← Scary Stories and Rain
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Hey, welcome to Scary Stories and Rain. Before we begin, be sure to check out my brand new podcast, Scary Stories and Fire. If you would prefer the same great stories but with a super relaxing campfire background, the link is in the description. Also, if you haven't yet, I highly recommend you subscribe to this podcast. If you enjoy listening to Relax or Fall Asleep hundreds of hours of stories and rain for $2.99 a month. That will get you access to all episodes with zero ads. Consider subscribing and I hope you enjoy this episode. Will Talk to Me ABC Tuesday they took his daughter. She's coming home alive. Will Trent, the series critics are calling powerful Must see TV continues to thrill. Shouldn't we strategize before we go in there? If we screw up this case, a cop killer walks free with the riveting conclusion to a two part season premier. GBI Help Me get down will tread all new Tuesday on ABC and stream on Hulu Every night for the past week, Maddie had woken her parents with loud sobs. At first they rushed to a room, frantic, thinking something terrible had happened. But every time she would just point down the dark hallway, trembling, her tear streaked face pale as a ghost. She's here again, maddie whispered through her sobs. The old lady that lives across the street. She's here. She's in the hallway. She was just standing there. Right there. Her parents looked at each other, equal parts concern and exhaustion. Maddie, her mom said gently, kneeling beside her bed, it's just a bad dream. Mrs. Porter would never come into our house. She's a nice lady. She's lived there for a long time. Maddie shook her head violently. No, she was here. I swear. I swear I'm not lying. Her dad sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Honey, you've been stressed lately, trying to get your homework done, the girls at school. It's probably just night terrors. We'll talk to somebody about it, okay? It'll be fine. But Maddie would not let it go. And every night, like clockwork, she would wake them up again, crying, pointing out to the dark hallway. A few times her dad did search the house just to make sure, but all the doors were locked. Everything was in place. Her mom and dad tried everything, leaving her door open, closed, keeping a nightlight on, even sleeping on the couch nearby. But Maddie's sobbing never stopped. Finally, after another sleepless night, her parents decided to speak with Mrs. Porter. The elderly woman was sitting on her porch the next morning, wrapped in a shawl, sipping tea. Her garden, as always, was immaculate. Not a single weed in sight. Good morning, Mrs. Porter, Maddie's mom said as they walked up the driveway. We. We wanted to ask you about something. It's going to sound a bit unusual. Mrs. Porter's wrinkled face lit up with a kind smile. Oh, what's that, dear Maddie? Her mom hesitated, glancing at her husband. Our daughter has been saying that she sees you in our house at night. She's convinced that you've been there multiple times and that you just stand there and look at her in the dark. Of course we know that's not true, but we just wanted to check in. Mrs. Porter blinked and then laughed softly. Me? In your house? Heavens, no. I could barely manage to climb my own stairs, let alone sneak into someone else's home. Her laugh was warm, reassuring. It was the kind of laugh that made you feel silly for even asking such a question. The parents apologized for the odd inquiry, and Mrs. Porter waved it off with a smile, inviting them to come by for tea anytime. By the time they walked back to their house, they were feeling much better, and they knew they needed to get a hold of somebody to help Maddie, a specialist of some kind. That night, Maddie's cries came again, louder and more desperate than ever. Her parents groaned, dragging themselves out of bed and into her room once again. Maddie, we talked to Mrs. Porter today, her mom said firmly. She's never been in our house. You're just dreaming, baby. Maddie was sitting up in bed, clutching her blanket tightly. Her face was soaked with her tears. Her whole body was trembling. It's not a dream. She pointed a shaking finger toward the far corner of the room. She's in my closet right now. She's standing right there. Her dad sighed deeply frustrated but trying to stay calm. Maddy, I'm gonna settle this once and for all. He turned to the closet, his heavy footsteps echoing in the tense silence. There's nothing in there, he muttered, grabbing the handle. Just your clothes. Some toys. Look. He swung the door open and froze. His breath caught in his throat. Standing in the closet, barely illuminated by the sliver of moonlight streaming through the window, was Mrs. Porter. Her face was blank at first, like a statue, her eyes fixed on him. Then slowly, her mouth stretched into an impossibly wide grin and she began to hysterically laugh. Maddie screamed as her mother quickly carried her out of the room. Her dad, in complete shock, slowly backed away from the closet door toward the open bedroom doorway. As he exited the room, he slowly closed the door. Mrs. Porter unmoving and laughing the whole time. So, a few years ago, a bunch of my friends and I planned this getaway to a remote cabin that one of my buddy's cousins owned. The cabin was so deep in the woods, there weren't even any roads leading to it. You had to park miles away and hike for three quarters of a day just to get there. The whole thing sounded like an adventure. The kind of trip you tell stories about for years, right? Unfortunately, I couldn't leave with the rest of the group because of my work. They all headed out early, leaving me to hike up later by myself. The downside to this, it meant that I would have to spend one night alone in the woods. Not that bad, right? How bad could it be? A solo campout sounded kind of relaxing, to be honest. By the time I got to where I planned to set up camp, the sun was dipping below the trees and the sky was that hazy purple. That's neither day nor night. The spot I found was a small clearing, maybe 40ft across, surrounded by thick woods. I set up my little one person tent, got a fire going and did all the usual camping stuff. Roasted a couple hot dogs. I made a couple s'mores, trying not to set myself on fire in the process. It was peaceful for the most part, but I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me. I know people say that all the time, but when you're so vulnerable in the middle of the woods at night, alone, it's probably a feeling that just comes along with that. I told myself it was just my nerves, though. The woods are full of animals after all. As the night wore on, that uneasy feeling didn't go away. I kept hearing rustling noises just beyond the firelight. At first I thought it was just a deer or something, maybe a raccoon. But as I sat there, I realized that whatever it was, it wasn't moving randomly. The sound was circling the clearing over and over like it was checking me out. I tried to ignore it, but after hearing it make several laps, curiosity or maybe stupidity, got the better of me. I grabbed my flashlight and stood up, shining it towards the noise. As soon as I stood, the rustling sounds stopped. It was