness.I was confused. All of the other dreams had taken me to places that were new and interesting. I didn’t understand any of them, but I knew they were something, y’know? This was literally nothing at all. And that only became even more apparent when I turned around to find the door gone.Bit of a weird thing to happen, not gonna lie, but it was still a dream so it’s not like I was too worried about it. I walked around, trying to see if I could find anything at all interesting. But the more I wandered, the more I felt like nothing was changing. I knew I was moving, my feet were going one in front of the other, but everything was equally dark and featureless, so it was like I wasn’t going anywhere at all. Eventually, I just sat down. This was a strangely boring dream, so a part of me thought that maybe if I just did nothing, it would speed up the dream process and I'd be somewhere new. It was a... kind of weirdly present state of mind for a dream. I’m now realizing. Huh.Time passed. Nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen. I was wondering to myself what was taking so long. I got up again, and picked a direction to walk in. I literally had nothing else going on, so why not? I was starting to get… uneasy. Maybe the walk would help me shake off the nerves.As I walked, I thought about the other dreams I had had. They were all strange, extraordinary, just generally really cool; but they were also… quiet. Unmoving. Framed snapshots of a single moment. With the exception of the previous night's dream and the movement at the bottom of the water, of course. But largely, it seemed like I was alone. Just based on the description of the events, that seemed the most obvious conclusion. But somehow… I didn’t feel alone.I hadn’t given the idea much thought. You don’t question things in dreams, usually. But now that I had nothing to distract me from it, the thought bothered me. I hadn’t been alone in those dreams, I knew it somehow, instinctively. It wasn’t like I was being hunted or something immediately threatening, but still, I somehow knew that I was being observed, or that there was something nearby. And it was the same “something” each time too. Don’t ask me how I know that, I don’t think I can answer honestly. Because I don’t know how I know. And it bothered me that I hadn’t questioned it.As I sat in these thoughts, I became aware of the fact that I felt the same something. I felt that it was watching me, that it was in the “room”, I guess. And now that I was actually, truly aware of it, I realized with a jolt of silent terror that I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t move away, I couldn’t wake up, I couldn't even distract myself. All I had was this persistent feeling. And the longer I sat with it, the more it scared me. What was this thing? What did it want? Did it even want anything? Was this real? Was this more than a dream? And what was that noise?I froze. A noise, something new and different. Maybe it could be my key out? I turned my ear towards it. A faint, muffled voice echoed outward. I couldn’t make out the words, or even any identifying features of the voice. But I could make out the tone. It seemed scared. Terrified, even. And it was getting closer.I jumped to my feet, and the instant I did I felt a head rush unlike anything else I had ever experienced. My temples throbbed, my vision spun, and it was all I could not not to topple right back on my ass. I heard the voice, rambling, babbling, and louder than ever before, almost echoing inside my skull. It was like it was all around me, penetrating the inside of my head.I blinked my eyes open. As my vision came back into focus, I realized something had changed. There was now a pristine white door.

I quickly realized three things in rapid succession: 1) While the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere around me, it seemed weirdly quiet in the direction of the door. 2) In every other direction, the voice was getting louder, wilder, and more frantic. No, not just frantic. Furious. It was somehow both terrifying and terrified, practically screaming at the top of its lungs, if it had those. And 3), along with becoming louder, the voice was also becoming clearer, and I could now make out what it was saying. It was repeating something, a single phrase, over and over, with more and more of that strange mixture of fear and fury:“LET ME OUT.”
“LET ME OUT.”
“LET ME OUT.”
“LET ME OUT.”
“LET ME OUT."
“LET ME OUT."I didn’t take the time to ponder the implications of this. Instead, I barreled towards that door like I was fired out of a cannon, the voice almost exploding all around me. I reached the door, fumbled with the handle, and just as it felt like the sound would fully close in on me, I managed to pull it open, push myself through, and throw the door closed behind me.The overbearing sound that had been echoing around my head vanished in an instant. For a single, incredible moment, it was quiet. Then, the door shook violently as something banged on the other side. I jumped back, the pounding growing louder and louder. Just underneath the pounding, I could hear a shriek of fury.Then, it all stopped. The door quieted, and I was alone once more. My heart still pounding in my chest, I sat down, and stared at the door. On this side, it wasn’t pristine. There was the same moss patterns, peeled paint, and water damage as the door I had in real life. Only now, there was something new. Where the pounding had originated, I saw something. Something small, barely a millimeter long, almost unnoticeable, but undeniably there. A singular crack in the old wood.And then I woke back up.It was way past midnight, the beginnings of dawn were starting to stream through the trees outside my window. I was panting, drenched in sweat, and blood rushed through my ears, my heart doing backflips in my chest. I could feel the adrenaline tingling in my fingertips.I slowed down, took some deep breaths, and looked up at the door. From what I could tell, it was exactly the same. I didn’t know if it was my imagination or the way the light was hitting it or what, but I could have sworn that if I looked at it right, the moss, water damage, everything all just melted away, and a pristine, undamaged door peeked through.Something else was bothering me. Bothering me enough to get out of bed and take a closer look.It was probably nothing, I was just being paranoid. It was a dream, after all, how could it be anything else?I took another few steps closer.I had probably just eaten something, or the sun had got in my eyes.I was in front of the door now.I was just being irrational.I looked closely, so closely at the surface of the door, searching, scanning. Then, I found what I was looking for. My breath caught in my chest, and the doubts were silenced.A single, tiny crack in the wood. Barely noticeable. But still, undeniably, horrifyingly there. Where it hadn’t been before.That was the other night. I’ve slept with the door outside of my room ever since, lying outside in the grass. And since then, the nightmares have stopped. While this door is really cool, honestly, I just don’t think I can look at it the same way. My eyes keep drifting back to that tiny, insignificant crack. And it gapes back at me, the memory of that voice echoing louder and louder until I look away.I think it's time I close this door for good.…Soo, what were we thinking about the price?”End of statement.This… this is it. Holy– I’ve got it! You heard that part about the rain place, right? This door, it- it must be the way to get to that storm-world. I could find Sarah! She could–! Where is that door? Hold on, let me read Uncle Mark’s notes.(...)Okay, it says that he bought the door off of Garcia, and took it back to the house. Okay, good. What next? He… did some experiments of his own, slept with it in his room, results inconclusive… probably just a dud. Where is it, in the garage? Hold on–(*Recorder clicks off, then back on*)(*scraping wood against the floor, Damien GRUNTS*)DAMIEN (Cont’d):Okay, I found the door. Smells awful, but I think I can try the dream thing. Get some sleep. I need more sleep anyway.(*Winding of a mechanical TIMER*)I’ll– look, I’ll set an alarm for…what, 2 hours from now? I can take a quick power nap just to get a look around, and if I show up in the wrong dream, I can just make it back. Okay, Be back soon!(*Recorder clicks off, then back on*)(*Alarm is ringing in the background.*)DAMIEN (Cont’d): It didn’t WORK! I slept, and I didn’t dream at all! Why is it not working for me?? Did it not work for Mark? Hold on-(*shuffling of papers and DAMIEN muttering under his breath*)“…experiments inconclusive… hypothesis disregarded… possible relations to Kendall street… strange oneirological implications… Greg Garcia only proven case.” Well, then I need to talk to him. What do we know about Garcia? Garcia… Greg Garcia… graduated from SHS in 2005… currently working at The Silver Platter. Silver Platter? Sounds familiar, but where is that?I.. I think I need to sort things out a bit. And in the meantime, maybe talk to someone. Someone in particular. This is the first real lead I've gotten in days, I'm not letting this go.This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off*)

203 - Cracked Open

Thassolophobia, Paranoia, Existential Dread(*Recorder clicks on.*)(recorder clicks on)
DAMIEN: Okay, day… 4? 5? Of going through this stuff again. I feel like I’ve hit a wall. It’s been… what, a week and a half now? And I’m still nowhere near figuring out anything about Sarah. It’s just like when I was running into the wall over and over while trying to figure out Crimson Apothecaries, and what happened to Uncle Mark! I feel like I'm going insane, nothing here makes sense, I’m losing sleep, and all I've ended up with is a bunch of disturbing horror stories that may or may not be real, nightmares that don’t seem to care about the difference, and no new leads.
So, I’ve just been going over these files over and over again. Even if some or most of these are fake, I can’t assume that’s the case anymore. There’s got to be something I can work with. I just… I don’t know. God, I'm so tired. So… (yawns). I’m gonna keep… keep looking, for…
(slight bump of someone collapsing onto their desk. )
(there's a moment of silence, where we can hear quiet snoring. Static volume slightly increases, we hear a BASSY, ECHOING VOICE humming, and then–)
(recorder clicks off, then back on)
DAMIEN (Cont’d): Okay, that wasn’t going the whole time. That’s good, I guess. God, how long was I out? I must not have closed the blinds, cause that sunrise was bright enough to wake me up. And… hmm.
Now, I was pretty tired last night, so I don’t remember everything that happened, but I’m pretty sure this file wasn’t… hmm. I don’t recognize it, anyway. A quick scan of it makes me want to at least give it a proper look.
So let’s see here, uhhh… Okay. Case F-89: Oneirological Barrier Removal, concerning… a Craigslist post from December 18th, 2005. There's a handwritten transcript of the post here, presumably done by Uncle Mark. It had the heading “messed up door i found - will sell 4 cheap or free”. There’s no photo described, and the text body is also pretty limited– only a couple of lines:
“wanna get rid of this thing but feel weird trashing it. maybe sum1 will like it idk.”
After that… there’s a description of Mark arranging a meeting with the seller. Guy called Greg Garcia, who was… pff, 17? So he’d be like… 20 now. Not much younger than me. Huh.
Uncle Mark said he wouldn’t take the door off of Garcia’s hands until he told him how exactly he came about it. In exchange for telling the whole story, he offered him… Jesus, 500 dollars? Please tell me that he wasn’t giving that kind of money to everyone he talked to, he’d be bankrupt by the end of the year at that rate. I’m not even sure how he got the money he did have, to be honest. Seems like he was spending all his time on this.
Uh, anyway: Garcia agreed to this, and then told his story, transcribed here:
Ahem
“Alright, look man. The first thing you gotta understand is that I’m not a thief. I’m more like a scavenger than anything. Like, if a thief is a dog that nabs a sandwich right out of your hand, I'm more like a seagull or a crow that waits until you drop the sandwich and forget about it. I like collecting, but I don’t like getting in fights, basically. I mean, look at me. You think that a toothpick like me could survive a single punch? No.
