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Hey, how's it going? Welcome to Scary Stories in Rain. Before we begin, I just want to remind you that there is now one week left to get your name in the pot to win a Nintendo Switch 2 bundle. If you want to be eligible to win, join my podcast. For $2.99 a month, you get rid of all of the ads, which is really great for sleeping and relaxing. And I might be contacting you to ask where to send your new Nintendo Switch 2 bundle. Also, I do want to say that I'm going to be announcing the winner on the first. And I'm also going to be dropping a photo on my Instagram account showing the proof that I have the console, the shipping information that I actually did send it, and by the way, I just got my hands on a PlayStation 5 and I'm going to be giving that away next. So if you want to automatically enter to win the Nintendo Switch 2 bundle, go ahead and subscribe. Get rid of all of the ads and listen to every episode completely interruption free and you'll be automatically entered to win the PlayStation. I'm going to start doing giveaways every single month. And again, I just want to say thank you for being here. So good, so good, so good.
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It's time to save. Clear. The rack is on at your Nordstrom Rack store now through Monday. Take an extra 25% off clearance. Hurry. The best stuff goes fast. All sales final. Please see Nordstrom rack.com or ask a store associate for details. Prime delivery is fast. How fast are we talking? We're talking puzzle toys and lick pad delivered so fast you can get this puppy under control fast. Pads, cooling mat, pet cam are fast and fast. And those training treats faster than you can say sit. Fast.
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Fast.
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Free delivery.
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It's on. Prime.
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Hey, it's Ryan Reynolds here for Mint Mobile.
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Now I was looking for fun ways to tell you that Mint's offer of.
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Unlimited Premium Wireless for $15 a month is back. So I thought it would be fun.
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If we made $15 bills, but it turns out that's very illegal. So there goes my big idea for the commercial. Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch upfront payment.
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Of $45 for three month plan equivalent to $15 per month required new customer offer for first three months only. Speed slow after 35 gigabytes of networks, busy taxes and fees extra. See mintmobile.com.
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I was recently diagnosed with automatonophobia. That is a fear of human looking figures such as mannequins, wax figures, statues. You get it. The things that look human, but are not quite human. Specifically, I have a fear of dolls. I don't mean, like the Barbie lineup produced by toy companies, although they give me slight discomfort. I mean old, creepy porcelain dolls. My phobia has become severe enough that I could never allow any kind of dolls into my house or let my daughter play with them. I'd buy her any toy she'd want, even if it's more meant for boys, but I'd never buy her dolls. Then suddenly, one got delivered to my house for my daughter's birthday. I found it sitting on the living room couch, staring at me like it had done that night all those years ago. My therapist has suggested that I should write down what happened to me so that that I can start my recovery. I'm writing this down not knowing if it's still sitting in the same spot or if it's moving and watching me. The story begins with an old woman who lived in my hometown years ago. She was, as my mom would politely describe her, eccentric. What made her that way was that she was always seen carrying an old antique doll everywhere she went. Sometimes she'd be seen carrying it over her shoulder. Other times she would push it around in an old rusty baby carriage. She would be seen around town and her house with her doll, not caring about the stares or the things people would say. Sometimes she would be seen talking to her doll as if she thought it could talk back. One person described how they heard her yelling at her tiny, voiceless command companion from her house, as if it had broken some rule. No one believed she had a husband or children or any living family left to care for her. Which explains why it took a couple of weeks before someone found her dead in her house. A kind neighbor came to her property, offering to cut her unkempt lawn and help with much needed house repairs. Getting no reply after knocking, he opened the unlocked door and found her lifeless in the middle of the floor. I heard she had been found with a look of absolute horror on her face and her hand clutching her chest. The coroner decided she suffered a heart attack, but with no one else with her, she couldn't be taken to the hospital. Her house just outside of town was left empty after she had been moved to the morgue. No one knew what happened to her doll that she carried with her. One day, my friend and I were riding our bikes home after school and decided to check out the old woman's house. It was on the long way back from school. As far as anyone knew, she never willed the property to anyone, and the bank didn't own it either. So there it sat, with no one claiming it. But really, who would want it? The structure was a two story Bavarian style house that sat on a large lawn that had grown so out of control that it was rather reminiscent of a small forest with its own ecosystem of plant and wildlife. The house looked like it had been painted white at one point, but weathering and stains had stripped it of its brightness. Vines and moss had taken a foothold on the front wooden porch. All the windows facing us were cracked and even broken. A section of the pointy roof was starting to collapse. With nature seeming to reclaim some lost land, the one thing that seemed out of place was the baby carriage the old woman used. It sat in the front yard, rusted from disuse, leaves gathering in the inside and tears in the covering. My friend and I looked at the house from the sidewalk. It towered over us as it blocked the afternoon sun from its old pointed rooftop. I knew there was no one inside, but I had a nagging feeling that the house itself was watching us. My friend was recounting to me some rumors that spread about the house after the old woman died. They say her ghost still wanders the house. Still talking to the doll, he told me. He also told me how he heard that the doll still sits somewhere in the house. I meanwhile kept looking at the house and and a movement caught my eyes. A curtain on the second floor window showed slight movement but looked like someone had parted it. I told my friend about it and he just made fun of me for seeing things. I bet you couldn't spend all night in that place. He accused me with a sneer. I could too if I wanted. I protested, always trying to be brave to my friend for some reason. Sure thing, he said to me. You know the Back to the Future movies when Michael J. Fox got triggered when someone called him a chicken? Well, for me being called a wuss was worse. I took him up on his dare on the condition that I take pictures of the inside so he knew I wouldn't just run away. Later that night I waited for my parents to fall asleep before sneaking out of the house. I quietly exited my room and down the hall to the back door as it was more silent and farther away from my parents room. I grabbed my bike and rode it out of the neighborhood and eventually outside of town. Before I reached the old house. It seemed more menacing. After dark. The old house was illuminated by the light of the moon. I placed my bike on the sidewalk and made my way to the old structure, observing the window on the second floor. The curtains remained still. I took my first pic of the house. I made my way through the large grass and finally made it to the front porch. My foot leaned on the first step causing a large creak that echoed through the yard. I pressed forward to the front door. It had an old fashioned knocker in the middle. It had the shape of an eagle, its wings open in flight. It may have been bronze, but time had rusted it to a dirty brown with chipping paint. I reached for the door handle and surprisingly it turned weird. I thought they probably would have locked this door. However, since no one would take this place, why would it be locked? I opened the door to see a darkened entryway. My phone had