dead silent. Then I thought I heard something dart away through the trees. Must have been a fox or something. It just. It's gotta be just some animal like that. It's just an animal. Animals do get curious, right? That's normal. Feeling foolish, I put out the fire and crawling, crawled into my tent. The air was cold and the sleeping bag wasn't doing much to keep me warm. I lay there for what felt like forever, drifting in and out of that half Asleep, half awake State where your mind plays tricks on you. Weird noises don't faze me much in that state. I've heard my fair share of phantom whispers and bumps in the night. But then I did hear something that jolted me wide awake. It was not in my head this time. It was not an animal. It was a voice. And it was not far away. My heart started hammering in my chest. The voice was low, barely above a whisper, and it was coming from just outside my tent. I couldn't tell if it was in another language or what it was, or whoever it was just spoke in a way that twisted the words beyond recognition. Either way, it sent a chill through me so sharp it felt like ice water in my veins. I didn't dare move a muscle. I just lay there, tense, listening. The voice kept going, rhythmic and soft, like it was reciting something over and over. I couldn't make out a single word of it. Then, in the moonlight filtering through the thin tent fabric at the top, I saw a hand. It pressed against the tent. I bolted upright with a gasp, adrenaline surging like I had been shocked with a live wire. The hand disappeared instantly, and whoever it was took off running. I have never heard someone run that fast. They tore through the woods and the branches like they were snapping them all as they hit them. I scrambled out of my tent, clutching my flashlight like I was a weapon. I was shining it around everywhere. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a trace of anything. Just the silent woods staring back at me. I turned to the tent, expecting to see a bloody handprint or something ridiculous. But there was nothing there. At that point, I knew there was no way I was going to sleep tonight. I sat by the cold remains of the fire, flashlight in my hand, jumping at every noise the forest made. It dragged on forever that night, each minute stretching like an hour or more. I thought about packing up and just hiking to the cabin right then, but the trail was dangerous enough during the day. At night, alone, it definitely wasn't worth the risk. The first rays of sunlight were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. As soon as it was light enough to see the trail, I was gone. The hike to the cabin was brutal, but I didn't care. I'd never been so happy to see other people as I was when I finally stumbled into that clearing and saw the cabin. My friends were sitting on the porch, laughing and joking. They had no idea what I just went through. When I told them, their smiles faded. I expected them to just make fun of me, but one of them said, you're Just messing with us, right? Do I look like I'm messing with you? I snapped, still jittery. One of the guys, the cousin who owned the cabin, exchanged a look with another one of my friends. You should have told him, man, he said in his low voice. Told me what? I demanded. They hesitated before finally explaining. A couple years ago, there was a homeless man that lived in the woods near the cabin. They saw him every now and then and he seemed like a recluse. He wasn't right in the head, as they put it. And one day they just never saw him again. They figured he must have died somewhere in those trees, but his body was never found. Ever since, people had reported strange things, whispers, figures that they thought they seen at night. I laughed, but it came out shaky. Oh, well, that's just great. Yeah, I really appreciate the heads up, I said. They did not laugh more. Chumba Casino Fan mail Love this. It says Dear Ryan, I love Chumba Casino. They're so much fun. I love the wild ride from the social slots to the slingo to jackpots quicker than a six time real spin. Everybody's finding their fun at Chumba Casino. Why don't you find out for yourself? Head to chumbacasino.com and enjoy hundreds of casino style games for free with your welcome bonus. Sponsored by Chumba Casino. No PURCHASE NECESSARY VGW Group Void where prohibited by law 18 terms and conditions apply. When I was seven, I woke up one night with a throbbing earache. It was the kind of pain that makes it impossible to go back to sleep no matter how hard you try. My mom always told me to wake her up if I didn't feel good. So I decided to get out of bed and tell her. I figured she would know what to do. Maybe she would give me some medicine or something. Or maybe one of those warm washcloths she said helped with everything. I climbed out of bed, rubbing my ear, and shuffled towards the door. As soon as I opened it, though, I stopped in my tracks. Someone was sitting in the chair in the living room, just a few feet away from my bedroom door. At first I figured of course it was my mom or my stepdad. They sometimes stayed up late watching tv. Though the house was completely quiet, which was strange. The only light came from the faint glow of the street lamp outside, casting long jagged shadows across the room. Mom? I whispered, my voice a little bit shaky. The person slowly shook their head. No. Um, Mike? I asked, hoping it was my stepdad. It had to be. Again the person shook their head, slower this time, almost Deliberately slow. Something about his movement sent a chill crawling up my spine. It wasn't just that they were answering me. It was the way they sat there in the dark, completely still except for their head, which moved with this unnatural, jerky motion. The light from the street lamp wasn't enough to see anything clearly in the room, but I could tell something was off about this person. Their face didn't look right. It wasn't just dark. It was distorted. Like someone had taken a photo of a face and smudged it with their thumb. The features didn't line up right. Too high, too low, low, Too stretched. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the more I stared at this person, the more terrified I became. My heart was pounding, and I decided I didn't want to walk past whoever this was. I went back to my room and shut the door. I climbed back into bed. My plan was simple. Close my eyes, pretend none of it happened, and wait until morning. But I could not shake the image of that figure in the chair. Something about the way they sat silent. It burrowed itself into my brain and would not go away. I tried to convince myself it was my imagination. Or maybe I had seen a shadow and made it seem like it was something it wasn't. After all, I was only 7 years old. Kids do see things in the dark all the time that aren't there, right? I pulled the blanket up to my chin, squeezed my eyes shut, and just told myself to go to sleep. Go to sleep. Just go to sleep. I don't know how much time passed. Maybe a few minutes, maybe longer. But I eventually opened my eyes. I really wish I hadn't. The figure was standing in my doorway. The light from the street lamp barely reached them, but I could see their outline perfectly. They were tall, taller than my mom or Mike. Their head was tilted to the side like a dog that was confused. It looked like they were smiling, but I couldn't tell. Then they just started nodding. The nodding was fast and jerky, like their neck was on a spring. It did not match their face at all. It was frantic, almost violent looking. