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- [00:00]
Dane
Hey, this is Dane and this is Scary Stories in Rain. Please join my family and follow this podcast on Spotify or Apple. And if you want the ultimate experience, you can get rid of all of the ads and be entered to win all of my giveaways every month by subscribing for just 299amonth. All of the ads gone, every single giveaway automatically entered. And starting now today, every Sunday, I'm going to release the ultimate episode. 6 to 12 hours long ultimate Scary Stories for a Rainy Night Subscriber Exclusive and as a reminder, we are now four months away from my first movie release in theaters. Gale Yellow Brick Road A dark and terrifying reimagining of the wizard of Oz. If you want to check out the first trailer, click the link in the description to this episode and if you're not following my other two podcasts, please go check them out. Scary Stories and Fire and Scary Stories After Dark. The links are in the description. Thank you so much for being here and I really hope you enjoy this episode.
- [01:04]
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- [01:32]
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- [02:10]
Dane
When I was 7 years old I lived on 62nd Street. I had a ton of neighborhood kids that I played with every day and the days were spent roller skating, riding bikes and going from house to house playing with all my friends. It was 1981 and my parents were pretty relaxed about letting me leave and be gone all day until nightfall. I don't remember when I first saw Mr. Hinkle the old man that lived at the end of the block, but I remember the other kids warning me about him. Make sure never to walk in front of Mr. Hinkle's house. If he sees you, he'll run out and chase you. Mr. Hinkle grabbed me and tried to drag me into his house one time when I was getting my Frisbee out of his front yard. Mr. Hinkle is the meanest old man in the world. Mr. Hinkle hates kids. After hearing all this, I was afraid, but I was also intrigued. I wondered if he really was as mean as they'd all said. Would he actually try to chase us? So over time, we all got a bit braver and started to walk in front of his house. Nothing happened the first four times we did it, but on the fifth time, I heard the screen door open and there he was. I see a short, bald, wrinkled old man holding a wooden cane raised over his head, shouting at us kids to get off his property. He wasn't fast, but he began to shuffle out the door towards us. I noticed he was wearing slippers, and I was surprised by that for some reason. But then all of us ran as fast as lightning to get out of there. Once we were all the way down the block, we stopped running and began to laugh and talk excitedly about what just happened. It was like seeing Bigfoot or the Wolf man and outrunning them. Seeing such a feeble and slow old man made us feel that he couldn't do anything to us. So after a couple of days, we decided to up the stakes just a little on our fascination with him. I dare you to knock on Mr. Hinkle's door. This dare went on between all of us kids for about two days before someone was finally brave enough to try. Was Mikey, the oldest boy of 10. As we all watched from the safety of some bushes across the street, none of us breathed as Mikey crept over to Mr. Hinkle's driveway. My stomach was in my throat as Mikey tiptoed over to the porch and the front door. Just as Mikey reached his arm out to bang on the door. Mr. Hinkle whisked the door open faster than we thought possible and grabbed Mikey by the arm. We heard him shouting at the boy, who was hopping up and down, trying to get away. We all screamed and ran in every direction to each of our houses. I ran so fast I never looked back. As I rushed in my house, breathlessly telling my mother about the kidnapping I had just witnessed. She clearly didn't believe me and told me that I should be ashamed of myself for bothering a little old man. I was then forbidden from going down to Mr. Hinkle's house again and sent to my room. As I sat on my bed, I could only imagine what was happening to Mikey. The next day, as I rode my bike down the sidewalk, there was Mikey. I rushed over to ask him what happened. He dragged me into his house and he was laughing because I couldn't get away. He had an ironed grip on my wrist, but my brothers taught me how to fight, so I kicked him right in the knee and he let me go. He was bent over, so I knew it had to hurt. My mom went and talked to him. After I told her what happened, she said she would call the police if we came near his house again. So I'm basically grounded. Wow. Me too, I said. After this, we all left the old man alone. It wasn't worth it. And after seeing Mikey get grabbed, it was just too scary to mess with. So life went on. Months went by. I only