And it’s not like I can just go to a landfill or a junkyard either. People are weird about throwing stuff away here. Everyone makes a big deal about throwing away compost, recycling, yard waste, and everything like that in the exact right receptacles. I know that that’s important, Earth day and not being a litter bug and all that, but for some reason I don’t think that’s why people are like this, for a couple of reasons.
First of all, everyone is SUPER anal about it. I remember all my parents and my classmates' parents practically having a stroke if you put a single bit of plastic in the compost garbage. We’ve all been taught to separate our garbage to the tiniest degree, and I'll be honest, I still do it even if I don’t understand it. I don’t even know if they understand it. Secondly, I’ve been all over this town and I’ve never seen a landfill, or recycling plant, or anything; even though garbage trucks come every monday to pick everything up. I once tried to follow one of those trucks to see where it went, but its path was so confusing that I lost track of it. And third of all, sometimes people have things that they don’t know what to do with. Something that doesn’t neatly fit into recycling, yard waste, food garbage, etc. Maybe it’ll be an old clock, or a doll that’s falling apart. Something that usually still has a little bit of personal value, but they still want to get rid of it. So what do people do with this stuff? They throw it into the forest.
No, really. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to go into the forest, right? I guess to a lot of people that means that whatever goes into the forest never comes back, so if they have something they want to get rid of, they go and toss it into the woods. At least, that’s my theory, because I’ve found some crazy stuff out there, man. It can be anything, too. Books, lockets, old TVs, stuffed animals. One time I found a rusty (but still in pretty good shape) tuba. And you know something even weirder? I don’t take them all, or even most of them, but they still end up disappearing nonetheless. Maybe I’m not the only collector? I dunno.
But anyway– if I’m out scavenging I’ll usually make a pass just a little bit into the forest. Not going deep in, just kinda skimming the edges, y’know? I don’t think there are any boogeymen in the woods, but I won’t lie, they do creep me out a bit. So I don’t go too far in. It was on one of these trips that I found that door.
Now, don’t ask me why the hell someone threw out a whole door, but I will say it seemed like it had been out there a while. There was moss growing all over the frame and surface, the white paint peeled and yellowed, and the hinges seemed almost rusted shut. It looked super cool, it was like a prop out of an old movie! And I don’t know, there was just something… interesting about it, y’know? You can’t always explain why you like something. I just thought the door looked neat. So that’s why I took it home.
It somehow fit almost perfectly in my room. I have a lot of trinkets and stuff that a lot of people call “junk” in there, but I managed to find a good spot. It leaned upright against the wall, the light catching it at an interesting angle and casting a stretching shadow across the picture frames and posters. I looked at it for a moment, admiring the patterns, before I found myself suppressing a yawn. It was getting kinda late when I returned, so pretty soon after, I ended up going to bed. I had school in the morning, and work afterwards, after all. I can remember, just before I closed my eyes, catching one last glimpse of the door, leaning against the wall, facing me in my bed. Standing upright like a late night sentinel. Then, I drifted off.
The first time started out small. I was dreaming, in the middle of some other nighttime fantasy thing; maybe I was having a nightmare about my teeth falling out or something, I don't know; but something pretty unremarkable. Whatever I was doing, though, was interrupted when I noticed the door. It was strange, it wasn’t like there was a bright, shiny aura around it or anything or a big arrow, but somehow it stole my attention all the same. Before I knew it, I had left whatever dream I was having and was grasping the handle, pulling the door open. I’ve never heard a sound so clearly in a dream as I heard the creaking of those rusted hinges, seeming like they’d never been opened before.
And once I opened it, I don’t know if I could have expected what I found on the other side.
Have you ever read one of those books about the universe? Like, one of those picture encyclopedias they have in science teacher’s classrooms that have those big, multi page splashes of a picture of a galaxy? It was like that, but if it were a whole… I don't know, room? Space? I walked through the door and it was as if I had stepped outside of a spaceship. Stars glimmered and sparkled, galaxies swirled all across the sky and nebulas shone all around. It was all so vivid and colorful that it shocked me awake.
It was after midnight, the rain pricked against my window, and all was quiet. I looked over at the door, and it seemed… normal. It wasn’t open to a universal diorama or anything, it wasn’t even open. It was simply the same old, almost rotting door I had found in the woods. I just had a weird dream about it. A vivid dream, one that I actually remembered. I thought about it for a moment more, then shrugged and went back to sleep.
That was the first dream. But it wasn’t the last.
I had several over the next few nights. They’d always start with me opening the door, walking through, and finding myself in a new place. There was one night where I was on a road, covered in rain. It was cold, and kind of boring, though, so I don’t remember staying very long. One night I found myself in a vineyard. It was bright, sunny, but there was something off about the light. It felt a little… gray, almost. As I walked down the rows, I saw something mixing with the grapevines. Another plant, darker, more jagged. As I went further and further into the vineyard, these darker plants seemed to overtake the grapes, leading to the massive growth at the center. Taking a closer look at them, it seemed like the darker plants might have been some kind of weird iteration of a blackberry bush? Without any actual blackberries, admittedly. But I don’t know how else you explain all the thorns.
The strangest thing about that journey however wasn't the bush. It was that when I woke up. I felt something scratching against my leg under my covers. Pulling it up, I found a single, tiny thorn, as if broken off from a dry blackberry bush.
One other night, I was underwater. I didn’t have to hold my breath or anything, but I was definitely swimming around. The water was dark, and cold, and I could barely see the bottom. It seemed like I was sinking, slowly. The moonlight shining down from the surface was slowly waning, and the bottom was coming closer into view. Even in the dark, though, the bottom strangely glimmered. It was like everything was covered in a layer of glitter, or crystals. It was calming, far more calming than I ever thought I would be sinking to the bottom of a lake.
But then, something in the water, deep below, moved. One solid, jerky motion, and something had slithered away. Something big. That was enough to shock me awake yet again. This time, though, my pajamas were damp. Not wet, damp. As if they had been drenched hours before but had mostly dried since. It was still uncomfortable to wear, though, so I got up to change. As I did, I glanced over in the direction of the door, and stopped. Underneath the door, the floor was shiny. Wet. There was a puddle at the bottom of the frame. The door was still shut tight, but nonetheless, it seemed as though some of the water had… leaked out.
Realistically, this probably was just leftover moisture from the moss or the door being out in the rain, but it still stuck with me. Even so, this didn’t hurt my opinion of the door. In fact, if anything, it made it more interesting and enticing. Now this Door, which previously just looked kinda cool, now had this kind of strange, mysterious aura, something that made it exciting to own. I know people in this town don’t really like talking about weird stuff like this, but I don’t know, it was kind of exciting! It was a mystery all on its own, like I had my own little piece of local folklore. And that's largely how I felt about it, until things took a turn last week.
The night started out the same as any of the others– I was having another, unremarkable dream. Then I came across the door, opened it, and found myself in a new place. The strange thing, though, was that there wasn’t really a new place. Or any place at all. I was in this, like, weird, black void, almost. There wasn’t any texture, any sound, any gust of wind, anything at all. It was just me, the door, and quiet nothingness.
I was confused. All of the other dreams had taken me to places that were new and interesting. I didn’t understand any of them, but I knew they were something, y’know? This was literally nothing at all. And that only became even more apparent when I turned around to find the door gone.
Bit of a weird thing to happen, not gonna lie, but it was still a dream so it’s not like I was too worried about it. I walked around, trying to see if I could find anything at all interesting. But the more I wandered around, the more it felt like nothing was changing. I knew I was moving, my feet were going one in front of the other, but everything was equally dark and featureless, so it was like I wasn’t going anywhere at all. Eventually, I just sat down. This was a strangely boring dream, so a part of me thought that maybe if I just did nothing, it would speed up the dream process and I'd be somewhere new. It was a kind of… weirdly present state of mind for a dream. I’m now realizing. Huh.
Time passed. Nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen. I was wondering to myself what was taking so long. I got up again, and picked a direction to walk in. I literally had nothing else going on, so why not? I was starting to get… uneasy. Maybe the walk would help me shake off the nerves.
As I walked, I thought about the other dreams I had had. They were all strange, extraordinary, just generally really cool; but they were also… quiet. Unmoving. Framed snapshots of a single moment. With the exception of the previous night's dream and the movement at the bottom of the water, of course. But largely, it seemed like I was alone. Just based on the description of the events, that seemed the most obvious conclusion. But somehow… I didn’t feel alone.
I hadn’t given the idea much thought. You don’t question things in dreams, usually. But now that I had nothing to distract me from it, the thought bothered me. I hadn’t been alone in those dreams, I knew it somehow, instinctively. It wasn’t like I was being hunted or something immediately threatening, but still, I somehow knew that I was being observed, or that there was something nearby. And it was the same “something” each time too. Don’t ask me how I know that, I don’t think I can answer honestly. Because I don’t know how I know. And it bothered me that I hadn’t questioned it.
As I sat in these thoughts, I became aware of the fact that I felt the same something. I felt that it was watching me, that it was in the “room”, I guess. And now that I was actually, truly aware of it, I realized with a jolt of silent terror that I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t move away, I couldn’t wake up, I couldn't even distract myself. All I had was the persistent feeling. And the longer I sat with it, the more it scared me. What was this thing? What did it want? Did it even want anything? Was this real? Was this more than a dream? And what was that noise?
I froze. A noise, something new and different. Maybe it could be my key out? I turned my ear towards it. A faint, muffled voice echoed outward. I couldn’t make out the words, or even any identifying features of the voice. But I could make out the tone. It seemed scared. Terrified, even. And it was getting closer.
I jumped to my feet, and the instant I did I felt a head rush unlike anything else I had ever experienced. My temples throbbed, my vision spun, and it was all I could not not to topple right back on my ass. I heard the voice, rambling, babbling, and louder than ever before, almost echoing inside my skull. It was like it was all around me, penetrating the inside of my head.
I blinked my eyes open. As my vision came back into focus, I realized something had changed. There was now a pristine white door.