a flashlight app so I reached for it immediately to turn it on. The entryway led to a long dark hall hallway with an open room at the end of it. The floor was covered in dust and trash. My flashlight had exposed some rats and insects hiding in the filth. The part of the floor that wasn't covered in trash showered a flower patterned carpet. Its color had long since faded. To my left of the entryway was an ascending staircase. To my right there was a smaller room that I think was the part parlor. The room was empty aside from some closed windows and furniture that was covered. The floor wasn't as littered in here as it was in the hallway. So I could see another old flower patterned carpet. The exposed wood was old and splintered. I snapped a few pics on my phone. I walked out of the parlor and back into the entryway. I stood over the middle of the floor. This was supposedly the spot where the old woman was found. The silence of a lifeless house had surrounded me. I pressed forward down the dark hallway. There were several paintings on the walls. They looked like portraits. The old lady featured frequently in them. After a few steps, I found myself stepping on something hard yet flexible as it squished under my shoe. Then I heard a faint but very unmistakable How Voice say one word below me. Either the word or voice caused me to freeze in place. I looked below me to see the source of the noise. I found a lonely baby doll lying atop the litter. It had synthetic blond hair and a dirty pinkish dress. I picked it up to inspect. Was about the size of my phone. It had dirt and filth coming covering its face and clothing. Its pink dress losing color. The face had suffered the most damage. There was a large tear in its plastic face. The scar showing the hollow inside of the head. I squeezed it again and it gave out another Mama. The voice box still operating, but very faint and muffled. I placed the doll back on the floor after taking another picture of it. Further down the hall I went. The room at the end turned out to be a large kitchendining room mix. The stovetop was covered in a layer of dust and grease from never being washed. The table was covered in a white cloth with dirty dishes on top of it. I found another doll sitting in a chair at the end of the table. This one was wearing an old sailor's uniform. It looked more male than the first one I saw in the hallway. I walked to the sink to find pots and pans flooding it. There was a layer of filthy, stagnant water underneath them from the amount of food matter and mold accumulating at the bottom. The pots and pans were never washed, food matter and grease being caked into them. The sink smelled terrible, like as bad as it looked. I took another picture of the room before leaving. Outside the kitchen, I found a close, closed wooden door. I opened it to find an old, very unclean bathroom. The tub and sink, both of which were supposed to be white, had yellow stain and mold inside the receptacles. The worst thing, however, was that the toilet looked like the stuff of nightmares. Dried fecal matter covered the inside as it was drained of all water. To this day, I can't use anybody else's bathroom without thinking about this mess. I quickly shut the door while trying to keep myself from vomiting from the sight and stench of that bathroom. I stood outside and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass. Then I heard a sound. The house itself was dead quiet until now, with nobody else but me here. But I could make out the sound of something creaking upstairs in a room above me. I know old houses make noises like creaky floorboards, drafty spaces, and maybe rats in the walls. This, though, sounded deliberate, like there was a rhythm to it. It went back and forth. I walked back down the hallway toward the staircase, shining my light up to the darkened second floor. The creaking sounded much louder from where I was standing. It was coming from up there. I should have left at that moment and forgot the whole thing, but instead I pressed upward, trying to be brave. The carpeted stairs made a muffled creaking sound as I climbed up. Total darkness greeted me as I went up further. Not just darkness, but a pitch black void with no discernible shapes. I reached the top of the stairs and turned my light on to the second floor hallway. This was a lot shorter than the main hall downstairs. There were Three rooms with the first two being closed. The one to my right was slightly open and I could hear the creaking coming from in there. I began to tense and my eyes widened. My heart was thundering in my chest. I was beginning to think that someone was here. Maybe it was some homeless person or junkie who had no other place to go. That didn't seem possible because it looked like there were no signs of anybody living here. I started to have the idea that the old woman's ghost was in the room waiting for me. I apprehensively approached the open door. I got close enough to peer through the crack in the doorway. I peeked through the crack to see the source of the noise and my heart felt like it was lurching out of my chest. From what I saw, I could only make out the part of the room. Through the slight opening I could see the window with the moon shining outside and an object moving back and forth across my sight. As it sat in the front of the window, it looked like an old rocking chair moving on its own, the back facing me. I opened the door to get a better view and make sure my eyes weren't fooling me. Sure enough, it was a rocking chair that still looked in good condition. Condition with its smooth wood and paint that didn't peel. As the door opened fully, the rocking chair suddenly stopped, giving some slight swaying as its momentum came to a grinding halt. When it stopped, so did the creaking. I paused, debating whether I should approach the old chair. It looked like no one was sitting in it. How could a rocking chair move on its own? I walked towards towards the chair, bracing for whoever might be sitting in it. I didn't find a homeless person, a junkie or a ghost. But it definitely wasn't empty. Another doll. This one was a porcelain doll about the size of a five year old. It had painted brown hair and painted freckles and dirt covering its face, which was illuminated by the moon. It was dressed in a small suit. Suit that had tears in it. I wanted to take a picture of it. I reached for my phone, but when I turned the camera on, the image kept getting fuzzy no matter how hard I adjusted it. Finally, I went in. To inspect was the creepiest thing I had ever seen. Its pale blue eyes, though motionless, seemed to have followed my face. The doll was utterly motionless. I thought there was no way that it could have moved the chair on its own. I poked it to feel what it was made of. The torso was stuffed with cotton or feathers. The porcelain head was the only Thing that had any weight to it. Still not enough to move the rocking chair the way it moved. I decided to check out the rest of the room, trying to put that creepy doll out of my mind. This looked like a playroom. There were games all around, more toys than I have ever seen, and books filling a whole shelf. It looked like this room hadn't been used in years. To the far side was an old dresser with a mirror attached to it. The wood was painted a dark blue, but may as well have been black for the minimal amount of light in here. The mirror was covered in a thick layer of dust, like it had snow all over the glass. I took my hand to wipe the surface of the dust. The room was a lot clearer in the mirror now. Then my eyes turned back to the rocking chair and I froze, fear coursing like an electric charge through my nervous system. My body became covered in goosebumps and my hairs standing straight up. There's no way it should have moved. There's no reason for it to move its head to face me. But that's exactly what it did. Its head turned to my direction to look in the mirror. Its reflection was looking back at me. I quickly turned around, the doll now directly facing me. The face seemed to have changed into a glare, as if it considered me an intruder in its world. Then I saw it moving again. The rocking was slight at first and silent. Then as the momentum picked up, the creaking came back as the legs rocked across across the rickety floor. This was the part when I decided to get the hell out of there. I looked to the open door to see how far it was. Only a few feet, but it may as well have been a whole mile. I moved my eyes back to the doll, making sure it didn't do anything else. As I got closer to the door, I got farther out of the doll's sight. Maybe I could leave without it moving. Or at least I thought I could, until the chair turned, turned around, creating