A (0:00)

Here's a quick podcast for all you true crime fans. The Case of the Missing Reese's. It was me at the store with my mouth Motive. They're Reese's. What was I gonna do?

B (0:14)

Stop myself?

A (0:16)

Tune in next time to see if I do it again. Spoiler I will. Wow, that had everything.

B (0:24)

Reese's.

A (0:25)

Suspense Reese's.

C (0:30)

You'll float too. From the director of it comes a horrifying news story set in 1960s Derry, Maine that explores the origins of Pennywise the Clown. Get ready to go back to where it all began. The new HBO original series, welcome to Derry premieres Sunday 9pm on HBO. Max.

B (1:05)

Hi listeners.

C (1:06)

I have a story I want to tell you.

B (1:10)

There was this doctor over at St. Augury's who had killed his patients. Oh yes, it was Magnus. Aren't you afraid the light take might get you? I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. That adrenaline. I want more of it. Snapped. Totally lost it.

D (1:28)

He had no idea what was on those tapes.

B (1:32)

It was like a song. Ol and the Outcast so gather around, gather round.

C (1:40)

Then listen.

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Listen.

C (1:43)

Close.

B (2:09)

We weren't looking for anything really. Back in those days it was about pride. How fast you could travel down Sycamore Avenue on your six speed while the world whistled around you, flapping of an old Randy Johnson rookie card pinned to your spokes as the last rays of sunlight dripped away. It was catching fireflies, chasing bullfrogs and who could stay up the longest. There was no purpose past burning the hours of boredom. And that's what made the whole situation that much stranger. The fact that we were the ones to find it. We were out pedaling that day because Bobby was livid about something or other. That's just how he was. He woke up one morning at his grandparents place and just never left. A sleepover turned into a lifetime. His mom had always been flaky to the point of utter neglect. And then at some point I guess she had had enough after that. And understandably so. The kid had developed a paper thin trigger. It was just one of those days. And Jenny and I were there trying to help him along. We took our usual path, stopping here and there. Bobby had to brandish his old pocket knife to leave his mark on the neighborhood like some wild dog. Jenny collected rocks like trophies and her satchel. I stopped at Speedy's to reload on sweets. It had been the perfect summer day by our standards, apart from Bobby's mood. He barely spoke as sweat dripped from his matted curls down his beet red sun kissed face. I asked him what was wrong, but all I got was a dismissive nod of the head to keep riding forward. But it was getting late, close to curfew. In typical Bobby fashion, he rolled his eyes and begged us to at least stop at the ravine to skip a few rocks before calling it a night, capping the day off. Right, he said. Jenny and I reluctantly agreed, but we'd have to hurry. Already the trees were trading their lush green for dark silhouettes, their branches clawing at the last light, the asphalt fell away to a rugged extension of gravel and dirt as the last hints of suburbia disappeared with it. We weaved along as best we could, avoiding sunken chunks of earth and the exposed roots woven into the hills. At some point Jenny's channel chain bolted, its sprocket, coating our hands in grease and grime. We helped pop it back onto its track, but this took time. She gave Bobby a pleading look, but his expression only hardened. We weren't going home, he said. Not yet. Only once we reached the turnoff did the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. We skidded our bikes to the dirt and proceeded into the trees. The ravine was located up a narrow strip of trail, a conglomerate of large, jagged rocks that made it impossible to ride on. As we zigzagged up the hill, my lungs began to burn. Too many Happy Meals and TV dinner trays had piled up atop of each other. Some ways up the trail, Bobby suddenly clutched his bad ear, his face bunched in knots. He crouched down, a quiet groan escaping his chest. We asked him what was up, but he wouldn't say. With gritted teeth, he forced himself to his feet and continued the climb, this time away from our intended path. Not knowing any better, Jenny and I followed. Finally we landed upon a small level clearing, probably a few hundred feet from the ravine. Bobby circled the spot, brow furrowed, hand still cupped to his ear. The field was just big enough to fit a large tent and maybe a fire pit, although there was no evidence of any of that, just an abrupt absence of trees and a grassy lawn. Jenny placed her hand on one of the neighboring pines, and my eyes caught a strange pattern on the bark. They were singed. Black ruffled waves spun around the trees around the perimeter of the glade, almost like someone had taken a flamethrower and scorched it clean. A rush of nerves overtook me as Bobby continued to examine the area, a feeling that just wouldn't settle. Just then he fell to the ground. Bobby planted the side of his face right up to the soil. An ant or two crawled up his cheek. Something had gotten into him. Something primal, relentless. We had to yank him to his feet and even then he put up a fight. He yelled for us to stop, to wait. But daylight was fading fast and we risked losing our way home. Eventually we forced him along, back to the trail and then to our bikes. He glanced behind us sporadically with a gaze that was strangely confused. We rode back, the street lights and porch lights warning of the hour as civilization came into view. Bobby told us what was wrong. He had heard something in the dirt, though he couldn't say what. Whatever it was drew him in. We vowed to return the next morning to investigate, but due to our tardiness, my parents were to ground me for a week. I was to be afforded few luxuries during this period. A stack of