I quickly realized three things in rapid succession: 1) While the voice seemed to be coming from everywhere around me, it seemed weirdly quiet in the direction of the door. 2) In every other direction, the voice was getting louder, wilder, and more frantic. No, not just frantic. Furious. It was somehow both terrifying and terrified, practically screaming at the top of its lungs, if it had those. And 3), along with becoming louder, the voice was also becoming clearer, and I could now make out w

At least, it looked like a tree. It grew strangely, branches winding around in jagged zigzags, stretching out in every direction. It didn’t have any leaves, but it didn’t seem like it was dead, either. The bark was oddly textured, covered in strange patterns and spirals, all connecting in a bizarre web. I reached out a hand to touch the surface, but almost instantly recoiled. I couldn’t exactly tell why, but it was like my body instinctively rejected the sensation of the bark against my skin. It felt rough, but more than that, it felt… clingy. As if it was going to stick to my hand like sap, but… more, somehow.I was so entranced by this strange find that I forgot to ask Pete why he had brought me out to see it. And before the thought could occur to me, I felt a dull, earth-shattering thud to the back of my head, and the world went dark.By the time I came back to, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon. I quickly realized two things: One, I couldn’t move. My arms were bound at my sides, and I was tied to something with what seemed like fishing line. Two, the intense feeling of that same horrible, rough stickiness pressing against my back told me that the “something” was the tree.“I’m sorry.”Pete’s voice was almost a whisper. I turned my head in his direction, the back of my skull throbbing where it had been hit, and a flashlight shone in my eyes, momentarily blinding me.“I’m really, really sorry, I honestly am. I promise this isn’t at all personal.”I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the flashlight beam obscuring my vision. I could just barely see Pete through the glare. His eyes were wide, his lip trembling.“It’s just that I can’t be taken. The Witch wants someone, I know she does, and it can’t be me. I need to give her something else. Someone else.”It may have been the head injury, but I couldn’t feel anything but pure bewilderment. I shouted at Pete, asking him what the hell he was on about and telling him to get me off the sensory nightmare that was the tree. He just sadly shook his head.“I can’t. You have to stay put, right up against it. She’s in there, you know. I can hear her singing.”He leaned in closer. “That’s why she’s called the Witch in the Wood, you know. Not the Witch of the woods, not the Witch from the forest. No, she’s in there, and that's how she gets you.”As he spoke, I could feel something new. The wood was scratching at me, threatening me with splinters at every moment, but now it was… pulsing. I could feel something, some kind of… energy, or movement. Whatever it was, it pushed my foggy bewilderment into actual, proper panic. I started frantically pulling against the thin but unyielding plastic, screaming at Pete to let me go. Something was inside the tree, and the more it moved the more my heart raced.“If I could make it happen faster, I would. I know we never really got along as kids, but I don’t want you to die painfully, Doug. This is just how it has to be.”As he spoke, I lifted my head to glare at him. But, in doing so, I saw something that made me freeze. Behind Pete’s head, there was a branch. Not from the tree I was tied to, but one of the pine trees surrounding us. It twitched and slithered through the air, slowly snaking its way to Pete. He hadn’t noticed, because he was too busy talking to me. And now, it was mere inches from his head.Before I could react, the branch pounced, shooting through the air and wrapping itself around Pete’s throat. His eyes widened even more, and his hands shot to the thing around his neck, dropping the flashlight. It fell in such a way that it cast a harsh shadow across the scene. The branch was now lifting Pete almost a foot off the ground. He grappled uselessly with the tree, scattering pine needles and bits of bark everywhere. I could hear him trying to scream, but nothing came out.There was something else, though. Something that, even in seeing that scene, still chills me more than anything else. I could hear a high pitched voice. It wasn’t singing, or speaking, or shouting. It was laughing. Giggling, even. And the more Pete struggled, the louder the giggling got, echoing around us as if it was coming from every tree.Then, almost as quickly as it had appeared, the branch pulled Pete into the night, and the laughter stopped, leaving me in utter silence. I sat there, stunned, still pinned against the tree, until the adrenaline wore off and I passed back out.I woke up later, and managed to free myself from my bonds with a razor from a pencil sharpener in my pocket. I called out for Pete, but heard no response. It was pitch dark at this point, so I decided it would be better to just go home before I got lost in the woods too.No one ever heard from Pete after that. I think there was an investigation, but no one ever came and asked me about it. I guess people didn’t remember him all that much, or didn’t miss him enough to care. I don’t know which would be worse.I never told anyone what happened. I ended up failing the assignment, but I barely cared. I just wanted to forget about it all, and move on. And that’s what I did. It took years, but I finally was able to forget what had happened. At least, until this summer.I was doing work for the lumber company, scouting around the forest and looking for trees that could be chopped down without too much pushback from the state EPA busybodies. It had me walking through the forest, on my own, for hours at a time. I used to find it peaceful, which is strange given the story I've just told you. Must have… forgotten it all, somehow. Until now. Because on this bright summer day in June, I came across something. The sunlight shone through the trees, and my eye caught the glint of something hanging off a branch. I went in for a closer look, and when I realized what it was, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.It was a ring. Pete’s gaudy, fake gold ring that he never took off. It was stuck on this strange, stubby little branch. A branch that split into five, finger-like ends, reaching out in a grasping motion, as if trying to grab hold of something, anything that could pull its owner out.I lost my nerve, and I ran back to the office from here. The next day, I marched up to my superior and handed in my resignation. Somehow, for all these years I had managed to block out that memory, but after it all came rushing back, I didn’t know if I could stomach being near trees all day.Ever since then, it's eaten away at me. I can’t talk to anyone else about it, not my family, not my friends. But I knew I needed to get it off my chest. That... that's why I spoke to you tonight. That, and one other reason.I know you can’t resist something strange. So I figured that if you have some kind of obsession with ghost stories, you at least would be interested in this. And here it is. Just one request: Keep it to yourself. After tonight, I don’t need to see you anywhere near me ever again.And if I were you, I’d stay away from these woods. That’s not a threat, that’s a warning. I meant what I said earlier, people do not like it when folks like you snoop around, and that’s partially because… well, let’s just say that stuff tends to… happen to people who don’t keep to themselves. Bad stuff. “They never found him again” kind of stuff. I don’t pretend to know exactly why, but it’s been like that since forever. And I’ve seen you in that house. More to the point, I've seen when your sister visits. That’s right, I know you have a sister. Your sister, her husband, and their son. I don’t care if you get yourself killed, but maybe the next time you start blazing a trail into that forest or into the town records, maybe think about how that kid’s gonna be affected when something happens to you. Never hurts to be overly cautious.Though at this rate, I guess that’s a lesson you’re never going to learn.”End of transcript.Huh. It’s strange to hear about… yourself, I guess, when reading these.Following this, Uncle Mark was able to do a little bit of research on Pete DeVries. More specifically, his family. The DeVries were never a very prosperous family in town, their standing as one of Kingscreek’s oldest families is more a testament to the fact that they never left. They were also considered unlucky, with several family disappearances dotted along their history, starting with Harvey DeVries in 1892. Whether or not these tragedies are a contributing factor to their low standing, I’m the wrong person to ask. All I know is that they seemed like some unlucky bastards.The other bit of intrigue here is that ring. This was towards the end of Uncle Mark’s life, so some of the notes are generally harder to read, but it seems like the description reminds him of another ring. One that's a lot older than Pete, the DeVries, or even Kingscreek itself. And based on some of the excited notes I can decipher, it seems like it might be important.Too bad it's probably rusting on some tree out in the woods. I’m gonna keep digging for other leads.This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off.*)

201 - Like-Minded Souls

Content Warnings: Severe Paranoia(*Recorder clicks on.*)DAMIEN: Welcome back, everyone. I’m Damien Bachman and this is… Y’know, I just remembered I never actually gave this show a name. Um… eh, whatever. Not like anyone else is listening. Might as well start opening with “Dear diary…”. Anyway, hi. Things have been… difficult. Since the whole Crimson Apothecaries incident a couple days ago, I’ve kept digging through the files, but… (sigh). With everything I put into trying to expose Sal, only for him to not only not be what I expected, but literally vanish into thin air… it took a lot of the wind out of my sails. And that’s not even getting into all the other “revelations” that this place has sent my way. I did add my interview with Sal to Uncle Mark’s files, though, so there’s that. Even if nothing else comes of Crimson Apothecaries, it felt… nice to complete something that he started. I think that’s what motivated me to keep at it. Maybe that’s what started it all in the first place. I dunno.Well, what I do know is that my priority right now is to try to find a way to help Sarah - beyond praying she just pops up somewhere - but I’m struggling to come up with something. I’ve kept this pager on my desk, fresh batteries and everything, just in case I see something… anything. But no dice. I must have read Olivia Parrish’s file a dozen times by now, but there’s nothing new to learn there that I didn’t find out by seeing the… “Rain-monster… man… thing” in person myself. Yeah, you might have noticed that names aren’t my strong suit. I’ve tried pulling together files that mention similar encounters - there are a few, more than I would have guessed - but I’ve yet to put together an actual plan. I’ve even thought of going to the bus station to see if I can get it to appear again, but what would that do other than just get me trapped as well? Not like I was much help when I was there anyway. Even if it doesn’t feel… great to trust Sal at his word, I can only hope he was right when he said Sarah can take care of herself.Anyway, that brings us to this morning; as I was looking through the “Rainman cases”, I ended up finding a reference to “Case O-1: Rapid-Onset Psychotic Cognisance”. It took me a while to find, but here it is. At first, it didn’t seem to have any relevance to my current goal, but then I kept reading, and, well… there are layers to this one. If nothing else, it should make for an interesting story. It consists mostly of a letter by a woman called Vera Whitewood, a local historian who worked in the Archives at the Kingscreek Library from 1987 to 1992, as well as a foreword of sorts by Uncle Mark. I won't read it aloud here, but it does give some additional context. He and Vera were actually on speaking terms, since the Archives were a place he would visit often, especially as he was getting settled in. It doesn’t seem like they were friends by any means though; according to him, she had a kind of frazzled vibe about her that made conversation difficult. That is, when she even had a spare moment to make conversation.Things changed when, on the morning of July the 13th, 1992, she called him out of the blue, asking to meet up. She didn’t say what for, but according to Uncle Mark, she sounded extremely paranoid and hushed, like she was worried about someone overhearing them. Like I said, they weren't friends, so it struck him as extremely odd that she would come to him for a problem - I think by now he was starting to build up his “reputation”. Whatever the case, he went to go meet her that afternoon at a diner off Main Street called the Silver Platter - I’ve never been myself, but I guess it sounds good? Uh, Uncle Mark waited for an hour or two, but Vera never showed up. Eventually, he gave up and went back home, only to find a letter addressed to him - the one I have in my hands now.Letter begins.