saw Mr. Hinkle one other time when a nurse was helping him get out of his car and walking him into his house. It looked like he had a nurse with him at all times, so we all assumed he was really sick. But as I said, life went on and we forgot all about mean ol Mr. Hinkle. Until one day in October. It was about two weeks before Halloween, and all of us kids were totally excited. The neighborhood was decorated and we talked about trick or treating, which houses were the best and what costumes we were going to be playing. Somewhere in the middle of the block, we finally look over and notice that Mr. Hinkle is sitting in a lawn chair in the middle of his driveway. He never came outside, so this was definitely out of the ordinary. He was wearing a large brown fedora hat, a tan jacket and trousers, brown leather shoes. His cane was resting against his leg and on his lap was a huge punch bowl filled to the brim with candy. We watched him for a minute until he looked over at us and smiled. Ah, young children, come and get some candy. He yelled. He then chuckled to himself, but kept smiling this weird, too large of a smile. It instantly felt like a trap. We huddled together and talked it over. Should we go over there? No. But he's got all that candy. It's a trick. I don't know. Let's just walk over. But don't cross the street. We finally all agreed. We slowly walked over towards the end of the block, making sure to stay on the opposite side of the street from his House. Yes. Come children. Get you some candy. He bellowed as he saw us walking towards him. It was completely and totally weird. We all knew this was not right, but the temptation of candy was just too enticing for all of us. We had to know what the catch was. Finally, we are directly across the street from Mr. Hinkle. Come. Come on, have some candy. He would keep keep yelling. Mikey finally shrugged his shoulders and walked over. Mr. Hinkle just smiled and nodded his head. And Mikey gingerly grabbed a candy bar from the punch bowl. He stood there and opened it, and Mr. Hinkle, seemingly understanding that Mikey was the test dummy, said, see? Don't you want some candy? My friend Beth then walked over and got some candy. She stood right there and ate it. Me and Angela exchanged looks and smiled. Guess it's all right. We ran across the street and both reached in and grabbed some candy. Good. Mr. Hinkle said. We all stood there eating our candy, and Mr. Hinkle, still smiling, said, yo, get some more. As we all clustered around the punch bowl, each of us grabbing more candy. Mr. Hinkle had picked up his cane without us noticing. Thwack. Thwack.
- [09:49]
Degree Advertiser
Thwack.
- [09:53]
Dane
He laughed as he began wailing on all of our heads with his cane. Get you some candy. Mr. Hinkle yelled and laughed as he swung the cane wildly, trying to hit us again. We were all stunned, but we all yelled and ran far enough away so that he couldn't reach us. We stood there watching him, confused as to why this little old man was so crazy. Finally, his nurse came out and said, Mr. Hinkle, you get back in this house and leave those kids alone. And she bent to pull him up out of the chair, moving the candy to the ground. Mr. Hinkle was still wildly laughing and shaking his cane up to the sky as she led him inside. We all went home quietly, wondering what just happened, too young to understand. Two nights before Halloween, I heard sirens. I looked out my window to see an ambulance heading down the street and to see it stop in front of Mr. Hinkle's house. I saw lots of commotion, but I didn't know what was going on. I found out the next day that Mr. Hinkle died. I was sad but disturbed, and I didn't know why. Halloween night was a blast, and after gorging on candy and watching all the Halloween cartoons that night I finally went to bed. I woke up to a loud thunderstorm. My bed laid directly underneath my window to my room. And when I was lying in bed, I could see Outside, lightning flashed and Mr. Hinkle was staring at me through my window. He was wearing his big brown fedora and he was tapping his cane against my window and he had that same sickening too wide smile and crazy eyes. You got some candy, didn't you you dirty little girl? He said in a sing song type of voice. I screamed and cried for my mother as I ran out of my room. My parents rolled their eyes, chalking it up to too much sugar and too much imagination. But I refused to sleep in my room for a week after that. The day after this happened, all my friends talked about the terrible nightmare they had all had about Mr. Hinkle being outside their window. Every single one of us experienced the same thing. Everyone seemed to accept it as just a bad shared nightmare. I was the only one who always wondered what really happened? Was I asleep? What was that thing outside my window.