a loud screech that reverberated through the room. The doll looked directly at me again. I hurried out of the room and slammed the door behind me, shoving my body weight against the door to keep it barricaded. My heart pounded as adrenaline and fear circulated in my blood. Sweat covered my forehead as my body heated up. I felt like I must run, but fear wouldn't let me. I was trying to recuperate when I heard the jiggling of rusted metal coming from my side. The doorknob. It was trying to open the door. It was Unsuccessful at opening, but that's what it was trying to do. It continued for a few seconds before it stopped completely. I took the chance and got out of there. I ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on the final steps. As I ran to the door, it was blocked by another porcelain doll sitting in the entryway. This doll had a clown face with a hobo outfit. Fear had kept me from moving or kicking the doll aside to run out. My panic spiked again as I heard the door from upstairs open and the sound of tiny footsteps were running down the stairs towards me. I had to hide. But where? I frantically searched the darkened room for anywhere to hide. I found one door straight ahead. As I peered through the darkness, I bolted for it and slammed the door behind me. Pressing my head to the wood, I couldn't hear the footsteps. Silence. Sweet silence. I resolved to calm down and then find a way out. I turned my back to the door and turned on my light to see the room. I was in true terror. Filled. Filled my being as I tried to scream, but it ended up being caught in my throat. More dolls. Shelves and shelves of them. Various sizes, designs and colors. This was a whole storage room full of them. They were all in various states of disrepair. Some were missing eyes, limbs or heads. Others were covered in dirt and filth. The biggest one was another clown doll in orange clothes and blue hair with black eyes in front of me. I checked each of them until movement caught my eye. One of them turned its head toward me, then another. Then one with no eyes started looking at me. Then they were all looking at me. I ran out of the room to find some escape. I didn't remember seeing any other door going outside while exploring. So that left only the front door, which has the clown doll sitting in front of it. With no other way, I ran to my only exit, picked up the doll and threw it so hard I heard it break into pieces as I bolted out of the entryway and into the front yard. I got to my bike in no time and rode off. I swear I heard multiple footsteps behind me. I rode so fast I felt like I was flying, never once slowing down to catch my breath. I didn't stop until I reached the stoplight on my block and then decided to brave one look behind me. Nothing. I wasn't followed by anything. I rode back to the safety of my house and locked myself in my room all night, always peering through the curtains. Daylight didn't come fast enough. I never spoke to my friend after that night, and I did not want to be around dolls for any length of time. I also avoided that house completely until the day it got demolished. Hopefully, so was everything inside of it. Even with that, I still had a sense of paranoia that one of those dolls would find me and show up at my doorstep. It turned out one of them did. It was my daughter's eighth birthday. A package came with her name on it, but no return address. It did have a plain card on it with only two words. Happy Birthday. She opened it up to reveal the same doll from the room upstairs all those years ago, its appearance cleaner than before, looking brand new. In fact, seeing that doll sent me right into an anxiety attack so bad I locked myself for two days in our bedroom. My wife, who used to find my fear of dolls amusing, now showed genuine concern for me. She told our daughter to keep the doll in her room. I never saw it do anything after that, making me think that I had probably hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe if it weren't for one thing. I installed a nanny cam in our daughter's bedroom and I keep as close an eye on it as I can. It'll usually be facing the wall, but whenever I turn my gaze away, even for a split second, its head turns towards the camera, looking at me through the other side of the lens. This episode is brought to you by LifeLock. Between two factor authentication, strong passwords and a VPN, you try to be in control of how your info is protected. But many other places also have it and they might not be as careful. That's why LifeLock monitors hundreds of millions of data points a second for threats. If your identity is stolen, they'll fix it, guaranteed or your money back. Save up to 40% your first year. Visit lifelock.com podcast for 40% off terms.
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Apply UnitedHealthcare Nurse Crystal checked in on a patient. We do a routine call after surgery and I could tell in her voice that she was struggling. Crystal knew she needed help. I knew that this is very serious. This is like septic, this is life threatening. And she knew just what to do. And I called the hospital and said she's coming in. Here are her labs and got her the help she needed. I see my role at UnitedHealthcare as a life saving role. Hear more stories like crystals@uhc.com benefits, features and or devices vary by plan. Area limitation and exclusions apply. If you used Babbel, you would. Babbel's conversation based techniques teaches you useful words and phrases to get you speaking quickly about the things you actually talk about in the real world with lessons. Handcrafted by over 200 language experts and voiced by real native speakers, Babbel is like having a private tutor in your pocket. Start speaking with Babbel today. Get up to 55% off your Babbel subscription right now at Babbel.com Spotify spelled B A B-B-E-L.com Spotify rules and restrictions may apply.
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Why the Dead Don't Come Back by Objective Tell6047 My name is Jacob Evans. I work for a large pharmaceutical company. If you're reading this, if this account survives, then something has happened to me. This is my last confession and I want one thing to be perfectly clear. There's a reason the dead don't come back. No matter how much you want your loved ones back to life, trust me, you are better off letting them rest in peace. Peace. I brought my wife back from the dead and I regret what I did. I'll get to the point. My company has made a product that is supposed to restore brain and respiratory activity in dead subjects. I have seen it work in lab rats and other animals. To my knowledge, they did begin human trials, but I was never able to see any records. It was around this time that I was only unsuccessfully able to check the reports that I got the news that my wife got into a car wreck. She had been rammed by an oncoming vehicle going twice or three times the speed limit. I tried to get to the hospital as quickly as I could, but I was too late. She had been declared dead just minutes before I got there. I had demanded to see her. Reluctantly, they showed her to me and the damage she had suffered through shards of glass could be found in her chest, her face as well as her eyes. Her torso had been covered in bruises. The biggest wound was a gash going across her skull where a loose piece of metal had impaled her head. The large wound had exposed her skull and brain. It had been the toughest day for me when I buried my wife. She had been the best thing that ever happened to me and I couldn't let her go. After burying her, I asked my co worker and friend about human testing on reanimation. He had been working closely with them. He couldn't tell me anything as he signed a disclosure agreement. With no one able to tell me anything, I decided to take matters into my own hands before leaving work. Work. I had managed to take a sample with me without being caught. The sample was an inky black substance with the consistency of watery mud. The smell it gave off was the mixture of smoke and tar Fumes. Stealing the sample was somehow the easy part, despite putting myself in all kinds of trouble for it. The hardest part, at least physically, was going to the cemetery after dark to exhume my wife's body. It was a quiet street that night and far away from any house so I could sneak my wife out of there without being noticed. I drove us back to the house and I carried her down to the basement, which now served as the personal lab. I strapped my wife to the cold steel table with a single light bulb shining above her, the light reflecting off of her pale body. I hooked up an IV bag full of the concoction to her arm. I also hooked up an EEG monitor to watch for a