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I just stared at them, completely frozen. This thing stood in my doorway, nodding furiously at me, like it was trying to tell me something that I couldn't understand. Finally, I managed to pull the blanket over my head. It was a stupid, childish thing to do, but what else could I do? I stayed like that, shaking and listening for anything, trying to hear if they were still in my room or not. The house was Silent, too silent. After what felt like an eternity, I peeked out from under the blanket. The doorway was empty. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. When the sun came up, I bolted out of bed and ran to my mom and Mike's room. They were still asleep, of course, snoring, completely unaware of the terror that just happened to me. I told them everything, and they just looked at each other and then back at me. Not sure if they took me seriously. But they told me to knock it off. Oh, great. Thanks a lot. The image of that distorted face was burned into my brain forever. I knew it was real, regardless if they didn't believe me. For a while, nothing else happened. I did start sleeping with my bedroom light on, which was difficult, but I got used to it. My mom and Mike thought that I had a vivid nightmare that night and moved on. But I didn't move on. I could never stop looking over my shoulder, especially at night, even when I was not at home. And then, two weeks later, it happened again. And this time I wasn't the one who saw it. I woke up to the sound of my mom screaming. I ran out of the room and found her in the hallway, clutching her chest. What's wrong, Mom? I cried. She pointed toward the living room. Mike was right behind me. The chair in the living room, the same one where I had seen the figure, was tipped over. What happened? Mike asked, frustration in his voice. I saw someone, my mom whispered. I swear there was someone sitting there. When I turned on the light, they were gone. Mike tried to convince her that it was just her imagination. I don't know why people always say this stuff. What is so hard to believe about it? Why are you so inclined not to believe someone when they experience something terrible? After that, we started locking all the doors and windows religiously. Mike even put up new locks on the front and back doors. But it didn't help. The figure kept coming back. Sometimes it was just a shadow in the corner of the room. Sometimes it was the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway. And sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and feel like someone was standing right next to my bed. One night, Mike stayed up late, determined to catch whatever or whoever it was. He sat in the living room with a baseball bat, waiting. Around 2am he he heard a faint rustling sound coming from the hallway. He tightened his grip on the bat and stood up. When he turned on the light, the hallway was empty. Or so he thought. When he looked back at the chair, it was rocking slowly, as if someone had just been sitting in it. Eventually we couldn't take it anymore. We had to move. A few months later it happened and we left the memories and whatever was haunting it behind. Sometimes, late at night, even in this new house, I think I still see a distorted face in the dark, nodding furiously. Maybe it's just a dream, maybe not. Every time it happens, though, I wake up wondering if it's still here with us, waiting for something. My life is crap, but only from 9 to 5, Monday to Friday I am an engineer specializing in sewerage Systems. There are 1100 miles of sewers under this city. It's a system that was designed way back in the 1800s when there were only 2.5 million backsides to deal with. There are almost 9 million now, so it's not a surprise that things go wrong. And that's where I come in. It is not a glamorous job, but it means I can have a fantastic lifestyle. I rent a spacious flat in a desirable location, drive a sports car and enjoy weekends away in boutique hotels. Loving this way. I am hopelessly overextended on my finances, but as long as the monthly wage keeps coming in, then let the credit good times roll. In the evenings or on a weekend out in a wine bar or a restaurant, I favor bespoke tailored double breasted suits and immaculate handmade Italian shoes. I look very different when I am working. I was wearing my usual steel toe capped boots, a boiler suit, goggles and a hard hat with a torch attached. Sometimes I have on waterproofs, but wading knee or even waist high and slow flowing in places of solid feeling effluence is high on my list of things to avoid by careful use of service tunnels and walkways, the knowledge of which has been passed on from generation to generation of engineers and a little help from maps, I can usually avoid this. It was a Monday morning around 11 and I was a quarter of a way through a four mile walk to check the repairs on the tunnel which had collapsed a few weeks before and I was holding up. I was passing under a railway station and the sound of wheels on tracks rumbled overhead like an unseen storm. The only light came from my head torch. I know it sounds strange to say this, but I felt at home here. It is a dank, dark, disgustingly odorous place, but it is my place, my world. If you put me in an office with desktops and phones, whiteboards and meeting spaces and water coolers, I think I would come out in a cold sweat. These sewerage tunnels were my workplace. I paused for a Break ate an energy bar and sipped a little fruit juice. I calculated I was about halfway to my destination and entered a new service tunnel. I can't give you a certain opinion of what caused the accident. I had been this way before I knew what I was doing. The tunnel floor simply collapsed beneath me. Hundreds of years simply took their toll on the bricks and mortar that had been used to construct the tunnel would be my expert guess. I was not considering any of this. As. As I fell, my senses were in a daze. I tumbled through the space that had opened up, fell for what must only have been seconds, but felt like much longer, and landed in a heap. A hard landing. A jolt of pain ran up my spine. It helped take my mind off the fact that I was sitting in freezing cold wetness. My left wrist stung like hell as well. I had put my hand out automatically as I fell. I cursed, held my wrist to my chest. It's broken, I thought, and cursed some more. The impact had also knocked my head torch off, and I was sitting there in darkness, praying it was not wrecked. I reached up with my uninjured arm and toggled the switch, breathed a sigh of relief. When the yellow beam shone out, I saw that I was in a small chamber. I assumed it predated the sewerage system. Wherever here was, the tunnels had been built over it, which meant I was the first person to see this chamber in hundreds of years. That I was in uncharted territory, that was not what bothered me. Right next to me was a human skull. It was complete, even