“Mr. Bachman,I’m sorry I sent you on that little wild goose chase. I need a way to cover myself while I make my final preparations. I’m sure they’re watching me, tracking my movements, bugging my phone lines - that’s the least they can do. There aren’t many people I can trust anymore - or rather, there aren’t many people I can be certain aren’t “compromised”. Of course, this means I could be putting you in danger, but you strike me as the kind of man who can handle himself when things get rough. Nonetheless, I’m sorry - I wish I had a better excuse other than my own self-interest. To try and make up for it, I’ve written this statement to explain my actions and why I’ve decided to leave Kingscreek. Hopefully, you’ll get something from this that’ll help you survive this place, or better yet, leave it entirely before it’s too late. Then again, you’d be the first to admit that’s probably not happening. After all, from what I've gathered, you and I are like-minded souls.I feel it’s necessary to “set the scene”, so to speak. I grew up here. I’m about as local as you can get. And I’ve always had a fascination with history, anthropology, geopolitics - the general study of society and how it develops. With those two points, I think I’m qualified to say that Kingscreek, despite its unassuming exterior, has always been a fascinating case study. It’s developed in comparative isolation, always been slightly out of step with the rest of Washington, and because of that, it has its own distinct feeling beyond that general Pacific Northwest aura, the kind romanticized in post cards and misty mystery novels. Strangers passing through might not understand or appreciate it, but I always wore Kingscreek’s oddity as a badge of pride. After I graduated from CWU in ‘86, I moved back in with my father and began working with Dr. Cai Knowles, the town archivist here in the library. Even now, I still look back on those days fondly - working directly under an expert, preserving old records, taking exhibitions and trips into the surrounding woods, interviewing Kingscreek’s most weird and wonderful. I even got to do a presentation at Sorenson High once. Was it the sexiest work? No. But I’ll never forget the ever-present sense of accomplishment and pride, even if, looking back now, it’s hard to see anything but what I didn’t notice.Everything changed when Dr. Knowles suddenly retired at the end of 1990, which really came out of nowhere. He had just hit his 70s, but he carried out his work with as much enthusiasm as I did, so I assumed retirement was at least half a decade away. His age was the excuse he used, of course: his knees were too old for all that walking, he wanted to spend time with the grandkids, all the tired cliches. But there was always a tinge of resentment in his words afterwards, in his gaze when he looked at me. In the days that followed, I caught whispers and stray glances pointed in his and my direction, and I couldn’t help but feel that greater forces had a hand in all of this. And that everyone but me knew it.I was appointed by the Kingscreek County Judiciary as the new Archive Head, and I remember feeling honoured, but also really shocked and overwhelmed. I wasn’t even thirty - I could still feel my college hangovers - but I’d suddenly gone from an understudy to leading lady with only half the script memorised. Still, I tried to live up to the role, and though my nights became even longer, I was afforded even more access to resources for research than before. It was tough work, but I’m an adaptable woman, and after a few months (and maybe one or two mental breakdowns), I was beginning to feel like I almost had a handle on things. It’s incredible how quickly things can fall apart.I was up late one night - I’d recently started an endeavour to reorganise the archives of the Kingscreek Herald, when a particular article caught my eye: a column on page two about the murders of the Clayton family on Gossamer Lane, as well as the disappearance of their son, George. What struck me about this wasn’t just the content: it was the date - May 27th, 1990. Not even a year ago at that point. How had I not heard of this? How had no one brought this up to me? I strained my memory - I could recall hearing about the disappearance vaguely, but was I so buried in my work that I had somehow forgotten about such a sensational tragedy? I checked other papers around that time, and indeed, there was a brief, week-long period during which the story did feature, but in a strangely dismissive, off-handed way. Almost with the same reverence as a local store closing down. I checked statewide and national papers - they didn’t even mention it.The following day, I brought it up to my old man after lunch, asking if he remembered much about the incident. My father is normally a very cheerful man, laugh lines crease his face all over and he’s quick to smile. But this topic made him react in a way that was very… out of character. He stared at me for a moment, before grimacing in this odd, almost haunted way, like you would remember a bad childhood memory. He told me he remembered it, calling it a terrible thing and left it at that. Anytime I tried to bring it up, he’d always undercut me by bringing up a new topic. I got similar responses from most other people - some of them, like me, had even forgotten about it entirely until I reminded them.I continued my work, but things were different. As I went back through Kingscreek’s history, I kept finding incidents that matched or even exceeded the Clayton incident in grim depravity. Mysterious disappearances, horrific unsolved murders, even tabloids filled with ridiculous phone-ins about ghosts, possessions and monsters were catching my eye. Some of the wildest and most unbelievable incidents stretched back all the way back to around the time Kingscreek was founded and further, but the ones that caught my eye were the ones that happened under my very nose. While I was working under Dr. Knowles, while I was at college, while I was at high school. A house burning down with no traces of the occupant. A man vanishing in the woods, half his body showing up a week later. Strange, esoteric symbols painted in blood appearing in classrooms. All of these and more had happened in my lifetime. And worse - I remembered them. I remember talking about them to my friends, my family. I heard about them on the local news. But then we just… stopped talking about them. I couldn’t even say that we’d all forgotten; it was more like we all just collectively agreed to move on after a certain point. Like we all… knew better.One evening in particular, I was reading about the unexplained disappearance and reappearance of a young woman in the 70s, and to my horror, I recognised the name - Tambry Corduroy. She was in my classes, she was one of my friends. I slept over at her place, I let her copy my homework. I remembered that day she vanished, I remembered three weeks later when she was found, I remembered visiting her in the hospital with my dad, watching terrified as she nearly died from hypothermia and starvation. Immediately, I called her - I was so high-strung I don’t think she understood a word I said for a minute - but once she realised what I was talking about, she immediately hung up. When I tried to see her the next day, she wouldn’t even answer her door.Maybe I should have pressed her more, but instead, I went straight back to work. It was like I’d been living blind my whole life, only for someone to reach into my mind and turn on a light, and now, wherever I looked, some new, grisly, unexplainable detail was illuminated. I was frightened, of course. I wasn’t sure if these incidents were the work of something supernatural, a secret cult, or… something else, but I could sense that I was scraping against something massive. The fact that there was almost an entire second history under our noses that the entire town was just ignoring… the potential implications kept me awake at night, had me second-guessing every memory I had, every person I knew. My friends started avoiding me - or maybe I started avoiding them. I don’t know. To be honest, Mr. Bachman, I think you’re the person I’ve spent the most time with this past half-year, as sad as that is to admit.But at the same time, I could feel something stirring in me - a… lust. A drive, a need to keep on reading, an urge to go on and on and on. It’s difficult to describe; the closest equivalent I can think of is watching a documentary about a subject you previously knew nothing about, or even reading an extremely compelling piece of historical fiction, as ghoulish as that feels to admit. I could feel gaps in my brain being filled, I could see the images in my head becoming clearer and clearer. This must have been what they felt - the archaeologists exploring the tombs of Kings, the explorers glimpsing new lands yet to be seen, the historians uncovering hundreds of years of stories untold. Eventually, I became less concerned with why the people of Kingscreek were refusing to acknowledge these incidents and just focused on cataloguing as many as I could find for my own satisfaction. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do with all this, what my goal was anymore. I simply needed to know.I became obsessive. I started sleeping at the archive, set up a whole room dedicated to cataloguing all of these events - Dr. Knowles would have been appalled at my organisational skills. I began interviewing people, with a particular focus on survivors or witnesses to incidents, not that I was able to get much out of them. I began eating and drinking less - I don’t think I’ve had a full meal in weeks, it’s honestly a miracle I’m still lucid enough to write this. There were multiple points where I’d actually considered breaking into the police station and stealing evidence - not like they were doing much with it, if all these unsolved murders and disappearances are anything to go by. I feel bad that this was the version of me that you had to meet. I think the two of us might have gotten along better before… all of this. I’d never been in a worse state in my life, and yet, I couldn’t have been more gleeful. Every new discovery, every new connection made, every new blast of dopamine pulsing out of my brain just made me fall deeper down an intoxicating rabbit hole. Until eventually, I hit rock bottom.It was the early hours of the morning, and I was at Weaver Park, investigating some supposed living park equipment or something. The first rays of sunlight were just barely shining through the dewdrops, creating an eerily beautiful backdrop for the events that followed. I’d deliberately picked a time to avoid families and children getting in the way, and I believed the area to be all my own for the time being. I was walking down the paved road, barely paying attention to my surroundings, already theorising possible explanations and connections in my head, when I turned a corner and looked up. That’s when I saw him, sitting by himself on a bench, reading a book I think. Or was he? I can’t actually remember. He was a man, maybe in his late thirties, wearing this dark, pristine suit, his hair cropped and neat in that uniform, businessman-like way. He had pale skin, dark hair, sharp, almost sunken facial features. In the early morning sun, he struck a cold, almost spiritless figure, but at the same time, there was a strange, coiled energy in his posture, like he was waiting for something. He must have been looking at something in his hands, because as I kept walking, he lifted his head and our eyes met - his were forest green, an unexpectedly vibrant shade given his general desaturation. He didn’t blink. And then, after a moment's hesitation, he smiled. It was the first time someone had smiled at me in months, and it was shockingly welcome. It wasn’t anything special - the kind of small, slightly awkward smile you’d give a stranger you’d accidentally stepped in the way of - but after months of starving myself of human interaction, it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. I slowed down slightly and smiled back, hoping it didn’t look too off.And then the man stood up.