sign of brain activity as well as a heart monitor. The only other piece of equipment that I had on hand was a defibrillator to restore heart activity. I began the procedure by injecting the liquid into her veins. Slowly but surely, it made its way into her bloodstream until the bag empty. I took the defibrillator and tried to restore my wife's heartbeat. No signs on the EEG monitor. I had continued this for minutes and eventually hours, alternating between jump starting her heart and giving cpr. Three hours had passed. No sign of life could be detected. No matter how much I tried, my efforts were rewarded with the unresponsive corpse of my wife, total exhaustion and despair. In my exhausted state, I went back upstairs into my lonely bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress. Sleep overcame me in an instant. I woke up to the sound of a metallic clang coming from the kitchen, followed by the sound of boxes dropping to the floor sluggishly. I got out of bed to investigate the new noise and made my way to the kitchen. Switching on the light had exposed pots and opened cereal boxes on the floor. The sound of dry cereal crunching underneath my feet echoed through what I thought was an empty house. The next room was the living room, darkened with no lights on. I walked through the kitchen, making sure not to step on dried corn flakes and Captain Crunch. There were no distinctions, discernible shapes in the living room except for the furniture in the window. I reached for the light switch. My wife was sitting on the sofa in a slouched position, still in the dress she was buried in. She didn't acknowledge the light turning on. I was overjoyed seeing my wife alive. I walked to her, meeting her at eye level to get her attention. I called her name, but she didn't respond. I gently nudged her and she finally met my eyes. The gash in her Skull still visible to me. There were two things that caught my attention as she looked at me. First, the smell of decomposition and soil wafted heavily in the air. I could taste it. The smell seemed to have contaminated the air around her. The second detail I noticed was that my wife's eyes didn't have the lovely shine they did before. Instead, they were just two dull black holes, devoid of any light. I asked her to say something, and the only response she could give was a deep moaning sound. Deeper than her sweet voice used to be. I decided to ignore all of this and helped my wife to the bathroom so I could bathe her. I washed her, attempting to wash the foul odor off her body. Her joints were stiff, her hand and forearm curling upwards. She needed some help getting in and out of the tub. Her body was cold all over like ice. Her hair was a tangled mess of dry blood. Her wound didn't heal. She was silent the whole time. I bathed her. After her bath, I took her to bed with me. I couldn't get the stench off of her. I wanted to give her a kiss good night. But the smell was overpowering and stopped me from getting close. So I quietly turned around so I wouldn't have to smell her. As far as I could tell, she was still lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. I want to say that things went well after that. I want to be able to say she turned back into the woman I fell in love with. I want to say we had our happily ever after. I want to say that. But I can't. No, things didn't get better after that. In fact, things only got worse. I would find her sitting with her vacant expression at random spots throughout the house. When she did move, it was an awkward walk, like a choppy animation. Her limbs were still stiff with rigor mortis. Sometimes she'd be in our backyard, looking at nothing. The police had come to my house to question me about my wife's gravesite. They told me her grave was dug up and her body was missing from the casket. When I answered them, there was a loud clatter coming from the basement. I told them sometimes my cat makes a mess of things around the house. The police took my statement and left. Left while I checked downstairs. My wife had destroyed the equipment I used to resurrect her. She was also hard to feed. If I was trying to feed her, she would refuse anything I offered. I also bathed her every night, trying to get the smell off her. It never did. If she ever spoke, it would be her groans and grunts. Those Were the days I could handle her. As the days passed, her behavior became more erratic. Later I would start to find broken dishes and glass all over the place. The frames of our wedding pictures were busted. Not as disturbing as when I found her carving a scar on her cheek with a piece of our mirror. And that damn smell of death hung around everywhere she was, including on our furniture. It stuck there no matter how long I scrubbed it. One night I was trying to feed her and she was being belligerent. I asked her to please eat something, but she threw the plate of food across the room. I had enough of her acting out, so I left her in our room that night, locking her in like a child. In time out, I hated myself for doing it, but I needed a break. Plus, I just wanted one night of not being around that foul odor of rotting flesh. She was in there all night, moving around and clawing at the walls while I heard her noises from the sofa. She made a new noise that night. Not her groans and grunts. She was laughing, which was more like a high pitched cackling that caused me to feel nausea at the unnatural tone. I went to work the next day to get answers from my work friends. I told him everything I did and everything that happened. He responded with a look of absolute horror. That was when he told me what happened during human trials. Despite his promise of never revealing the details. The subjects were a mix of convicts who died behind bars and psychiatric patients who likewise died. While the concoction did reanimate dead subjects, they displayed unusual side effects ranging from unresponsiveness to violent tendencies. Even those who were otherwise considered non violent in life had started attacking others unprovoked. Sometimes they even injured themselves, like my wife did. Another side effect which matched my wife completely, was the constant smell of decomposing flesh around them. All subjects were deemed malfunctional and euthanized. And everyone on the project was either fired or signed disclosure agreements. The records of human trials were sealed away. This, he told me, is what I had to do to set things right. He gave me a glass vial of potassium chloride. Enough to stop my wife's heartbeat. I left dumbfounded. How could I kill my own wife? I had returned home to find my wife breaking another mirror in our bedroom. She turned to me with eyes that were once lifeless, but now filled with intense homicidal rage. She screamed at me and charged at me with a large piece of glass. The poison I had in my hand dropped to the floor and the glass vial broke upon impact. I flew, fled the room while she chased me as fast as she could on her stiff limbs. She was still surprisingly quick. I ran all around the house trying to give her the slip, but she was always on my tail. I tried going out the backyard and moving the patio furniture to block her way. It gave me a little time and I took it. I sneaked back in through the front door and found a hiding spot in our storage closet. Which is where where I am right now, recording this last message. I understand why the dead aren't supposed to come back. It's a traumatizing experience to forcefully come back when you're supposed to rest in peace. I should have left my wife in peace. Now my wife. No, no, I have to stop calling that thing my wife. It was never her. That thing is stalking me the house, looking for me. Each time she passes the closet, I fear she has found me, but moves on, clutching the large piece of glass. If this recording survives, I want everyone to know. Let your loved ones rest in peace. I should have, but I was too selfish. I broke the natural order and now I'm going to pay the price. It's outside the door. It knows where I am. The door is opening. I'm sorry, honey. I'm sorry for what I did. Please forgive me. God help. New season, new chaos in college football Big stage, big opportunity this Labor Day weekend. The wildness lives on ABC, ESPN and the all new ESPN app start featuring top 10 teams like Clemson, Notre Dame, Alabama and LSU.
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And Bill Belichick's debut at North Carolina.
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It's so special when these teams collide. Don't miss a lineup filled with electric matchups. Welcome back to College Football Kickoff Week presented by Modelo Labor Day weekend on ESPN and abc. Also available to stream on the Allne.