had a full set of teeth. The torchlight gave the bone a yellow tint as I focused the beam on it. As I moved the torch, a jumble of bones that lay next to the skull were illuminated. I swallowed down the bile that had risen into my mouth and now moved the torch in a complete arc across the chamber floor. Dozens of separate bones and fragments of bones showed in the light. There were jaws, bones that had once been part of arms and legs, A section of ribcage and cracked in half. Skull. I must have landed, I realized, in what had once been a burial ground. Any coffins, if there had been coffins, had long since rotted away in the centuries since this place had been built over. I was just starting to get my breath back when I noticed one of the jawbones moved, rippling as if it was on the crest of a wave. The broken rib cage rocked. Then I saw what was really happening. There were rats among the bones. I think the beam of my torch must have startled them into Hiding. But now they were emerging, sniffing, twitching, clamoring over the bones. They were at least a foot long, and there were dozens of them. I could now see you get used to rats working down in the sewers. Some of them big sobs like these. But still my heart was beating 10 to the dozen as I watched these feral, filthy creatures mingling with the human remains. I told myself to get a grand grip. I was down but not out. If any of them came near me, I would lash out with a steel toe capped boot. My pep talk was barely over when it emerged from a crevice in the chamber wall. A creature unlike any I had seen before. From snout to tail, it must have been 2 1/2ft long. Its eyes were red in the beam of my torchlight. Yellowed teeth glistened inside the dark line of its mouth. It turned its head slowly one way, then the other, and the rest of the rats seemed to cower and back away. This was some kind of alpha, I figured. The boss rat. It began to move toward me, and I lost any semblance of being in control. The boss rat crept closer, closer. My bladder emptied and I did not care as the disgusting warmth spread inside my boiler suit. I watched transfixed, as the rat continued to inch toward me. Any moment now, it could sink those teeth into me. I was convinced of it. I wanted to scream. The rat paused. It began to sniff at the skull that was next to the jumble of bones that lay next to me. Then it fixed its teeth into the eye sockets of the skull and began to back away, began to drag the skull and the jumble of bones away from me. I felt a flood of relief. And then I saw with a new horror that this was still a whole skeleton, totally unlike the other partial remains of a jawbone here, a tibia there. I watched as a skull with its teeth connected to the spine, ribcage, pelvis, with the complete bones of legs and arms. Finally, the skeletal form of two feet was dragged along the ground in front of me. Finally, the boss rat reached the far wall of the chamber. It could go no further with its treasure unless it dragged it back into the crevice with it and stood there. I swear to God, it was staring at me, warning me off. These are my bones, it was saying. I could take no more. I got to my feet nice and slow, and the rats just watched. I managed to drag myself up out of the chamber. It took me most of the rest of the day to stumble back along the service tunnels and walkways. I was close to passing out when I was found by a search party. I emerged from the sewers in a traumatized state and weeks later am still a mess. I am currently signed off sick from work and am seeing a counselor. My bosses are insisting on this because of the trauma. With all my credit repayments I can't afford to lose this job so I am going along with this saying what I think the counselor wants to hear and agree with everything they say. The counselor believes I have a phobia of rats caused by the shock of my experience. They told me this was called seriphobia. I nodded along and agreed to the recommended course of treatment. I don't want to tell them what my real fear is and I will never tell them the last thing I saw down there in the chamber beneath the sewers. On the whole skeleton the boss rat was protecting so fiercely there were wisps of pink flesh. My real fear is not one of rats but phagophobia, the fear of being eaten. During the mid 19th century, the United States saw a sharp rise in the number of people who chose to leave their homes in the east to resettle in the California or the newly acquired Oregon territories. For many, a new life in California meant freedom from financial servitude or freedom to practice their own particular brand of Christianity without judgment from their peers back East. Others were attracted to the West's new and exciting economic opportunities or inspired by the idea of Manifest Destiny. But for one group of migrants, their pursuit of the American dream would quickly turn into a nightmare, one characterized by isolated mountain passes, freezing cold, and stomach twisting hunger. In the spring of 1842, a wagon train that was almost 500 strong headed out from Independence, Missouri, seeking to follow an established trail that would lead them to the prairie promised land of California. Taking their place at the rear of the wagon train was a group of nine wagons containing 32 members of the Reed and Donner families. The family patriarch, George Donner, had spent time in a number of Eastern states before finally making the decision to move his family west. At first, heavy traffic on the trails leading eastward, as well as the large number of other travelers, meant that the journey is relatively easy. Traveling in the summer months could be hot and tiresome, but it paled in comparison with how difficult navigation during the winter would be. It was essential that the wagon train make as much ground as possible while it was still possible, for winter was coming and it would not be merciful. By the end of September 1842, an attempt at a shortcut had gone terribly wrong. For the Donner Reed families Seeking to overtake the Sierra Nevada mountains before the winter arrived, they had successfully traversed the Great Salt Lake Desert. But complications meant that they had in fact slowed themselves down. By about a month. Lack of water in the harsh dry desert had driven the party to near madness and caused casualties among its essential accompaniment of oxen and other cattle. Tensions among the party members were reaching breaking points. In the following month of October, many of wagons that made up the original party had gone their separate ways, either pushing on towards California or making their way back eastward. In the group that remained, two wagons became entangled and a man by the name of John Snyder attempted to remedy the situation. He lacked patience and soon began mercilessly whipping one of the oxen. Soon James Reed, the oldest and most senior member of the Reed family, attempted to intervene to stop the beating. But Snyder reacted furiously to the intervention and turned the whip in his hand towards Reed. A physical altercation ensued, one that was only ended when James Reed took out a long steel bowie knife and plunged it into Snyder's chest. Despite Reid's explanation of self defense, the party members convened