books in my bedroom and if my father was manning the tv, some mid afternoon history documentaries. I could barely distract from my disappointment. I moped around the house until evening. When the phone finally rang, Jenny's voice sounded scattered, anxious. She told me Bobby had been acting strange that day. Apparently they had been digging all day. Bobby had strapped Jenny's dad's old spade to his backpack and they returned to the clearing, proceeding to dig and dig until Jenny got tired and downright refused. Bobby was convinced that there was humming, some kind of black static that he couldn't leave alone. I figured his hearing aids were just on the fritz, some sort of short circuit messing with the frequency or something. Bobby had always had health problems, complications, as my folks would say. I always felt bad, like it was another reason his mother had left. His ears were one such issue, the left one particularly bad. His hearing aids had been donated and they weren't exactly state of the art technology. They looked more like faded dentures than a medical device. But technology malfunction or not, I guess Bobby just couldn't ignore the noise. The steady whirr was driving him insane. And somewhere in that hole was the source. At least that's what he claimed. The forest was where it started and it was louder near that field. But they dug and dug to no avail. There was nothing. Still, Bobby wouldn't stop until it stopped. I felt bad. I was useless to their plight. Frustration bubbled up inside me as I was reminded of my sentencing. 24 hour lockdown, maximum security. My high school snot nosed sister would be waiting for any opportunity to snitch. It was torture not being there to help my friends. I wished Jenny good night and stared off at the ceiling until drowsiness overtook me. By the weekend I'd had Enough. Bobby had been begging for help with this place he now called Deadwood, and I couldn't spend another moment cooped up and bored. If prisoners could escape their penitentiaries, I could avoid detection for the evening. I let my friends know about my intentions, with much trepidation from both of them. I understood it was a big risk, one they didn't have to take. After some debate, we planned to meet up at Jenny's place. Infantry weapons can do little against them. The armored battalions rolled into the field. I waited until the purr of the TV cut off. I stuffed pillows under my blankets, packed a flashlight in my bag, and then tiptoed into the hallway. The house was off its guard. Fumbling with my keys, I escaped through the back door. I gathered my bike, stashed under the porch and strapped on my helmet. I took one last glance back home, quiet and lightless, before riding off into the night. When I arrived, Jenny was shivering in her downcoat. Bobby gave me a high five, a weak grin upon his face. He assured me everything was fine, but something felt off about him, like he was there but really wasn't. Jenny wore a thin smile of her own, but I could tell she just wanted it to be over. Her ponytail appeared rushed, the rims of her eyes strained red. It was this blind childhood allegiance, something that at that age you're too young to appreciate. A bond built on bickering and playful jabs. A union to fight the lonely summer and ward off playground threats. Bobby needed us, and we needed each other. A certain electricity buzzed in the air. Sparks of danger, strokes of mischief. Anything past curfew made it exponentially scarier, but it was exhilarating all the same. We tried our best to keep to the shadows. The last thing we needed was for an adult to intervene. Since the roads were quiet and we knew exactly where to go, we made it to the trail in record time. We dropped off our bikes and climbed. It was a cloudless, blustery evening, the stars like speckles of diamonds. Darkness warped our surroundings. Our flashlights couldn't source out any of the chittering or rustling of leaves, and the unknown had left us skittish. Our only real landmark, the path to the ravine, seemed to elude us, and the feeling that we would never make it began to spoil our confidence. Bobby led us wandering eerily in a concentrated march before we found it. My eyes widened, nearly dropping my light. The hole Bobby had dug now resembled a small pit. It filled the entire vacant space, maybe 7ft wide and deep. Bobby had tied a rope to one of the neighboring trees to lower himself in, like a coffin at a funeral. The thought made me shiver. This must have taken him a long time. How many hours did he spend out here? His hand cupped his bad ear again, and he winced. His eyes narrowed, surveying the area. To be this desperate, this determined. I felt terrible for him. Just how bad was this mysterious, relentless noise? Without another word, he grabbed hold of the rope and began to climb down. Once grounded, he gestured for me to toss the shovel. He went to work, grunting as layer by layer of soil was tossed into the air. Jenny stared down with a look of concern while I beamed my flashlight in between trees. Once he was out of breath, Bobby wriggled up the rope. His hair was caked in clumps of mud, his face ashy, like a coal miner who just came up for air. I patted his back as we swapped spots. We took turns into the night until our shoulders burned and backs ached. We coughed and heaved and yawned as the futility of the exercise began to wear on us. What were we even looking for? Would we even know when to stop? Soil rained down in waves, and my heart began to race when I heard something. The low whir was like a drum, a rhythmic pounding from inside of a womb. It started faint, but as the night wore on, it began to build. I questioned whether exhaustion had distorted my senses. The sounds of the forest had heightened our dreadful and now every twig, every branch in the wind croaked with a voice that was wholly alien. Of course I was hearing things, but Jenny's face had run pale. She heard it, too. Our