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App at Capella University. Learning online doesn't mean learning alone. You'll get support from people who care about your success, like your enrollment specialist who gets to know you and the goals you'd like to achieve. You'll also get a designated academic coach who's with you throughout your entire program. Plus, career coaches are available to help you navigate your professional goals. A different future is closer than you think with Capella University. Learn more at capella. Edu A Carlos no le gusta larena por quese pega todo cuando gabi organizo pareira sorfia rio lembito el dudoaniro tel con alberca panoramica lalista y pasaro nun acemana ne lagua vives paratener las cosas a tu Gusto. Vivimos con alberca. Cascada, Tina, Yuna.
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Regadere.
- [39:17]
B
Encreible. Expedia. Vivimos paraviajar.
- [39:24]
A
I'll never forget the screams. It was a warm spring night in the late 90s and we were on our way home from our little cabin in the woods. It was old, musty and a bit dilapidated, but it had been in the family for generations and monthly trips were a well ingrained family tradition. My dad described it as a good place to unplug from technology and the world and it was just that passing through that rickety screen door was like stepping into another era. Despite the lack of modern day comforts like plumbing or air conditioning, I had always enjoyed the cabin. If my family values one thing, it's tradition. The only complaint I'd ever had about the cabin was a hard time sleeping. When I was younger it wasn't necessarily the ever present chorus of wildlife buzzing, insects chirping birds, squirrels crashing through the underbrush. It wasn't my youthful imagination running wild with growling wolves, monstrous bears or mysterious creatures crashing towards the flimsy walls of the cabin in the dead of the night. What kept me awake was the soft scratching I could always hear underneath the floorboards. It wasn't a great aggressive and it wasn't loud. It was persistent, the faint but incessant grinding against the grainy wooden planks. As a young child I would call out to my mother at night, afraid she would sit at my bed and run a hand through my hair reassuringly. There's no need to be scared baby. That's just Andy. He wants to come out and play. Just ignore him. This had been a good weekend. The lake was warm enough for swimming and the fishing was great. This had been a special trip, my high school graduation celebration. We drove home under a bright moon and I was comfortably leaning my head against the cool glass window. My parents conversation fading into a dull drone as the street lights zipped by. I faded in and out, closing my eyes and drifting off. The blast of a horn and a devastating explosion violently ripped me from sleep and nothing would ever be the same again. I was spinning. Broken glass shards flew through the air, tearing, slicing. My mother was screaming. I will never forget those screams. There was blood. The car rolled into what felt like slow motion, finally smashing against a telephone pole and coming to rest. Then, with a gut wrenching finality, it was over. A dizziness overtook my senses and blackness blossomed everywhere. I was vaguely aware that I was bleeding and I felt an intense pressure in my head. It took me a few moments to realize that I was hanging upside down, held in by my seat belt. I could smell smell the burning stench of deployed airbags and gasoline fumes. Call 91 1. The unfamiliar voice sounded like it was underwater. I could hear boots crunching against broken glass. Consciousness began to fade. Mom? My mouth was filled with copper, tasting blood, and I coughed. I couldn't quite comprehend what I was seeing, my parents motionless in front of me. My mom looked wrong. Her neck was sickeningly twisted in a direction that isn't possible. Her torso pointed forward, still neatly seat belted in, but her face was staring directly at me. Her lifeless eyes were wide open, lips twisted into a silent, terrible scream. The car had crumpled in such terrific fashion at the driver's side that I couldn't see my father at all. There was thick, congealed blood and bits of hair that had been forced out of the twisted metal frame against the pavement. The best way I can describe it is if you'd set a tube of toothpaste on the floor and stomped on it. I could see shiny white bits amidst the carnage, and I tried to force myself to not recognize it as pieces of my father's skull. I stared at my dead mother's face for a long time. I couldn't look away. It wasn't until I could hear the screeching of the jaws of life sawing open the twisted wreck of the car that consciousness faded. There must be some kind of mistake, I said dumbly. I don't have a brother. The attorney shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I'm afraid not. And I do apologize for being unfamiliar with your family dynamic. However, the wording is quite clear. We sat in a downtown office suite that overlooked a main thoroughfare through massive glass windows. Can you read it for me again? My head was spinning. I desire that should I die, it is my wish to be buried according to the rights of the Roman Catholic Church and entered at Skip down to the next line. He cleared his throat. To my esteemed children, Ethan and Andrew, give the bequeath the following properties, to wit our cabin located at he rattled off the address and continued to name bank accounts, the family house, and other assets in official sounding legal lease. I don't have a brother. I don't know who Andrew is, I repeated. The attorney looked sympathetic and slightly awkward as he adjusted his necktie. I understand, Ethan. My investigators are attempting to ascertain this Andrew's whereabouts. He set the papers down on his desk and stared at me. This isn't the first time I have seen an unconventional family dynamic. Why your parents choose chose not to tell you about your brother is a question I cannot answer. But surely there is a plausible reason. Andy, I muttered. My hands began to tremble as summer faded into fall and fall into winter. I began to obsess about the existence of Andrew and my mother's explanation of the scratching underneath the cabin. That's just Andy. He wants to come out and play. I had to see it for myself. I had to know. I drove south under a full moon, clenching my teeth as I passed the mile marker where the crash had occurred those many months ago. I turned onto a small dirt road that held the cabin. Gravel and dirt spit behind my car into the darkness. All the cabins were all empty at this time of year. No one vacations in the dead of winter. Skeletal tree branches clawed and scraped the sides of my car as I pulled up the narrow driveway leading through the choked woods and up to the cabin. This small, squat log cabin had none of its charm that it held in springtime. In the dead of this cold winter night, illuminated by nothing but my Chevy's headlights, it looked menacing, haunting. I clicked on my flashlight and tucked it under an armpit. As I fumbled with the keys, my breath frosted in the frigid air. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I stopped and listened closely. It was there, faint but present, soft scratching from underneath the floorboards. The hair stood up on the back of my my neck, and my heart began beating faster. A heavy padlock secured the small door leading to the crawlspace underneath the cabin. A little key accompanied the larger front door key on the key ring. It slid into the padlock easily. The little door groaned as I pulled inward and the padlock clattered to the floor. A stench assaulted my senses and I fought to keep my lunch down. It stank of rotten meat. It stank of death. My heart beat even faster. The small flashlight cast a pitiful beam of yellow light into the inky blackness that stretched downward into the bowels of the cabin. The wooden steps creaked and groaned under my feet as I descended underground, the beam of light now trembling wildly across the moldy walls and uneven dirt floor. Tree roots protruded in some areas. The ceiling of the crawlspace was crisscrossed with thousands of shallow gouges and scratches. As I gagged on the foul odor, the beam of my flashlight illuminated the creature in a sickly yellow light. It sat on its haunches deep in the shadowed recesses of the crawlspace. I froze. Bile rose into the back of