to decide his punishment. United States laws were not applicable west of the Continental Dividend in what was then Mexican territory, and wagon trains often dispensed their own justice. Some suggested that Reid should hang for his crimes, but it was eventually decided that he should merely be banished from the wagon train. But on pain of death should he attempt to return. What was once a happy adventure into the west had become a vicious fight for survival. Grass was becoming scarce and the animals were steadily weakening. To relieve the animals load, everyone was expected to walk. The trials that the Donner party had so far endured resulted in splintered groups, each looking out for themselves and distrustful of the others. In one incident of abject cruelty, an elderly man was ejected from the wagon he was reliant on for transport, being told that he had to walk or die. A few days later, the elderly man sat next to a stream, his feet so swollen they had split open. Some members of the party begged the others to wait for him, to show mercy to the party's weakest members. But the others refused, thinking only of themselves. The old man was not seen again in the following weeks. Attacks from the local Paiute Indian tribe were responsible for the party losing almost 40 of their cattle. This is extremely shocking for a number of reasons. Firstly, the Paiute tribe had first appeared friendly to the migrants, sharing supplies with them and even directing them onto trails that would take them westward. But at some point the relationship had soured and the people, known for their respect and reverence of the natural world, appeared to have no problem slaughtering the wagon train's animal accompaniment in an attempt to slow down or even stop the party dead in their tracks. With nearly all the cattle gone, one particular party member stopped to bury his wagon for safekeeping. Two of his number stayed with him to help, but they returned without him, reporting they had been attacked by Paiutes, murdered and scalped. By the end of October, the party was forced to make camp around Truckee Lake in the eastern Sierra Nevada mountains. Three widely separated cabins of pine logs served as their homes, with dirt floors and poorly constructed flat roof roofs that leaked when it rained. Of the 60 at Truckee Lake, 19 were men over 18 years old, 12 were women, and 29 were children, 6 of whom were toddlers or younger. Very little food remained in their supplies, and the oxen began to die. Their carcasses were frozen and stacked. Truckee Lake was not yet iced over, but the pioneers were unfamiliar with catching lake trout. The most experienced hunter among them killed a bear, but had little luck after that. Margaret Reed promised to pay double when they got to California for the use of three oxen from other families. She was charged $25, normally the cost of two healthy oxen for the carcass of a single ox that had starved to death. The mood in the camp was beyond tense. People were only looking out for themselves by this point, but an incoming blizzard would be the straw that broke the mule's back. During the height of the snowstorm, a man named Patrick Dolan began to rant deliriously, stripped off his clothes and ran into the woods. He returned shortly afterwards and died a few hours later. Not long after, some of the group began to eat flesh from Dolan's body. The next morning, the group stripped the muscle and organs from Dolan's body, then dried them to store for the days ahead, taking care to ensure nobody would have to eat his or her relatives. As the days went by, more and more of the party succumbed to their desperate hunger and made the decision to consume human flesh. Some were determined to continue hunting and fishing, only turning to cannibalism when there was no other option. But it appeared some preferred the taste of human flesh and eschewed the long and tiring hunting trips in favor of consuming those who died of disease and malnutrition. At one point, a scouting party looking for the most efficient way ahead came across two Miwok Indians named Luis and Salvador. They had once been party members but had attempted to move on when the supplies had run low at the time they were discovered, they had not eaten anything for nine whole days and were dangerously undernourished and weakened as a result. However, instead of attempting to rescue and save the lives of their Indian friends, one of the scouting party simply shot them there and then before carving off chunks of their flesh with a hunting knife. On January 12, the group stumbled into a Miwok camp, looking so deteriorated that the camp's inhabitants initially fled, fearing them to be the spirits of undead souls who wandered the snow capped mountain mountain range. Once it was clear that they were in fact the survivors of a disastrous expedition, the Miwoks gave them what they had to eat acorns, grass and pine nuts, completely unaware that the group had murdered and eaten two starving members of their tribe. They were shaken, starving, and had arguably sold their souls to stay alive. But they were safe now, relatively safe anyway. Reporting on the event across the US Was heavily influenced by the national enthusiasm for westward migration. In some papers, news of the tragedy was buried in small paragraphs. Despite the contemporary tendency to sensationalize stories, several newspapers, including those in California, wrote about the cannibalism in graphic, exaggerated detail. In some print accounts, the members of the Donner Party were depicted as heroes and California a paradise worthy of significant sacrifices. But it seems that sacrificing one's family and friends, as well as losing one's humanity through consuming human flesh, might not be worth any prize, no matter how great. Sonoma County, California, is one of the most agriculturally productive areas in the entire country. It produces a huge amount of hops, grapes, prunes, apples, dairy and poultry products every single year. This is down to the vast swaths of fertile land in addition to the abundance of high quality irrigation water, in addition to the vineyards and wineries that call Sonoma home. One might mistake the county for being a little slice of paradise. But during the early 1970s 70s, a series of horrifying events in the hills around Sonoma's largest city, Santa Rosa, would make this heavenly place seem more like a circle of hell. On February 4, 1972, two middle school friends were returning from a visit to the Redwood Empire Ice Arena. Maureen Louise Sterling and Yvonne Lisa Weber, both 12 years old, were last seen around 9pm Hitchhiking on Guerneville Road northwest of Santa Rosa. Neither of the girls arrived home that night. Their parents begged local authorities to find their girls. And find them they did. Their bodies were found Dec. 28, just a few miles north of Franz Valley Road. A single earring, orange beads and a 14 karat gold necklace with a cross were found at the scene. The cause of death could not be determined from the skeletal remains. Then, just A month later, 19 year old art student Kim Wendy Allen was given a ride by two men on the evening of March 4, 1972. They last saw her at approximately 5:20pm Hitchhiking to school and carrying a large wooden soy barrel with red Chinese characters on it. Her body was found the following day in an embankment in a creek bed. The two men who gave her a ride, one of whom was given and passed a polygraph test, were ruled out as suspects. This pattern of hitchhiker murders was repeated over and over again as the years went by. But only a handful had a modest operandi that matched the previous murders. One in particular had an extremely disturbing additional detail that may shed some light on who the murderer or murderers were. Carolyn Nadine Davis, 14 years old, ran away from her home outside Anderson in Shasta county on Feb. 6, 1973, but disappeared July 15 after being dropped off by her grandmother at the Garberville post office. She was last seen hitchhiking that afternoon near the highway in Garberville. Her body was discovered on July 31, just meters from where the remains of Sterling and Weber had been recovered seven months prior. However, this time the cause of death could be determined and coroner stated that it was an obvious cause of strychnine poisoning. 