All of a sudden, I felt my skin crawl. A wave of fright so existential I didn’t even recognise it as fear rippled across my body. The way that man moved… it wasn’t how normal people, how normal life moved. A person moves without thinking, without intent, carried as much by his own inertia as his actual muscles. Not that man. Some deep, unevolved part of me could see each tendon stretch and pull his legs forward. I could see each conscious decision in those forest eyes, every deliberate choice to lift one foot and place it in front of the other. It was smooth. Learned. Perfect. But it was anything but natural.All at once, I felt a lifetime of horror crush my brain - I can still feel the chill tracing my spine like a cold finger. It was as if I was the center of the universe, all eyes on me. I was being watched. There was something else here, I could smell it. I was about to be killed. Like a thrashing, dying snake, I snapped my head around, convinced there was something behind me, convinced I was about to feel its fangs tear through my neck. There was nothing. In a panic, I turned back and… God. The man was even closer and… his smile. Before, it was the only thing human about him, but now… maybe it was my fear, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, but his mouth swam across his face, too perverse to call a grin but too mirthful to call anything else. He stared at me with his gums and his teeth as he approached and I suddenly found myself unable to move. Some deep, primeval emotion kept me rooted where I was. So lost was I in this overwhelming dread that I didn’t even notice he’d grabbed my hand until he started shaking it.For a single moment, it actually felt normal. His hand was cool, maybe slightly dry, but nothing an actual human hand couldn’t feel like. Maybe it was as simple as the physical stimuli, but I could almost feel myself grounding again. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe the lack of sleep and food had gotten to me. Then, all of a sudden, I felt the… what I assumed were bones in his hands “shift”, and his grip grew tighter. An awful numbness began climbing my arm, and with it my panic began rising again. On instinct, I tried to pull away, but the man’s grip just got tighter. And tighter. The numbness reached my shoulder, spreading like a horrible, crawling rash. I looked back up at the man’s face, my last nodes of sanity desperate to figure out what was happening to me. That grotesque smile was as overwhelming as ever, but when I reached his eyes, something changed. That vivid, almost fluorescent green suddenly vanished, leaving only a dull, stagnant echo - a dead swamp that nonetheless churned and bubbled with some undiscernible thought. He regarded me with this cold stare as my legs grew weaker, my arm feeling like it was about to fall off. With tears in my eyes, I forced out a whisper: “Please… let go of me…”Then everything went still. I took my first breath in what felt like hours. The numbness vanished, the pressure dipped, the man’s grip loosened slightly, almost as if in surprise. His hand even felt warmer. In fact, it was hot. Burning. I tried to move my hand, but even as the man’s hand got looser, his grasp felt more painful than ever as an invisible fire flew up my arm. The edges of my vision crawled and squirmed like there were maggots behind my eyes, the dark shadows turned a violent red, and all around me, I felt this screaming, stabbing force, like the air itself was seething. But throughout it all, the only thing I could look at was this man - if he even was a man - as his teeth slowly parted and he uttered a single, venomous word: “Shame.”The last clear memory I have of that night is feeling my jaw drop and letting loose a scream so high I could barely hear it as I immediately defecated myself. Everything after that is a blur. I can pick out points– the sound of my feet slapping concrete, lights streaking my vision like headlamps and the feeling of my lungs withering, gasping for air that never seemed to have enough oxygen. How, I don’t know, but by some miracle I managed to find my way back home. I threw open the door and slammed it shut before collapsing to the floor and weeping. In the midst of the stench and madness, I remember having one, singular, coherent thought: “I know why children cry when they are born.”It’s been two days since then. I’ve been too terrified to leave the house. I’ve barely slept, I can still see that man smiling at me every time I close my eyes. Still feel the weight of… that predatory presence everywhere. I’m terrified that the second I leave the house, it will crush my body under the pressure. But somehow, even more terrifying, so much so that it almost loops back around to being comical, is that a part of me almost wants to let it happen. Just to see what would. Just to know. I sometimes see people standing outside my house - friends, family, strangers. My father must be among them, I haven’t seen him since before that encounter. They look at me with this knowing sadness, like they think my attempts to hide from them are pathetic. Like they know everything. They know what I’ve found. They know what I saw. I know if I stay here any longer, I’m going to let them in.The second I finish writing this account, I’m calling you, Mr. Bachman, delivering it to your place and driving as far away from Kingscreek as I possibly can. There is something evil and yet irresistible in this town, and if you have any self-preservation left, I pray that you leave before you end up like one of the willful zombies pretending like nothing's wrong, or worse, a suicidal, obsessive maniac like me.Best of luck,
Vera Whitewood.”End of letter.There are a few newspaper clippings here that give a timeline of what happened next. After leaving her house, the first thing Vera did was try and burn down the Kingscreek Library, specifically the Archives. The first responders were surprisingly fast by Kingscreek standards, and the fire was contained without too much major damage to any records, but Vera’s office, where she was keeping her private research and where she started the fire, was completely destroyed. Afterwards, she sped right out of Kingscreek, though not before delivering her letter to Uncle Mark, which - based on the fact he found it lying in the grass - she probably just tossed out the window as she drove by. After that, there wasn’t a single trace anyone could find of her. An investigation was opened, but, as Vera herself could have predicted, it went nowhere. Uncle Mark actually did try and help, giving an account and a slightly redacted copy of the letter as evidence. He was even interviewed by law enforcement, though apparently in a way that was so incompetent that, quote: “It would be a waste of paper to write any of it down”. If this was his introduction to them, no wonder he doesn’t pull any punches in his notes.Vera was never seen again, but, two months later, they did find her car. The owner of a gas station about five miles from Kingscreek went into work to find it crashed right through the sliding doors of his shop. The thing was drenched - water damage across the entire interior, all the electronics were fried, the whole thing might as well have been made of rust - it was like she’d been driving along the ocean floor. Perhaps most curiously, and maybe most ironically, it was completely running on empty - not even a drop of gas left.There are a couple details that stand out to me about this - I mean, aside from all the… that. First, this encounter in the park. A strange, scary man in a suit with cropped hair, one who appears in unlikely places, only to never be seen again? It’s eerily similar to the encounter outside of Crimson Apothecaries mentioned by Martin Howard, though that encounter wasn’t as, uh, dramatic as this one. In fact, this actually takes place a few years before Howard saw him, so who knows when he, or whatever he is, arrived here. I haven’t listened back to Sal’s interview yet, but I seem to recall him having a… reaction to this guy. I think he called him “J.P.”, or something like that? Something to keep an eye out for, I guess.Secondly, this file features Rainman. A lot. The case with Tambry Corduroy that Vera mentions is actually one I read the day before last, and, while I'm not Sarah or Uncle Mark, I don’t need to be to know that Vera herself probably fell victim to it, based on the state of her car. I guess it's not an automobile enthusiast. This wasn’t filed as a “D case” though, which I don't think is weird since Rainman isn’t really the focus here. What is weird is that this case wasn’t originally an “O” file either - it was called “E-13: Supernatural Historical Paranoia”. It was only at a much later date - as in a couple months before he died - that Mark went back and refiled it under “O”.Now, I've seen references to this file type before. A few files, including a couple that I've actually read on this show, make mention of various “O” files, as well as a couple other types, but that’s for another time. Since I’d never found any, like the “personal statement” tapes, I never really bothered mentioning them, which, yeah, in retrospect, sounds pretty stupid, but back then, I was still thinking that these might just be weird horror stories, with a 50% chance that my uncle wrote them in his spare time. Now though, I actually have an O file here, and I can see even more referenced, which makes the question of where the rest are even more pressing. Not to mention the question of why this one just happened to fall into my hands? I’ve gone through these things a lot over the last couple days, let alone the weeks that I’ve already spent doing this podcast, and I haven’t seen a single file like this until now. Did it slip out of some lost compartment or something? Did Uncle Mark just forget to put it away one day? I don’t really wanna start pulling this place apart to find stuff, but… I dunno. Just another thing to keep an eye out for. Great.…Something's… hm. Something about this file has been giving me déjà-vu this whole time, and I think I finally got it. Way back, before I even started this, I found a note from Uncle Mark, warning whoever was reading to leave and never look back; I think that was actually the first trailer that I uploaded. Now, Vera's statement is obviously a lot more than that, but I can’t help but be reminded. I mean, this is basically a long warning. A warning from someone who… dug too deep, I guess, and is trying to stop people from going down the same path. I mean, clearly Uncle Mark didn't listen. If anything, it seems like it only made him push harder.But I'm not like him, or Vera. I'm not trying to find the “mysteries of Kingscreek” or whatever - I never was. I just wanna find out what happened to my uncle. That's it. Well, and Sarah. Right now, I gotta focus on getting her out. That's all that matters right now.I should get back to work. (sigh) I don’t think I’m getting anywhere by just sticking to Rainman cases - think I’m gonna need to start branching out. I’ll do another one of these if I find something worth talking about. This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off *)

103 - Bigfoot Hunter

Content Warnings: Animal Attacks, Mutilation.(*Recorder clicks on.*)DAMIEN: Hello, and welcome back to the “Bachman-cast”. That’s a good name, right? It’s not like anyone’s listening to these or anything, might as well test some fun names out here and there. Otherwise, I'm just sitting here reading these dusty old files to myself, alone in my room. At least I’m using my audio engineering degree, that’s something…Anyway, today we’ve got another story from my Uncle Mark’s case files. This one’s fun because it’s from Dr. Andrea Fisher. That’s right, we’ve got a celebrity on our hands. For those somehow not in the know, Dr. Fisher was a staple of Pacific Northwest TV back in the ‘70s. There wasn’t a household in Washington or Oregon that didn’t, every Thursday at 6 pm, tune in to watch her show. Of course, she wasn’t Andrea Fisher to those people. No, to the television audience of the 1970s, she was known by another name: Dr. Andy: Bigfoot Hunter. Every week, she’d have a new episode of her show, always with some grainy footage of her and her crew wandering through the woods at night. It was cheesy, but it had a kind of lo-fi 70s charm, and of course, inspired countless other bigfoot hunting shows that are still running today in between reruns of MAS*H and Wheel of Fortune.Of course, she’d never get the airtime today. In ‘81, she dropped the act and let slip that all of her hunts were fake in her Johnny Carson interview, all as a way to promote her new book. It may seem obvious to a post-Y2K era audience, but apparently people at the time were pretty pissed. Lotta people my parents' age will talk about it like they would an old friend who had been convicted of murder or something. The book didn’t even sell very well, so it can’t have been worth losing her career over.Anyway, the book was important for one thing. “Case A-56: Mammalian Forest Fauna”. There apparently was an incident in 1976 when Fisher’s show tour took her here, to Kingscreek. There wasn’t a lot of media coverage that Uncle Mark or I could find since everything about that show was wrapped in a billion NDAs, but I do have a police report here, as well as some other official incident documentation. However, the real crown jewel here is that, apparently, she wrote about the strange incident in her book. And that is what I have here for you today.And now, without further ado:“Chapter 14: The Real One.It’s true, most of my shoots were fake. All of them, really. It’s not hard to go to any old backwater town in Oregon, drop a fake footprint in the woods somewhere, and then point a camera at any rattled drunk who was so hammered they wouldn’t know the difference between a Sasquatch and a stray cat. It’s a racket, what can I say? And the studio paid me the big bucks for it. I had always wanted to be an actor when I was younger, and this was certainly one way to do it, if a tad more ethically ambiguous.I’ve made my peace with that, and I’ve already spent the last few hundred pages or so talking about my various exploits in faking seeing a Bigfoot. If that was the whole story, I’d still be doing the show and I’d just say that there’s nothing out there in the woods to worry about besides bears and making sure you don’t eat the wrong mushroom. But… I don’t think that’s quite true, not after what I saw in the fall of ‘76.It started like production for any other episode of the show did. I and the crew had shacked up in this little town in Washington, maybe 20 miles from the Oregon border. Kingscreek, it was called. It wasn’t as dinky as a lot of the places I had been, but my head was aching from my, shall we say, “extracurricular activities” the night before and I wanted to get some shuteye in my trailer as soon as possible.The first place you start any of these “investigations” is usually at the local bar or homeless shelter. Try to find those for whom substances have loosened their grasp on reality if you know what I mean. That’s how you get the best testimonies. We ended up at this little backwater pub by the edge of town with a flickering sign that read “The Misty Pond”.I still remember that place to the finest detail, years later. How the door creaked as I pushed it open. How, despite being so small, it seemed almost deserted. There were maybe 3 people in there total, including the bartender, a pale, lean man who didn’t look up from the glass he was polishing when we entered. The customers all silently stared at or sipped from their drinks, none of them speaking to each other at all. If it weren’t for the broken old jukebox faintly playing Temptations hits at a slightly off-kilter pitch, it would have been completely silent. I was no stranger to creepy old bars, but even I found it rather off-putting.When we entered, one person seemed to take notice. A man in the back, wearing the orange vest and baseball cap of a lumber worker, raised his head when we approached him, before quickly looking back at his drink. I figured he would be the most likely of anyone to have thought he saw something in the woods, so I started asking him the usual leading questions. What’s your name? Do you know what Bigfoot is? What’s your current blood alcohol level? Etc. He answered all our questions with terse, one-word answers, not paying us any mind. His eyes did flit to the door for a second when we asked the bigfoot question, but that was about the biggest reaction we got before I asked him if he had seen anything strange in the woods.When I said that, His whole body tensed, and he whipped his head up to look me in the eye. I’m not easily fazed by people acting strange, part of my job is fending off a mix of paparazzi and crazed stalkers, but something about the way this man looked at me stopped me dead in my tracks. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years, sure, but more importantly, there was this kind of wild, instinctual fear in his eyes, like a mouse moments away from being eaten by a house cat.He leaned in close, not blinking, and said something so quietly that it was barely a whisper.“If I could tell you anything that would make you turn around and run for the hills, I would. I would say that if you like who you are right now, you will stay away from those woods. But I know I'm not going to be able to stop you from going in there, so I have one small piece of advice that I hope you’ll heed: for the love of everything you hold dear, don’t take any food. If you don't, you might just survive.”He glanced out the door once more, and then went back to his drink.