my throat and blackness ebbed into my vision as adrenaline dumped, it softly scratched on the ceiling with bony fingers that were too long. Its skin, white as curdled milk and horribly smooth, glowed against the flashlight. It didn't seem to notice me as it continued its relentless scratching on the ceiling with bloody and worn down fingertips. Its ribs jutted out from malnutrition. It was vaguely human in composition, but at the same time totally otherworldly. Its eyes were completely white, like a cave dwelling beast. I gagged again, and that's when it noticed me. It snapped toward me, enlarged nostrils flaring angrily. I could hear a barely perceptible sniffing as it cocked its head and scrambled toward me at an astonishing speed. It used its hands as much as its legs in the cramped confines of the crawlspace as a gorilla would. The way it moved was all wrong. It was fluid but primitive, like some kind of reptile. I screamed, dropping the flashlight and scrambling up the staircase. I could hear a soft grunt as the creature hit the stairs only a few feet behind me and closing the distance fast. That thing was so terribly quiet. A cold, wet hand wrapped around my ankle like an eel. I felt another massive adrenaline dump and I lashed out with my free foot, catching the creature in its head. I tumbled down the staircase case silently, the blackness totally enveloping it. I plunged out of the crawl space, slamming the door shut and leaning against it, breathing heavily. Dad. My son called me from the bedroom. It had been many years since my encounter with Andy, and try as I might, I simply cannot connect the dots as to why my parents had kept my deformity of a brother hidden away in a crawlspace imprisoned their dirty secret. I went to my son's bed and sat down, his little frame not even taking up half the bed. Moonlight spilled through the open window, illuminating the room. Sh. I said as I ran a reassuring hand through his hair. Dad, the scratching again, he whined. It's okay, pal, I said. That's just Uncle Andy. He wants to play. Just ignore him. Besides, we're headed back home tomorrow. I got used to Andy scratching, and my son would get used to it too. He settled down and fell back to sleep quickly. I sat next to him for a while, listening to the soft scratching and smiling at the absurdity of it all. I think most people would have sold that cabin, or maybe burned it down to the ground. But I wasn't raised that way. I was raised with tradition, and if my family values one thing, it's tradition. I work with crazy, violent people by Artemis908 for as long as I can remember, I have been told psychology was in my blood. Every Blackstone from the past six generations have all been psychologists. I think my parents thought for a moment that I would be the Blackstone that would break that tradition. Both of them were titans in their field. My mother a published author who was among the first first to study PTSD in preschool aged children and my father an award winning psychologist who established one of the largest inpatient psychiatric hospitals in the state. I, however, never had any interest in continuing in my parents footsteps. Growing up I pictured myself in the arts or doing something creative. I never seemed to fit in and always felt more comfortable around the outcasts at school. It really wasn't until my senior year of high school that I began to see what psychology meant to my family and how important it was that our legacy continue. So after years of studying, followed by years of hard work and building professional experience, I finally earned a spot on staff at my father's hospital. At first it was hard living up to his legacy. Everyone always expected expected nothing but perfection from a Blackstone in the psychology field. But after a few years I was able to step out of my father's shadow and he retired, leaving me to set and raise the expectations of our family name. Excuse me, Amanda. I mean Dr. Blackstone, a nurse said as she peeked into my office. I sighed, lifting my head up from my laptop and tucked a stray strand of red red hair behind my ear. Why does this woman never seem to knock before she just barges into my office? I cleared my throat and met her eyes. Yes. She stuttered nervously for a moment and looked away. It was amazing how after two weeks on the job she still couldn't look me in the eye. I was told to come find you. There is a patient on the way with special instruction to be seen by you. You only. I nodded and closed my laptop as I stood to my feet. It was likely one of my returned patients that was coming back with some sort of relapse. Sadly, I had seen far too many patients leave seemingly recovered and well medicated to only come back within days or weeks because they can't make it out in the real world. I silently picked up my large black notebook that I took with me whenever I saw a patient and gestured to the nurse to lead on. After four hallways and an elevator two floors down, we passed by the guard station to a secured section of the hospital where many of our worst patients stay. I didn't have many patients in Ward B. I didn't have the kind of extensive experience some of the Other doctors at the hospital had, and my father once told me that I was still at the part of my career where I could be more easily made manipulated by the true psychotic masterminds that frequented these rooms. To have one of my previous patients end up on this floor was bad. My blue eyes darted around anxiously, making note of my surroundings and who was nearby. We stopped at a door and the nurse stepped back, looking at me like a lost child. I peered through the small window to determine who was in there, but all I could see was a small, petite figure with short, dirty red hair facing the corner of the room. Who is she? I asked. The nurse stuttered again, which only made me frustrated. Where is the file? I asked, this time with a more stern tone. There is none, she replied. It took me a moment to process what she was saying. What do you mean there is no file? Is the computer system down? No, Doctor. I mean I can't find one, she responded. I grew more frustrated and my voice began to raise. Then why did you bring me here if she isn't one of my patients, if she's new, get the doctor on call for this ward. I'm sorry Dr. Blackstone, but when they brought her in she said she had seen you and asked for you by name. I tried to pull up her records but but she wouldn't give me her name. So I thought maybe I could bring you here and you'd remember her. They checked for id, but she had none. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned in closer to the door, still unable to see her face. Go back and talk to whoever brought her in. See if you can find any other information and come back. I want to know everything about what brought her here and why she is in this ward. The nurse nodded and quickly walked walked away, scrambling past the guards further down the hall. As I watched her disappear from view, I entered a code into the door and slowly opened it. I cleared my throat to ensure she heard me enter, but she did not look up from the corner she faced or even move an inch from her position. Hello, I'm Dr. Blackstone. No you're not, she said in a whisper. I kept my distance as I often do in a room alone with a patient. My eyes glanced to the camera in the corner of the room, knowing a guard could be there in moments if she attacked. I am, I responded. I was told by one of the nurses you asked for me. Have you been here before? Do you know where you are? I want to see Dr. Blackstone, she whispered angrily. I watched her carefully and took note of her appearance. She was wearing green scrubs as our patients often do to ensure they are not hiding any weapons in their clothing, but her skin was so caked in dirt it was difficult to determine any features on her face. However, even with how unclean she was, there was still something familiar about her. What's your name? I asked. She slammed her palm hard against the wall and growled, I want to see Dr. Blackstone. Her fingers began to bleed from the force to the wall and a guard quickly rushed in grabbing a hold of her, twisting her bloodied hand behind her. She screamed and resisted for a moment. Our eyes met and I froze. She smiled with a mouth of half rotted teeth back at me as she collapsed to the floor before another guard entered the room take a hold of her, but she no longer resisted. I felt