10 to 14 days before the body was discovered, a witchcraft symbol meaning carrier of spirits was found by her body. As was previously mentioned, an additional eight unsolved murders of female victims have been linked to the unknown murderer. Yet not a single conviction has been handed down in connection with any of them. However, that doesn't mean that there aren't a few prevailing theories on the murderer's true identity. Kenneth Bianchi and Angelo Bono Jr. The Hillside Stranglers of Los Angeles were seriously considered as suspects at one point. The Hillside Strangler murders began with the deaths of three sex workers who were found strangled and dumped naked on hillsides northeast of Los Angeles between October and early November 1977. It was not until the deaths of five young women who were not sex workers, but girls who had been abducted from middle class neighborhoods that the media attention and subsequent Hillside Strangler moniker came to prominence. However, there was insufficient evidence to link either Bianchi or Buono to the Sonoma county murders, so we must look elsewhere for conclusive proof. Another suspect in the case was Frederic Manali, a 41 year old Santa Rosa Junior College creative writing instructor. In August of 1976, Manali was involved in a fatal head on collision on Highway 12. As CHP officers cleared the scene, they discovered something extremely disturbing. In addition to a large amount of creative writing work, police discovered that the instructor cultivated another form of creativity, drawing. But these weren't still life or landscape drawings. They were scenes depicting sadomasochistic acts committed on a young woman. Investigators were easily able to identify the woman in question from the quality of the sketches. It was Kim Wendy Allen, the second victim in the series of murders. Yet despite searches of Manali's home, investigators were unable to find a credible link between the sketches and murders themselves. Another suspect in the case was none other than the subject of a recent Netflix made movie, Ted Bundy. After the prolific murderer's capture for similar crimes in Washington, Colorado, Utah and Idaho, Ted Bundy was heavily suspected as the Sonoma County Hitchhiker Killer. The links between the naked bodies of the Sonoma victims and the extreme venereal nature of Bundy's crimes were obvious. It turned out that Bundy had indeed spent time in the neighboring Marin county, but was ruled out by a Sonoma county detective in the 1970s and again in 1989. This was down to detailed credit card records that reveal Bundy was all the way up the coast in Washington State on the dates of some of the disappearances. An additional suspect in the murders is another famous name, the Zodiac Killer. Investigators were forced to consider the Zodiac Killer as a possible perpetrator due to similarities between an unknown symbol on his January 29, 1974 exorcist letter to the San Francisco Chronicle in which he claims 37 victims and the Chinese characters on the missing soy barrel carried by Kim Allen. Also, the Zodiac had written a letter delivered to the San Francisco Chronicle on November 9, 1969. In it, he stated an intention to vary his modus operandi in an attempt to confuse detectives and thus evade. I shall no longer announce to anyone when I commit my murders. They shall look like routine robberies, killings of anger, plus a few flags, fake accidents, etc. Naturally, the consideration of the Zodiac Killer leads us to one Arthur Lee Allen. Allen owned a mobile home at Sunset Trailer park in Santa Rosa at the time of the murders. He had also been fired from his Valley Springs Elementary School teaching position for suspected child molestation in 1968. Allen was arrested on September 27, 1974 by the Sonoma County Sheriff's Office and charged with child molestation in an unrelated case involving a young boy. He pleaded guilty on March 14, 1975, and was imprisoned at Atescadero State Hospital until late 1977, this would indeed match the time period for some of the murders. What's more, Robert Graysmith, in his book Zodiac Unmasked, claims that a Sonoma county sheriff revealed that chipmunk hairs were found on all of the Santa Rosa hitchhiker victims and that Allen had been collecting and studying the same species. It would be possible that since the bodies were dumped outdoors, that a few chipmunk hairs might be present on one or two of them. But all of them seem seems like far more than just a coincidence. Allen was the main suspect in the Zodiac case for more than 30 years until his DNA was compared to a partial DNA profile obtained from saliva recovered on the underside of a postage stamp and envelopes from verified Zodiac letters. Results were a conclusive non match. Fingerprints and blood recovered from the taxicab of Zodiac murder victim Paul Stine, a writer's palm print found on the Zodiac letter of January 29, 1974, and handwriting examples failed to identify Allen as the Zodiac. In practice, this evidence would have exonerated Allen should he have ever stood trial for the charges. So we are essentially forced to look elsewhere for clues, clues to the murderer's identity. But given that almost 50 years later, each murder remains distinctly clear just who was murdering hitchhikers in the hills around Santa Rosa, California. I grew up in a small town where everyone knew your business. When I was nine, my dad was arrested for driving under the influence. I found this out the next day from the kids in my class. Two of them were from cop families. I was tormented by them. Afterward, I was told my mom was going to be a single parent because my dad was going to jail. For years and years, I was told the local TV station would be sending a news crew around my house to film the moment when the police turned up and kicked in the door and dragged my dad away. I believed every word and burnt with shame and fear, I hardly slept. I couldn't eat. My parents did not tell me anything until a few weeks after the arrest. They didn't want to say anything to me, but when I broke down and told them what I had heard, they sat me down and explained. In the end, my dad lost his license and was fined. It was bad, but nowhere