reactions seemed to bolster Bobby's efforts. He stabbed the shovel deeper and deeper. Clinks echoed throughout the night. Jenny and I patrolled the perimeter, Jenny acting as a light source, illuminating the pit and all that was inside, and me as guard, with eyes on the forest. The black stains around the neighboring pines, the deadwood, made something in my stomach churn. We stopped when sparks began to fly. At first Bobby thought he hit a large rock. The sound was different, though. He worked his leverage trying to shift the object of the place. Then, as he crashed the shovel into its side, rubble began to clear and what looked like a grooved metal plate started to emerge. Jenny and I called down, asking if he needed help. No reply. He pummeled the ground with heavy strikes, fixated and exhaling with exasperated cries. There were streaks of tears running down his face, and that's when I really began to panic. I had never seen him cry before. But then, as the dirt began to clear A trigger set off inside of me. I stared at the object Bobby had uncovered under the glaring flashlight. I realized what it was from all those war documentaries. Bobby ignored my pleas to stop, to come back up. Then the humming began to radiate through the earth. I could feel every thrum travel through my bones, in my teeth. Jenny screamed his name. He dropped the shovel, hunching down. The humming continued to roar. The ground began to shake. Jenny bellowed from the top of the hole, her hands on the dangling rope. But it was all too late. I instinctively held her back as she wriggled and snapped, snarled and tried to push me off. Bobby's hand danced around the center of the plate. Our flashlights trembled across the pool of unforgiving black. My ears rattled and swelled under the merciless drum, my head about to burst. Flashes of Bobby, his hands scraping dirt, something rising. And then a pure, unfiltered pillar of light split the sky in half. It was sunlight on polished chrome, brilliant and bright as the essence of stars. But there was no joy behind it. The beam began to engulf him and all I could make out was his silhouette, his back to us as he knelt down. It was quicksand, sweeping and relentless, and like the grip of a black hole, it pulled the boy in. He cried out. Words burned forever in my mind. Then, all at once, the streak of white fire consumed the myself and flew out in a flash. I woke up surrounded by curtains, bleary eyed under fluorescent lights. Every muscle ached. My skin burned. But most of all was the pounding in my head, the ringing in my ears. The doctors believed I had a concussion. My body was covered in first degree burns. They told me I was lucky to be alive. I'm sure you can imagine the difficult conversations being found next to a makeshift grave in the middle of the woods. This further compounded by the absurdity of our story and the fact that Bobby was missing. The base of the hole had been torched by the blast. Most of the area had been incinerated, making it impossible to clearly identify a source. Nothing, not Bobby or any scrap of metal, was found within that glade. It was hit with the kind of heat that took everything with. Left a lot of questions unanswered, like how did we survive? The pragmatic working theory was that someone had planted a bomb. A flimsy old tank, mine or IED or something. But they could never explain who or why it had been planted or buried so deep or in the middle of the woods where no one would find. And they sure as hell couldn't Explain our depiction of events. Jenny was in much of the same state as me, hurt and hurting. I visited her once or twice once she regained consciousness, but it was too tragic to see her in that state when the scars were that visible. After what happened, she bounced around schools. It's especially hard when you're under that kind of spotlight. No matter how much you try to move on or restart, there's always someone who's heard something, who has nothing to do with you or your life, but somehow knows the worst day you've ever lived. And then rumor spreads. I don't blame Jenny for moving away, but I blame myself. Although she wouldn't say it, I knew she never forgave me for holding her back, for leaving Bobby in that pit. In the end, we just lost touch. Now all I had was our childhood memories. I still thought about him Some nights in my dreams, I could damn well hear his voice. It still struck me as odd that Jenny and I could somehow survive while not a single trace or speck of ash was ever found of Bobby. Nearly three decades had passed. I was forced back home from my mother's funeral. I managed to stay away as long as I could, but nostalgia drew me in. It didn't look the same. All of the charred trees had been chopped down, inspected and collected as evidence. I presumed the hole had been filled and now new undergrowth assumed the space. But still I knew this was the spot. Deadwood. As I approached, the ringing in my ears intensified with a deadly rhythm. It was the same ringing I had been hearing for years after the incident. I hear it along certain street corners, playgrounds, alleyways, beaches, graveyards. The sensation always gripped me with terror. What was that humming, pulsing, banging? Were there more places like Deadwood? The burns on my body began to flare up with an intense itch. The charred black scars seethed. My fingers ran along the bumps of bark SAP clinging to my fingertips as I caught the marks carved crudely into one of the pines. B, J, C, Bobby, Jenny and me. I cried. With his final words, Bobby called out for his mother. She had died a few years prior to the incident. Unbeknownst to any of us at the time, he called out her name before reaching in. And sometimes, I wonder, was something reaching back? Full Body Chills is an Audio Chuck Production. This episode was written by AP Royal and read by Mike Saporkin. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. I think Chuck would approve.