like I lost my breath and backed out of the room, going into the hallway. Her hair may have been different and her face may have been hidden behind dirt and grime, but her eyes. They were the same eyes I saw every day when I looked in the mirror. I leaned against a wall and tried to piece together what was happening as the nurse came rushing back into the hall with a folder. Dr. Blackstone, I think I found something. It's old, not even in our electronic files. I quickly snatched the file from her and opened it. There were pages and pages of handwritten notes, all in my father's familiar penmanship. I looked back inside the room at the lifeless creature on the ground that was now wrapped up in a jacket to protect her from hurting herself again. She laid the side of her head on the ground as the guards stepped away and went walked outside the room and locked her inside. She saw me peering through the window and smiled again, letting out a haunting laugh before I quickly turned away and brought the folder close to my chest. Don't let anyone else in there. Do you understand? She's dangerous and I don't want any other doctor seeing her right now. The nurse and guards nodded as I nervously rushed away making my escape to the elevator before I opened up the folder in my hand. Who is this woman? I asked myself as I tried to scan through page after page of notes written by my own father starting from 1983, the year I was born, to 2001, the year I graduated high school. For some reason the notes just stopped there, which seemed very odd for a long term mental patient. Did this person, whoever she was, move away? Did she suddenly disappear as the elevator doors opened? I stepped out into the hall and back to my office, flipping through pages in the folder and as I opened my door I looked up to see my father standing beside my desk. Dad, what are you doing here this time of night? It's 1am Something inside of me knew he was here because of whoever this patient was down in Ward B. He moved behind me, quietly closing my office door and gestured for me to sit. Eyeing the folder in my hands, I couldn't help but feel on edge. I loved and trusted my father, but what was he hiding? As I sat down behind my desk, I clutched the file closer to my chest. He frowned as he moved next to me and leaned on the edge, his tall, slim figure towering over me.
- [60:52]
B
Me.
- [60:53]
A
It still frightened me the same way that it did when I was little and getting ready to be punished. We sit in silence for what felt like eternity, but in reality was only a few moments. Finally, he spoke. What is it that you think you found here? He gestured to the folder. I looked down. I had hardly any chance to read it before he showed up here, but I didn't want to give anything away until I knew what he was up to. Looks like a simple patient file to me. Someone who was in your care for a long time. He smirked like he often did when he caught me in a lie. You know there is no point in playing games here. Your mother and I have always known this day would come. I just wish I could have been here first to explain things before you just dove in and read about things you just can't understand. I looked up, meeting his eyes. And what is that supposed to mean? He laughed. Oh, I love that spark in you. It's going to be very useful in this situation. Won't you let me explain before you just jump to judgment? I am your father after all. I looked down and collected my thoughts for a moment. He's my dad. He would never hurt me. I've grown up with this man my entire entire life and he has never laid a finger on me, not even a spanking when I was a child. I laid the folder on the desk. All right, go on, explain. He stood to his feet and began to pace as he often did when trying to work through a problem, thinking silently to himself for a few moments before starting. I guess let's start from the beginning. 37 years ago, your mother and I, two fresh faced, naive newlyweds, had just recently graduated med school and were ready to take on the world. However, that all suddenly stopped when we found out she was pregnant. I rolled my eyes silently. I had heard this story a hundred times. What does this have to do with anything. He held his hand up to silence me before continuing. It was a difficult time. Your mother had a difficult time being taken seriously in the field. I was still trying to live up to my father's name. Your grandfather wasn't as supportive as I was, and just when we thought it couldn't possibly get any more difficult, it happened. He paused, almost hesitating to continue. I threw up my hands and leaned back in my chair. What? He met my eyes and walked toward me. We had our first sonogram and discovered we were having Twitter twins. I looked up at him, confused. He took my silence as an opportunity to continue. We couldn't afford twins. Not only that, but how would either of us be able to advance our careers with two children? It wasn't in our plans and we never had intended. He trailed off for a moment and looked at me sadly. Your grandfather always believed that each of us had to stand on our own two feet without any support from the family. We always had to prove our worth to him. So getting any help from him seemed hopeless. Until the NVN project. The NVN project? What are you talking about? I asked. Your grandfather suggested a deal. He would pay one family, one very different from ours, one not so fortunate, to take one of our daughters, and in exchange would help your mother and I. He would make all of our problems just disappear. Of course at first we said no. But as we got closer and closer to the due date, things just weren't getting any better. Neither of us were able to get steady work and we just had no choice. He sighed and looked down. So I went back to my father and asked him what I needed to do. He explained that we would take this opportunity to do a long term private experiment. Experiment that studied nature versus nurture. So what? You just gave my twin sister away? I can't believe you would do something like this. I yelled. Lower your voice. Do you want the entire hospital to hear you? Let me continue, he replied. No. I've had enough of this. I can't believe you would just give up my sister to some crazy, probably abusive family. And I bet you barely gave these people enough money to survive, right? Because otherwise it might taint your little experiment. Your sister isn't the one we gave away, my father replied. You were. I clenched my fists and stood up from my seat. Now you're going too far. Stop playing games, dad. He moved slowly toward me. Each year we would check in with the other family and pay them a small amount of money for their partition anticipation and silence. It was difficult seeing you there. They obviously weren't using the money to take care of you. And they already had five of their own children. I don't think they treated you very well. He shook his head for a moment, almost looking ashamed. Eventually we began to realize we made a mistake. But it wasn't until you were both in high school that we decided that we had to get you out of this situation. I looked down, trying to gather my thoughts. I had no memory of being anywhere else or any other life. I closed my eyes tightly trying to think through the last 20 years of my life. How could my entire past be gone like that and replaced with someone else's memories? When you came to us, it was tough at first, but you began to disassociate yourself from that previous life and eagerly take on any new good memories we had to offer. It made no sense. How could my entire life be a sham? How could none of my memories from childhood be real? Every birthday, every Christmas, every family vacation. Seventeen years of my life never happened. And then it clicked. Something inside of me changed when I turned 17. I was once a creative, artistic outcast that had not a single, single interest in continuing in my parents footsteps. And suddenly that all changed. Why? You didn't do this for me, I replied, slamming my hand on my desk. You did this for you. That girl, my sister, didn't live up to your high standards for a Blackstone, so you just traded her in for a new one. One that you could manipulate and twist into the perfect daughter. He looked at me. His once apologetic and sad expression quickly turned into one of anger. I saved you. Do you see that woman in that padded cell downstairs? That could have been you. Do you expect me