Now, despite the explorer character I play on TV, I’m not a very curious person. I do actually have a doctorate, that much is real, but I got that more at the behest of my family rather than because I had some kind of deep desire to “explore the mysteries of the universe” or whatever it is that Carl Sagan hack yammers on about. But something about the way that man looked at the woods outside the door intrigued me. I didn’t think I would find definitive proof of bigfoot or anything, but it couldn’t hurt to maybe shoot over in that area.So that’s what we did. After we had the bar patrons sign release forms, the crew packed up our equipment and we made our way to camp out in the woods. It was a routine we were used to: Spend some time under the stars, find some bushes to shake in front of the camera, and I’d put on my best wide-eyed scared face. It was probably the most fun part of each shoot, and it always put us in a good mood. This time, however, instead of the usual jovial atmosphere, there was this layer of silent unease as we drove to our campsite. Apparently, the other crew members had found the old man’s warning just as unsettling, and it put a damper on our usually laid back mood.But unease wasn’t going to stop us from doing our job. We drove for another mile or so, parked, and started hiking up into the woods. The woods in Kingscreek weren’t like any other forest I’ve filmed in, all across the Pacific Northwest. It’s hard to describe, but most forests feel more …random? Like everything there ended up in that spot by chance. The trees happened to grow here, the mushroom spores happened to be carried in this direction by the wind, squirrels just happened to live here, and so on. The forest of Kingscreek felt more intentional. Not human-made, it wasn’t like each tree was equally trimmed and spaced out, but it did feel a lot more in sync. Like every bit of the flora and fauna breathed in time together and was aligned with the same goal. A goal that our camera crew of fake bigfoot hunters decidedly didn’t fit in. The feeling of unease only grew.We eventually found a good clearing to set up camp. Johnny, our mic operator, went off to scout the area while we put up tents. Not a minute later, he shouts for us to come and look at what he found. I was the first one to get there, and when I saw what Johnny was pointing at, I almost laughed out loud. It was a big footprint, like the ones we would fake for the show. I turned to Johnny to ask where he had gotten the mold, but the look on his face stopped me. He was pale as a sheet, and his extended finger was trembling.I looked at the footprint again, and this time, I noticed that it wasn’t exactly the same as our mold. It was …bigger, for one thing. The toes were shaped slightly differently, and the position of the foot seemed almost… warped. There were scars and indentations that made our smooth, untouched fake foot feel almost amateurish. Whoever had faked this footprint knew what they were doing.Because it was fake, there was no doubt in my mind about that. Probably some sculptor from town who knew who we were and wanted to mess with us. Little did they know they were just making our job easier. How they knew where our campsite would be… I didn’t know. But it wasn’t something to be concerned about. Worst-case scenario, if we had a stalker, we had bear spray to deal with them. That was what I kept telling myself to try to dispel the nagging feeling of dread.We filmed our segments around the footprint, got some daytime B-roll of the forest, and then hunkered down for the night. No one spoke for hours. We kept exchanging uneasy glances with each other, silently agreeing that something was definitely off about this whole town. Johnny in particular seemed pretty shaken. He was still pale, and he kept fidgeting with his microphone. I felt bad for him, he was just a kid. I still feel bad.Night fell, and the crickets began chirping. It was fall, but still early enough that the crickets and frogs were still active. That might have been the only reason I was able to fall asleep. It was a comforting, familiar noise to hear when everything else had been so… strange.I didn’t get much rest. When I did fall asleep, it was shallow and restless. I kept dreaming of the man in the bar, of the way he looked at me, how he spoke. How, for a single moment, he seemed… so afraid.A scream shattered my already uneasy slumber. I bolted upright in my tent and scrambled to grab my flashlight and bear spray as the screaming continued. On top of that horrific cry, I could hear the sounds of a struggle. A tent ripping, punches, metal cans and equipment jangling, and something breaking the branches of the trees around us. Something big enough to break them.I found the bear spray and flashlight and had just unzipped my tent entrance when I heard something I will never forget: a sickeningly wet ripping noise, like someone tearing apart a giant chicken leg. The screaming stopped, and my stomach sank.There was an eerie silence as I stood there with the tent open. I don’t know how long I stood there. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. It was almost pitch black, with the only light coming from the stars and the sliver of new moon peeking through the treetops. My heart pounded in my ears as the chill of wind from outside the tent slowly floated in. I didn’t know if it was better or worse that I couldn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, but it is a fact I remember with striking clarity.Suddenly, I heard a tree branch snap and other voices yelling. I realized that the other crew members obviously had heard the commotion and were following in my footsteps. I suddenly remembered the flashlight in my hand and, like the impulsive idiot I am, I flicked it on. Sometimes I lay awake at night and wonder if my night terrors would have been just a little bit less intense if I hadn’t turned on that damn flashlight.The first thing I saw was the eyes. You know how a cat’s eyes reflect light, making them glow? This was like that. For a split second before the flashlight fully illuminated the thing, its eyes glowed from the reflection. Then, I saw the beast in full.It didn’t look like an ape, or a bear, or even a wolf. Long, brown hair grew out of leathery, jet-black skin. It was big, maybe 10, 15 feet if it was standing upright, but right now it was hunched over, leaning on its front arms. It was skinny, but at the same time, I could see hundreds of pounds of rippling muscle. Its face was… well it was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I suppose the closest thing I could compare it to was a big cat, like a tiger, but even that doesn’t do justice to how terrifying it was. Rows and rows of teeth glistened with blood, which dripped from its mouth all the way down its chest. And through it all, those orange, glowing slit pupil eyes stared at me, hungrily. Drool dripped from its mouth. It was salivating. I could literally see it contemplating how good I would taste.There’s not a lot I remember after that. The rest of the crew scared it off somehow while I stood there frozen in terror. Apparently, one of them had packed a pistol and one shot in the air was all it took.It killed Johnny. He was the one whose scream had woken us up, but we were too late for him. Apparently, he had brought some beef jerky from the van with him, and that was enough to lead the thing right to us.There was a whole swirl of police reports and missing persons and animal attacks, but none of that ever really got mainstream attention because my name was kept out of it. NDAs and all that. The crew tried to move past it and pretend it never happened, but I don’t think I was ever able to do a shoot quite the same after that. I was always checking over my shoulder, making sure we didn’t pack too much food, and frankly being a bit of a jumpy mess.Maybe that's why I wanted to publish this book. To end this all, and put this whole thing behind me. Perhaps then I’ll be able to sleep at night without those glowing eyes staring at me.”End account.I’m starting to think that I might not be approaching these stories in the most… respectful light. Something about this… I don’t know
Anyway, Andrea Fisher’s book didn’t sell very well. It was a bigger news story that she was faking the shows altogether, a fact she leaked months before the book’s release, and the rage surrounding that didn’t translate to book purchases, much to the dismay of the bookstores who ordered a ton of copies in anticipation of the demand. She didn’t really have a career after that, so it’s unclear if she ever got her closure or not.As for Dr. Fisher’s story, there are not many specific details to go off of. The Misty Pond is real, and I’ve actually been there myself. I think it gets referenced in another one of Uncle Mark’s files later, but I’ve only skimmed that one. There are some heavily redacted police reports around the death of 22-year-old John Talbot, in September of 1976. Not a lot of details are available, but the cause of death is listed as “animal attack.” I’m not sure what animals around here could entirely remove someone’s ribcage, but I suppose I’m not an expert. It does correlate with a few pet disappearances around the area within a 3 month period, and one other human death by animal attack 2 weeks prior. But at the end of September, it suddenly stops. And no other such incidents occur again.