near as horrible as the tales the bullies had been force feeding me and I never got over it. When I was 17, I wrote a letter to a girl I was desperately in love with. I had never had a girlfriend and was too shy to speak to her. So I agonized for weeks over what I should write and felt sick with nerves when I finally left it in the mailbox outside her family's home. I don't know who got hold of it, but within days there were photocopies everywhere. They were on lamp posts on the sides of buildings, the back of bus seats. I'd see groups of people standing around reading them and laughing or making pretend puking gestures. Things I had written in the letter would be shouted at me in the street. I wanted to curl up and die. For everyone else it was just great entertainment and another swell day in a small town. When I was 21, I left. I caught one of the buses that had been decorated with a copy of my letter and and half expected to see it still there, stuck to the seat. As the bus pulled out, I vowed I would never return. I had fallen out badly with my parents by this stage as well. They couldn't understand why I was so adamant to get the hell away. They told me I was naive and would come crawling back. I did not plan to write to them or phone or email. I had also already deleted my social media accounts. They were pathetic anyway. And I had canceled my mobile phone contract. The past was dead to me. I had to put it out of its misery. And as the bus hit the interstate I was looking forward to creating a whole new me in a brand new place. The only thing I knew for sure about the city I was heading for was that it was sprawling. Millions of people lived there. I figured there would be Internet cafes or terminals I could use in a public library to help me find a job. I would need to do this pretty damn quick as I only had a couple of hundred dollars in my wallet for temporary accommodation and food. But I was confident and I was buzzing. I had escaped. It was dark by the time the bus pulled pulled up at the terminus. Feeling stiff and cold, I stepped out into a deserted, graffiti strewn space. The displays on the stands showed no departures till the next morning. A coffee stall was shuttered and the restroom had an out of order sign on it. Not the best introduction to city life, I thought. Then I headed out into the street. I looked around hoping to spot a neon sign advertising accommodation for the night. All I saw were rows of buildings and darkness. I put my hands in my pockets and began to walk. It was not long before the streets widened out and high rise buildings began to appear. I passed clothes, shops and restaurants, all locked up for the night. Sirens rose and fell near the distance. An occasional person passed by, their head down. I stopped and breathed in the cold air. I had arrived. I raised my arms into the air and called out a triumphant yes just as a woman brushed past me. I hadn't seen her appear, and now she was walking away after bumping ever so slightly into me. I swore as I realized my pocket was empty and my wallet was gone. Hey. I yelled. The woman didn't look back, didn't even hesitate. She was off and running down the sidewalk. Police. I called out. I've been robbed. The street was empty and silent apart from me. Cursing as I set off in pursuit, I saw her veering off to the left, down a side street that led back in the direction of the bus station. I increased my pace. She was quick, but I was pumped with adrenaline and desperate. Without that money, I had nothing. She turned again behind the garage where the buses were parked up, and then onto wasteland. Twisted rebars sprouted from concrete. Whatever had once stood here had been demolished, and behind it rows of dark buildings stretched out as far as I could see. Fragments of glass lined empty window frames, and tags were scrawled all over boarded up doorways. I stumbled, almost falling as I caught my foot in a rut in the ground, spat, and carried on. She had 30 seconds on me. No way you're getting away from me, I said under my breath, though of course she did. I had reached the end of the road. I had been sprinting along. It split into two. Both ways were narrow and unsurfaced, and I had no idea which way she had gone down. I chose left. After 20 minutes of heading down more dark roads with no, no idea where they led, I had almost given up. But then I got lucky. I spotted her. The thief. She was standing in a doorway with a man from his hide and build. They were talking. And then she handed over money. My damn money. And he gave her a small packet in return. Drugs, I thought. Part of me wanted to go charging in there, take what was mine and give them a piece of my mind. The part of me that was still thinking clearly was saying, hold back. What if the dealer was armed? A gun or a knife, it didn't matter. I was the one who would end up hurt. So I stayed put, watched and waited. A few minutes later, she moved off. The dealer lingered, talking into his mobile. Then he slipped away in a different direction. I was free to resume my pursuit. I ran in the direction the woman had gone and just caught sight of her as she went into a building, slipping through a gap on one side of a sheet of plywood nailed against a doorway. Got you, I thought, and followed. I squeezed through the gap and into a vast open space. She was a dozen feet away from me, just standing there, brazen as you like. I was about to lose it, begin screaming at her, when I realized with a start that a man was sitting in a wooden chair by the opening. His face was turned towards me. Where his eyes should have been were dark, empty sockets. I was breathless from the chase, and when I spoke, each word was caught within a gasp. Who are you? Why, I'm the doorman of this fine establishment, he replied without missing a beat. The what? I exclaimed. The person who decides who can stay and who will be asked to leave. As he said this, the woman came closer. Before, I had only made out an outline. I could now see that she was yelling, young. Around my age, strands of long hair had escaped from a woolen hat and her clothes were torn and dirty. She put a hand on the eyeless man's shoulder and said, what do you think? He sounds like he belongs here, the eyeless man replied. I don't, I snapped. I'm not scum living rough. What exactly is your home address then, son? The eyeless man asked. I'm. I began. A smile spread across the eyeless man's face. You can stay here tonight. There's a little food we can share shelter and company. And we won't get offended if you move on in the morning. Morning? No, I said. I just want what's mine. If she has spent all my money on drugs, then I'll take those, sell them onto. At least get something back. I glared at the woman, the thief. She did not flinch. She looked me in the eye and said, let me show you who the drugs are for first. Then she turned and walked away into the gloom. Gloom that stretched out all around us. I followed reluctantly as she led me through the space. We passed people sitting huddled together on the floor. There were men and women, young and old, and children. All were emaciated and dressed in filthy clothes. I was shocked by this, but when I became aware the thief was looking at me, I glanced away. I