to be grateful? I screamed. You separated me from my only sibling and treated us like lab rats. We are people. We're your daughters. His eyes widened and he patted his hands down. Shh. Calm down. We can figure this out. We can fix this. Fix it? I replied. There's no fixing this. Did you see my sister? You have destroyed her. She is in complete psychosis. He nodded and began to pace again. But she's in this hospital and she knows everything. She could easily tell anyone, anyone what has happened here. I shrugged. And what do I care if your little secret comes out? They are your secrets too, he replied. Do you know what this would do to your career if people found this out to your life? Do you think your friends, your colleagues, your fiance would ever look at you the same? Derek, I whispered to myself. He would understand. He knows me better than anyone. But then I began to wonder. Who am I really? Almost my entire life is a lie. I barely know myself. How can I expect anyone else to? And what do you expect me to do, Father? Just lock her away forever like some kind of monster? She's a human being. Go talk to her. He moved to my desk and grasped the folder, putting it on top of the my black notebook. You'll know what to do. He then put my fountain pen on top of the folder. It was a graduation gift when I finally became a doctor and was engraved Dr. Blackstone. Remember who you are, he said. I thought to myself silently and collected my thoughts. I owed it to her to at least talk to her. I nodded and picked up the folder, notebook, and pen. Don't follow me. I don't think she will respond well, seeing you. He nodded in agreement. I'll stay here. You go and let me know how it goes. I glanced back at him and it was as if I was looking at a stranger. I turned and walked back to the elevator again going to Ward B to visit the woman who had my face, my eyes, my past. I walked past the guards as they nodded, watching me look through the tiny window that looked into my sister's cell. She hadn't moved an inch from where I left her, still strapped to a jacket and still on the floor, her face pressed to the floor. I took a deep breath and punched in my code. Entering the room. I looked down at her but she didn't respond, so I crouched down and gently moved her up. She didn't resist and allowed me to move her in a sitting position. I needed to see her face and look for something, anything that remained of this person. My sister. She opened her eyes and met mine. This woman was my sister. A sister I never even knew existed. My mind still struggled to understand what and who I was looking at. So you've come to visit, Sister? She whispered to me. I took a deep breath. It hadn't occurred to me that she would be lucid enough to know who I am. She smiled softly and tilted her head as she stared back at me. I see our parents have treated you well. Nice hair, nice clothing, nice life. It took me a moment to find my way. Words. My mind couldn't comprehend what was going on or believe what I was seeing. I stared at her for a moment, trying to think of the right words to say. What happened to you? She frowned and shrugged her shoulders. They didn't want me. I didn't fit their perfect little family, their perfect little plan. She stood up. I instinctively stood up with her, unsure of what she might do next. She moved her head toward my shoulder and attempted to scratch her nose against my jacket. My intuition told me that she was harmless and that she didn't deserve to be here. So I unstrapped the jacket and freed her hands. She nodded. Thanks. She scratched her nose and neck and eyed me up again. I was lucky I didn't grow up with them. I looked at her, confused. She smirked at my unawareness. Henry, Judith, your parents, or whatever you want to call them. She scrunched up her nose and looked down to the floor. I only had to deal with them until I was 18. But you. You had them as mom and dad for the first 17 years of your life and I can't even imagine dealing with them as a defenseless child. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to picture these people. For a moment I could see them and the feelings began to all flood back. Fear, pain, helplessness, hunger, anger, hopelessness. The abuse and torture they inflicted on me made my younger years terrifying and I began to understand why it was so easy for me to forget. She frowned as she looked at me, her face washed with sympathy. Don't let them control you, Danielle. We were forced into this by four evil people who didn't deserve to be parents. My eyes shot up and I stared at her. What did you call me? She chuckled and twirled around. That's your name, silly. You're Danielle and I am Amanda. She suddenly dropped to her knees and grabbed my legs. Danielle, you have to get me out of here. I'm your sister. You know this isn't right what they did to me. Don't let them find me. Don't let those people find me. Stop calling me that. I yelled and tried to push her off of me. But that's your. Your name. And now that you're here, you can take your life back and I can take mine. It's been 20 years. Now it's my turn. She smiled and looked up at me and I felt a rush of pure hatred and disgust. Did she think she was going to trade places with me like some kind of movie? Get off of me. I screamed. She laughed and jumped to her feet. She twirled around again like a child that had just found out they had gotten a puppy for Christmas. Beaming with happiness, she continued to chant Danielle over and over again. I pleaded for her to stop again, but she refused, her chants only growing louder. I don't know what I was thinking or what came over me, but I needed her to stop. I needed her to be gone so I uncapped my pen and raised my hand, stabbing her in the neck. She screamed and I raised my hand again and again, stabbing her in the face. She tried to fight me but she was weaker than me. Her bloodied hands grabbed at me, covering me with blood as her face dropped to the ground. I dropped the pen and stared at the disfigured face in front of me. Just as I stepped away, two guards came rushing in. What happened? They yelled as they scooped her up, trying to determine determine if she was still alive. I. I don't know. I stuttered in shock of what I just did. One of the guards looked down at the bloodied pen on the ground. Did she take your pen? Did this crazy woman do this to herself? I nodded slowly. I I don't know what happened. Suddenly there's just blood everywhere. One of the guards radioed for help as the other looks me over covered in blood. You better get to the infirmary and make sure you didn't get hurt. We'll take care of this and come get you. I nodded again and slowly made my way out of the door as two more guards came rushing in. I stumbled into the elevator and pushed the button back to my office. As I slowly made my way back to where I left my father, I could see him waiting patiently at my desk. He seemed unfazed by the blood blood covering my clothing and hands. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. You did it. The problem is taken care of. I nodded silently, unsure of what to say or how else to respond. Good girl. I knew I could count on you. I dropped to the seat in front of the desk and stared down at the blood on my hand. My sister's blood. A flood of memories began to flood back in my mind. Every moment of every day that told me how worthless and unwanted I was, it all came back to me and I felt nothing except pure resentment and anger. For 17 years I faced the horrors these people inflicted on me and I was never going back to that kind of life ever again. Now let's get you home. He stood up and went to my side, offering his hand. I reluctantly grasped it and allowed him to lead me out of the office, feeling completely numb from the inside out. As I followed him to the elevator, I could see three guards gathered around several monitors. As the elevator doors opened, I could see them rewinding back through camera feeds, obviously trying to figure out what happened in that room with my sister. I tensed up and my father grasped my arm. I'll take care of it, he whispered as he pulled me into the elevator. I didn't know how or what he would do, but I somehow trusted that he would take care of it, because if he didn't, he knew what I was capable of. In fact, I think he was counting on it. Since the day my worthless sister left this family and I began my new, better life as Amanda Blackstone. And he better never forget.