Of all the things Dr Fisher said in her statement, I can’t stop thinking about what she said about the eyes. About how there was a split second of anticipation where she could see the thing looking at her before she knew it was there. The feeling that must conjure, like a split second of terror at being perceived before you know what’s seeing you. It’s a feeling that… for some reason, I feel like I’ve felt recently. Especially as I look at more of these files.I don’t know. Maybe these are just getting to me. In any case, I should continue reading. Maybe there's something more I can figure out. Like I said before, it's not like I’ve got anything better to do.This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off.*)

102 - Echo's Blessing

Content Warnings: Implied Emotional Abuse, Starvation, Loss of Bodily Autonomy, Forced Weight Loss, Body Horror(*Recorder clicks on.*)DAMIEN: Hey everyone! Welcome back to the pod. I’m your host, Damien Bachman, and today we’ve got something a little less straightforward. Last time I just read one of my uncle’s journal entries, but this time this file has got a bunch of different pieces. There’s a lawsuit filing which includes a witness statement, a coroner’s report, and a whole bunch of other stuff. So I’m just going to try to read the good stuff here as best I can. I do a lotta work for you guys, reading documents aloud to a microphone is hard work.Anyway, all of these are filed under the label “Case 34-A: Paranormal Ingestion Blockage”. These titles just keep getting better. This is a civil suit for the case of Meyer v Crimson Apothecaries, and the complaint reads as follows:“January 14th, 1984
To Whom It May Concern,I am contacting you on behalf of my client, the family of one Margaret “Peggy” Meyer. They allege that you and your product are responsible for the untimely demise of Ms Meyer, and are suing for customer endangerment, wrongful death, and emotional damages.Attached is an account from Jonathan Meyer, Margaret’s father, of the weeks before her demise, as well as testimonials from others close to the situation corroborating the story, detailed descriptions of your business, and the coroner’s report following Ms. Meyer’s autopsy.The standard rate for a wrongful death settlement of this nature is anywhere from 500 thousand dollars to a million, but my clients are willing to accept a settlement of 200 thousand on the condition that you pay their medical debts and close your business for good. If you do not accept these terms, I will be taking you to court.Contact me at the number at the bottom of this letter if you have any inquiries. I’ll be in touch.Sincerely,
Marvin Hickman Esq., Attorney at Law”And here is the account of Jonathan Meyer:“I want to start by saying that I am not a vengeful man. I’ve always said that holding a grudge is what tears apart lives and that if everyone sought revenge on everyone who had ever wronged them, our society would collapse. Forgiveness is the glue that we use to hold together relationships. But if what I believe is true, if who I think is responsible for my daughter’s death is responsible, then no force on this earth can stop me from seeking my revenge.Every year, my daughter’s high school puts on a holiday pageant for the elementary school across the way. It’s a cute tradition and one that brings the community together.
Peggy was never the most social butterfly out there, but whenever her older siblings had participated in the pageant, they had always come out with at least a few more friends. Theatre seems to be one of the best extracurriculars for friendships, so when auditions rolled around in October, I encouraged Peggy to try out. I figured that, at worst, she’d be an extra or a background character, and even then she could still make friends. I had no idea what was coming.Turns out, Peggy is– was something of an acting prodigy. Or at least, she went to auditions expecting a minor role at best and came away with the lead– Mary, I think. Or Mrs. Claus, I couldn’t quite tell the plot. Either way, I was incredibly proud of her and told her so. I said to her that she would be the face of the show, of the school, of our family, and that I had confidence she would live up to it. She didn’t seem super enthused by the idea, but at the time, I just attributed it to nerves.Her mother–my wife, Violet– was less enthusiastic. She told me later that she had heard bad things about the theatre department from our older children. Something about how it puts girls under a lot of… pressure.Peggy started acting off after that. Not in any kind of paranormal way or anything, but more just.. Distant. She had always been a voracious eater before, but after a few practices for the pageant, she started eating less and less. She would spend hours in the bathroom in the morning before school, primping and preening at a level she never had before. And she seemed to wear a lot of makeup, something I hadn’t ever seen her do.I was starting to worry about her, but I also knew that young women often go through phases about their… image. My wife said as much, and I had seen it in my other daughter. So I tried not to pry. Still, Peggy concerned me, and I decided to make a point to assure her that she could talk to me if anything was bothering her.After I told her this, we sat in silence for a moment. She seemed… nervous. She opened her mouth a few times as if to say something, but no words came out. Finally, she told me that she had been hoping I could help her with something. She said that she was having trouble “fitting the part” for the pageant, but that she had found someone who could help her. She just needed to borrow $50. She assured me that she would pay me back as soon as she could, she just needed this desperately.I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this– I didn’t quite understand how $50 would help her in the pageant, but she seemed so earnest that I couldn’t refuse. You have to understand, she was my daughter. I would have done anything for her. I still will.The following evening, she handed me a handwritten note. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a receipt from a seller by the name of Crimson Apothecaries, for a product called Echo’s Blessing. I asked Peggy what it was, and she just gave me a knowing smile. “Something to help me fit”, she said. I should have pressed her further, but I didn’t. I was so stupid.After that day, Peggy seemed to brighten up slightly. She was still spending hours in front of the mirror every morning, but she started eating again. In fact, she started eating a LOT, almost obsessively. As the days started to stretch on further, it seemed like she was eating more and more, much more than she ever did before. Once, while she was piling on her third helping of chicken and pasta, one of her brothers joked that she was going to get fat. The look she gave him made his face go white, and it scared even me. It was angry, but what’s more, it was scared. Desperate. Then the moment passed, and we continued eating like nothing happened.Peggy eventually stopped gorging herself on food, but her behavior became odd in other ways. She became distant, irritable, and slow. She would sleep all the time, barely making time for school and the pageant. She seemed to always be shivering, and she would be wearing more and more makeup. And strangest of all, she seemed to pile herself in layers and layers of clothing. 3 sweaters became standard for her.She stopped coming to meals. I would barely ever see her, and when I did, she acted erratic and paranoid. She was always deathly pale, and her face seemed thinner and thinner. It got to the point that she would scare me and other family members because she looked so sickly. Still, she insisted that she was fine. I don’t think any of us believed her, but we weren’t sure.It wasn’t long before something terrible happened. Peggy was at practice one day in mid-December, just a week or two before the pageant. Apparently, she was participating in a fairly routine dance recital when she… collapsed. I don’t know if she fainted, or if her muscles gave out, or if she just… fell, but she did not get back up. I received a call from the school that she had been taken to the hospital immediately. Their standard procedure was to simply keep students in the nurse's office, but when they saw her arms… they decided it was an emergency.I called out of work as soon as I could and went to see my daughter. When I got there, I couldn’t suppress my gasp of terror. It was the first time I had seen her without her three layers of sweaters, and I now saw why she wore them. She was like a skeleton, she was so thin. Bones jutting out, pressing against the skin. Her hair was in matted clumps, and she was so weak she could barely keep her eyes open.Her doctors took me aside and told me that she was suffering from extreme malnutrition. They asked me if she had any kind of preexisting conditions if my family had a history of diabetes, and if there was any chance she was allergic to anything. I told them no to all of that and simply said I had seen her eating fairly regularly until a couple of weeks before. At this, the doctors gave each other a wary look. I asked what was wrong.One doctor, a woman in her forties, sat in front of me and looked me in the eye. She told me that the only medical explanation for Peggy’s condition was that she had been starving, without food, for at least a month. Moreover… she wasn’t taking to any of the usual emergency treatments. Normally, if someone was brought in with this level of malnutrition, they would try to infuse nutrients manually, through feeding tubes or even just injecting it right into their bloodstreams. But with Peggy, they couldn’t seem to get it to work. My daughter was starving to death, and they could do nothing.It wasn’t long before she was gone. I felt every torturous minute of waiting crawl by, but she was a few days away from it even before we rushed her to the hospital. After the pronouncement. I took a taxi home. I stumbled through the front door of my home, exhausted from days without sleep. As I took my jacket off, a piece of paper fell out of one of the pockets. I picked it up and recognized it as the receipt Peggy had given me. For “Echo’s Blessing”, from the seller Crimson Apothecaries. Almost exactly around the time this trouble started.I know that I’m being reckless. I know that I might be jumping to conclusions. Heck, I’ve not gotten a full 8 hours of sleep in 2 weeks. But what happened to my daughter wasn’t normal. If Crimson Apothecaries did something, sold something to Peggy that… that changed her, then they deserve to have the book thrown at them. And that’s what I’m paying for. So that the one thing that she won’t be starved of is justice.”End of account. That was… Yeah.Um… All of the testimonials in this file pretty much say the same thing, though none are as in-depth. Looking more into the aftermath it’s hard to say whether or not Mr. Meyer actually got his justice. There’s the lawsuit filing, but there's no record of whether or not a settlement was reached or if they went to court. Apparently, it was pretty hard to locate Crimson Apothecaries, and it’s unclear whether there was an actual brick-and-mortar store anywhere in town. There was a record that the pageant still happened, despite losing the leading actress so close to the performance. There’s an old program included here that lists an understudy. Very in bad taste, if you ask me.Uncle Mark didn’t have a lot of follow-up notes for this one. The only thing that seems to be his own addition is the underlining of the name “Crimson Apothecaries” in red pen. Maybe this business was something he was looking into? Hard to tell. I’ll have to go through his other files to see what’s there.One last thing. Margaret Meyer was pronounced dead on December 19th, 1983. The cause of death was listed as the flu, though it says that her weakened condition caused complications. The autopsy report is… very in-depth, much more than I was expecting. There isn’t a lot to note there out of the ordinary, except for the contents of her digestive system. Her stomach, believe it or not, was full. It was stuffed, even with food. All of it had been chewed obviously, but that disguised the fact that– despite being sometimes weeks old, absolutely none of it had been digested. Not even a little bit.This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off.*)

101 - Roadkill

Content Warnings: Animal Death, Animal Body Horror(*Recorder clicks on.*)DAMIEN:
Right, so. Welcome to, uh… “unnamed podcast”, episode 1. Yeah, sure. I’m Damien Bachman, and this is me reading through my uncle’s old stuff.That’s not a good intro. Maybe I should start with some background? My uncle Mark got his master's degree in Parapsychology back in the ‘90s and then moved out here with my aunt. They lived here for, I wanna say, 15 years before he died, (a stroke or something, I never got the details). According to my aunt, when he wasn’t with her, his time would either be spent wandering around the woods, or up here, in his study. Once he died, she never touched this room. Said it… wasn’t her place.Two years go by, blah blah blah, Enter me. Since moving here with her, I’ve had a lot of… time on my hands, and I’ve been spending a lot of that time up in my uncle’s old study, going through his old files and things. There’s a lot of real wacky stuff here, I don’t know if he was actually doing real research up here or if he was just into writing science-themed horror fiction. Anyway, since he bit it, it’s just all been gathering dust up here, so I figured why not catalog it into a fun little podcast thing? Preserve his legacy or whatever. It could be fun.The file I thought I’d start with is really interesting. A lot of these are collections of other people’s eyewitness accounts, but this one is almost entirely my uncle. Its label says “Case A-95: Serial Roadside Phenomena.” A real eye-catching title, eh? Well, let’s see what you think of the actual story.Ahem.“October 24th, 1997:I’ve been taking a lot of walks as of late.Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve always found that taking a walk is the easiest way to clear my head. And recently, I’ve had a lot on my mind, so I’ve needed to clear it a lot, so to speak. It also helps that this is not an unpleasant town to walk through. The fall air has a pleasant chill, and the neighborhood is perfectly picturesque. It’s like walking through a mid-century fall-themed postcard.It’s not just the houses I walk past, though. There’s a road I like to walk down– Gossamer Lane– that cuts through the woods. It’s not very long, probably about 100 feet or so, but it’s enough that when you’re in that wooded road section, you feel like you’re in another world. The trees sway back and forth from the breeze, and the whispers of the leaves drown out any sounds from civilization. It’s very peaceful. Or, at least, it used to be.One other important detail to note is that this forest is almost entirely oak. Northern Red Oak, specifically. According to my research into the town’s history, this is not accidental. The town’s founder, Emmanuel Sorenson, was a bit of an amateur arborist, and purposefully seeded the forest with Red Oak to create some kind of… consistent pattern. This fact always stuck out to me– an interesting quirk of the town’s founder is an easy conversation starter or icebreaker around here– so it struck me as odd that one of the trees by the patch of road was birch. A very unsubtle birch, too. The white bark stood out like a sore thumb among the dark red sea of the forest. I could never figure out what species of birch it was, either. It didn’t seem immediately distressing or harmful, though, so I filed it away as a potential oddity to explore later.