did not want her to see how out of my depth I was. I had never seen anything like this before. Scum. Living rough. I looked up at her words and muttered, what? She answered in a calm voice. That's how you described us, I said. I didn't. For people to live like this. My words trailed off. I didn't know what else to say. She finished for me. They must be pretty desperate. I shrugged. I guess. She kept her eyes fixed on me. As we walked by another group, a man lay curled up, sleeping. A woman sat with a baby at her breast. The blanket wrapped around it was smeared with feces. I looked away, disgusted, and immediately hated myself for it. She saw me doing this, then said in a quiet voice, there's no jobs, no benefits, no health care for some people, so they simply fall through the cracks of society and they end up here. Is that what happened to that man, the doorman, because he has no eyes? I asked. She looked refuel when she replied, he fell a long time ago, while he was still sighted. Twelve months ago he sold his eyes to a clinic operating outside the law for money in his palm. That's horrific, I said. That's economics, she replied. Then she stood next to a pile of rags on the floor. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. She drifts in and out, but when she is conscious the pain is unbearable. This is why I stole from you. This is why I needed the drugs. She knelt by the rags and lifted around the corner. My God, I realized it was a person. A woman's face was revealed. Her skin was lined and stretched taut over protruding bones. Her eyes flickered and a painfully thin hand and wrist appeared out of the fold of the rags and reached slowly for the thief's face, who was blinking back tears. My mother, she said. The cancer is in her bones and she's had no treatment, no care, except for what I can scavenge and steal. She took out the packet she had bought from the dealer, opened it, and placed her forefinger inside. When she withdrew it, her finger was coated with a fine, pale colored powder. Gently, lovingly, she placed her finger in her mother's mouth and began to rub the powder onto her gums. Tears clouded the old woman's eyes, and then they closed. She began to snore gently. I'm sorry, I said. How long does she have left? The thief did not look up when she replied. Too long. She was silent then, and I could not think of anything else to say. As I stood there and my eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, I noticed there were others there. They were pressed against the walls, held in the shadows. I could make out no details, only that they were slender shapes clothed in rags. This is hell, I said. It just came out. I didn't mean for it to. It is, she said. But it is our hell. Our home. I'm sorry, I said again. I had nothing else apart from saying, and I'm glad that you pickpocketed me. If it helps ease your mother's pain for a few hours. She smiled sadly at this and the silence settled back into place until the crack, the sound of wood splintering rushed towards us. Then a man's voice called out in pain. What's happening? I asked, but she was ignoring me, running towards the noise. I hurried after her. The disturbance was over by the makeshift entrance. As I came alongside her, I was horrified to see that the wood covering the door had been broken and that the doorman lay on the ground. Blood pooled around his head. Standing in a line behind him were six men. They were dressed in expensive looking suits and tan cashmere coats. They were grinning smiles that I remembered the bullies in my hometown wore. Only I could tell these men were worse, much worse. One of them was wiping blood from his knuckles. He finished and looked at us. You seem pretty lively, so perhaps you can explain to your pals what is happening here. This land is ripe for development and my client wishes to purchase it. But first we need to clear the trash. You need to leave and leave now. His speech delivered, he nodded at the other men and they began to advance on us. I turned to the thief. We need to get everyone out of here before anyone else is hurt. She shook her head. Her eyes blazed with anger. No. The world has taken everything else from us. This is ours and we will not give it up. We. We. I began to argue, but she reached out and took my hand in hers, then started to back slowly away. I was scared and confused and let her lead me back into the building, into the gloom. The men, sneering, laughing, making obscene remarks about the thief, about what they would like to do to her, kept pace with us. We passed the pathetic huddled figures. The men spat on them, told them to move it, called them filth and called them dirty horrors and junkies. And all the while the thief kept walking. She said nothing. We were coming closer to where her mother lay, to where the edge of the world was a place of shadows inhabited by slender figures clothed in rags. The thief's stopped and let go of my hand. Here, she said quietly. This brought a fresh wave of obscenities from the men. What are you going to do, bitch? Fight? Go down on your knees? One of them raised his fist and stepped rapidly towards her. She spoke again and simply said, now they move, moved slowly, the things which emerged from the shadows. They moved silently. Their rags were dark, flowing shapes, and inside the rags something inhuman was contained. I blinked, wiped my eyes. I did not understand what I was seeing. The figures in the rags had no skin, no flesh, no Eyes, they were bone, finger bones were reaching out and grasping the men. Skeletal hands were clamping around the necks of the men and choking. The men began to scream and thrash around. I stood and watched, paralyzed by fear. What are they? I managed to say. The thief replied so. Some people would call them wraiths, the spirits of those who suffered great injustices while they were alive, but who will take no more now they are dead. Held in the grip of the inhuman things, the men began to collapse and pass out. The thief raised her hand. Enough, she said. The inhuman things let go and slowly made their way back into the shadows. As they did so, some of the men and women who had been huddled together nearby approached. They methodically stripped the men of their fine clothes, watches and wallets. They then dragged them unceremoniously back towards the broken open door. The thief watched. Ours, she said again. They will not take it from us. A smile flickered momentarily on her face, and then a harsh, racking cough made her whirl around. Mother. She cried out and ran to her. I joined her and knelt on the ground, asking if there was anything I could do. No, she said. I think it is her time. Her mother's chest was rising and falling in sharp, desperate motions. Each breath was a battle. Each moment was clearly an agony. And then she became still. The thief's whole body shook as she wept and stroked her mother's hair and told her that she loved her. A skeletal figure draped in torn, filthy clothes now stood over the thief and her mother's body. A newborn wraith, I thought, one more vengeful creature. As I watched, it retreated into the shadows at the edge of the world and took its place among its ragged kin.
- [74:57]
B
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