Now though, something has been happening. Something… interesting.
It started about 3 days ago. I was walking down the wooded road section, lost in my thoughts as usual when I saw something on the road. Something that wasn’t moving. I’m no stranger to seeing roadkill. It’s an unfortunate truth about our car-dependent society that a certain number of animals will be killed by collisions with or being run over by cars. And that’s especially prevalent when the road is by a forest, where animals tend to hang out. But it’s still upsetting.When I got there, I kneeled down to examine the body. it was a rabbit. I won’t go into too much detail, but it was safe to say it was definitely dead. Poor little thing. It reminded me of the rabbits I would see outside my window when I was a boy. They always seemed terrified of whatever was lurking around the corner, even if they were all alone.Still, I couldn’t sit there looking at a rabbit corpse all day long. I made a mental note to come back with a shovel later and was just about to leave when I looked up at the trees. I stopped. The rabbit was right in front of the singular birch tree. It was exact, too, not like it was in the general area. No, it was perfectly aligned with the trunk of the tree.This wasn’t enough for me to be scared, or anything. Coincidences like this happen all the time, they’re usually not a sign of something paranormal. All this would really mean would be that it would be really easy for me to find the rabbit when I came back with the shovel. But even so, it was somewhat… disquieting.Afterward, I walked back home, greeted my wife, and then immediately took the shovel and went back out. The image of the rabbit lying on the road was still fresh in my mind, and I didn’t want to put this off.The walk back seemed quieter, somehow. It was later in the day, sure, but we’re still in fall, and there should have been at least some frog croaking or crickets chirping or even birdsong. But yet, it was eerily silent. I wouldn’t have admitted it then, but I was still a little spooked by the tree and corpse encounter, so this wasn’t helping ease my mood.When I finally got to the spot again, the sun was starting to set. It was hard to see in the forest, but I could still see the bright white bark of the birch in the fading light. I set my shovel against a tree, pulled out my flashlight, shook it, and turned its beam toward the body.Or at least, where the body had been. It was gone now.
This puzzled me. It was possible that it had been picked up by a scavenging coyote or something similar, but usually, they didn’t come this close to the road. It was just another strange occurrence in this whole event. I walked home, still uneasy about the whole situation, but not quite thinking that anything paranormal was afoot.By the next afternoon, I had almost completely forgotten about the incident, and I went on my walk as usual. The day was perfectly pleasant, once again. The slight fall chill made for an enjoyable atmosphere, and I noticed there were some more Halloween decorations up around the houses. It was all very effective in luring me into a false sense of security.As I reached the wooded road, the memory of the previous night’s encounter started to come back. It didn’t really impact my mood, but it did make me wrinkle my nose at the thought of the dead rabbit. But nothing too unnerving. At least, not until I looked up ahead, and stopped dead in my tracks.There was a motionless pile on the side of the road. Another body. I slowly moved up to get a closer look. This time, it was a raccoon. It was lying limply on the asphalt, its limbs twisted and stretched into horrible positions. I noticed something else that stuck with me, but I didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t seem to be at all crushed. Almost like it had been hit, but not run over. At least, I thought it had been hit. How else could you explain the twisting?A twig snapped. I jerked my head up, scanning for the source of the noise. Looking back, it couldn’t have been something other than a squirrel or another rabbit, but I was starting to get on edge. And that wasn’t helped by what I did see. The birch tree. Once again, the raccoon’s corpse was laid out directly in front of it. Out of all the other trees, in the last 24 hours, I had seen two animal corpses in front of this one birch. Like clockwork.This couldn’t have been a coincidence. My mind started racing with all the possibilities, but one thing was clear: there was something to be studied here.I raced back to my house. I needed equipment, and I knew that time was of the essence. But when I made it back to the wooded road, the corpse was once again gone. It had been less than 20 minutes.I knew now that I had to be proactive. The next day– yesterday– I set out on my walk an hour earlier than usual, and took my equipment straight to the wooded road. This time, there was no corpse in front of the birch tree. So, I was early. I started setting up measuring equipment: Cameras, thermometers, barometers, whatever data I could gather. Paranormal events are unpredictable, after all.Just as I was putting the finishing touches in place, I heard leaves crunching. When I looked up, I saw a doe, standing next to the birch tree. It was looking directly at me. I’ve seen deer before, and usually, they look at you. Trying to see if you’re a threat and all. So, I stayed still and tried to make myself as nonthreatening as possible.The doe didn’t move. I looked into its eyes and something seemed… wrong. It was looking at me, but not in the cautious, wary way most deer did. No, this one didn’t even seem afraid. And something else about its gaze, the way its eyes locked on me. There was a kind of… hunger in its eyes. It made my blood run cold.We both stood still for a very long time, a kind of unspoken staring contest. Every time I thought to move, something about the Doe’s unblinking gaze stopped me. An image popped into my mind of the way a cat looked at a mouse, moments before pouncing. Logically, I had no reason to be afraid of the doe, it couldn’t have weighed more than 200 pounds, and they aren’t exactly known for their predatory behavior. But still, the image lingered.After what seemed like ages, the doe suddenly started moving. Small at first, like swaying from side to side, but it very quickly grew into something more erratic. It was pacing, legs jumping around, muscles spasming. It started banging its head against the trees, very forcefully too. Almost like it was trying to cave its own skull in.The most unsettling thing was how silent this all was. The doe wasn’t screeching or moaning, its mouth was just open as its tongue convulsed and its jaw jerked around. It managed to gain some kind of balance, and as it did, it looked at me one last time. But it wasn’t that hungry stare, no. It was more like it was pleading, begging for help.I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t know what I could do, but even if I did, I didn’t have time to react. Right after it looked at me that last time, horrible cracking noises rang out as its limbs violently twisted and snapped. It was all I could do not to yell or vomit as the doe’s mouth stretched in a silent scream.It all reached a crescendo with something that… I can’t describe as an implosion or an explosion, because that would imply inward or outward motion. It was as violent as an explosion, but nothing actually exploded. The doe suddenly just… wasn’t a doe anymore.It was over quickly. The snapping stopped almost as suddenly as it started, and the doe collapsed in a pile on the road. Right underneath the birch tree.I don’t remember a lot after that. I do know that after I could move again, I sprinted back to my house. When I came back an hour later to retrieve my equipment, the body was, as you probably guessed, gone. None of my equipment was missing, though, so I took it home and then tried my hardest to sleep.By this morning, the whole thing seemed distant. Almost like a bad dream. But once I reviewed the footage the cameras had caught, it all came flooding back. I saw the doe’s episode replay in the same agonizing detail, and I saw it collapse in exactly the same way. But now, I realized, the cameras must have caught what happened to the doe after I ran off. So I started to watch.During the hour or so after I left, the body lay motionless. Nothing peculiar happened for 30-odd minutes, which just meant I spent 30 minutes staring at the mangled doe. After that though, the footage starts to crackle and glitch, and when it finishes, the body is gone.I’ve gone through the footage countless times, and I’ve only been able to get a few frames that aren’t completely distorted. And out of all of them, there’s only one where you can see the doe’s carcass. And in that one frame, there’s something… grabbing it. Something black, and unnatural. Something that extended itself out of that singular birch tree.I’ll investigate this later. For now, I need to rest. Try to make it all make sense.”And yeah, that’s where it ends. Spooky stuff, right?There are some other notes attached here. Apparently, Uncle Mark didn’t find any more animal carcasses under the birch tree after the encounter with the doe. No other investigation could find anything, so he considered it a dead end.I did a little bit of digging myself, now that I live in the modern era with the vast knowledge of the internet at my fingertips. Looking into stuff that makes deer act weird, I found a webpage about this thing called Chronic Wasting Disease. Essentially it’s a kind of sickness where once a deer gets it, after about a year or two it starts to waste away. It doesn’t eat, or socialize with other deer, stops being afraid of humans, and its behavior generally gets more and more erratic until it just… dies. There’s no cure. And looking up the results is not for the faint of heart.Fortunately, though, it doesn’t seem to be able to be caught by humans. Admittedly, it doesn’t explain everything in this story, but there is precedence for weird stuff with animals in non-paranormal contexts. Other questions remain. What about the other animals? Why did they all die in the same spot? And what’s the deal with the birch tree? I might want to see if that tree is still around, actually. It’s definitely within walking distance, and I’ve started hearing rumors of dead bobcats showing up on the wooded section of Gossamer Lane…This is Damien Bachman, signing off.(*Recorder clicks off.*)