- [12:53]
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- [13:31]
Dane
I live in rural southwestern Ontario in a town called Tilsenburg in the heart of the Tobacco Belt. I was born and raised in Norfolk county and have since lived all over the province, and my sleepy little corner of the woods is without a shadow of a doubt as bizarre as it is isolated. It isn't isolated in a physical sense, more so in the city sense that it has always and will always be rural farmland peppered with Carolinian forests, small towns and the kind of self hatred you can only find out in the country or in small towns nobody ever escapes. Now, like most small communities, belief in the paranormal is quite common. These things can easily be explained away. Historically, rural communities have a tendency to hold onto superstition and the soul crushing boredom that small communities are faced with often presents a golden opportunity for a story due to a traumatic event involving a violent carjacking. I moved in with my girlfriend's family about six months ago. I have heard countless stories about ghostly encounters in this house from my girlfriend beforehand, which usually left me in an odd combination of sincere belief, skepticism and intrigue. That is until I started having experiences myself. My first encounter in the house was six months before I moved in. My girlfriend, like I said, filled me in on plenty of stories about the entities she has encountered here, and while her experiences correlate with her parents own experiences in the house, she by far has the most frequent encounters. According to her, there are three active entities in her an old woman who lived here in the 1930s, a tall and hulking dark male energy, and what we call the Crawly Boy. While she is sure of the identity of the world woman, she has never been entirely certain that the latter two are indeed two separate entities. Whether the Crawly Boy is the same entity as the tall man is unclear. We aren't entirely sure why he crawls, if it is meant to scare us, or if this was just some poor guy who had his legs crushed by some farming equipment. We were sitting in the living room in the early morning around 1am maybe 2am to this day she tries way too hard to stay up with me. The pristine silence of a mostly asleep house is an enticing prospect for the introverted. We were sitting and watching TV when she starts complaining about seeing wisps, usually indicative of a migraine. A few minutes later I started seeing them too. That happens down here at night, she said to me. Sometimes I think it's just a migraine, but then sometimes other people see it too. Five or ten minutes later I happened to glance over into the adjoining dining room and wouldn't you know, I saw it too. It's hard to accurately describe, but I'll try. You will see movement out of the corner of your eye. A white, shapeless mass will register in your periphery, usually whipping by or disappearing as soon as you turn your head. Sometimes you don't even register it, as it can resemble a coming migraine or exhaustion, but if you pay attention to the room around you, it is anything but normal. As we sitting there, I glanced up into the dining room and noticed that something was off. It was as if the room was distorted, as if the room itself and all of its contents were vibrating and that vibration caused everything to just wiggle. Seeing this, any rational mind in the modern age would probably jump to gas leak as a probable explanation for this. This. But I swear to you, our carbon monoxide and gas detectors are functional. If there was a gas leak in the house that was large enough to distort the appearance of an entire room, we would all be dead. So we are sitting there just watching and wondering what could cause this when out of nowhere comes the unmistakable feeling of being watched. My girlfriend smile suddenly shifts her gaze to under the table. I look unsure of what I'm seeing. I could have sworn that I saw a blur along the floor under the dining room table. It was then that she tells me that she had seen something crawling along the floor and seemingly hiding. At any rate, it's gone by this point, but the feeling of being watched is still, still very much present. Time goes by and we go back to doing what we were doing. I had gotten up to get a refill and sat down, picking up the remote but fumbling and dropping it. As I get up to lean down and pick it up from beside the recliner next to me, I catch a glimpse of something I can hardly believe. As I pick up the remote, I see something under the couch, something moving. I focus in on what I'm seeing, and my brain finally registers what it an arm. A thin, pale arm with what I can only describe as silvery, putrefied skin as it skulks back further under the couch. Every horror movie on earth has prepared us for this situation. Nothing good comes comes to those who look. And so we didn't. Six months later, after I had moved in, we were sitting on the front porch in the heat of the summer, talking about whatever when the subject turned to ghosts. Like I said, just about any person living here will tell you a ghost story if you talk to them long enough. This particular conversation involved involved the creepy statue of the Virgin Mary at the church across the street. And somewhere in the conversation, her son, just recently, having turned 10, looks up at us and says, one time I saw a man without legs, and he was crawling past our house from over by the hospital toward the church. The car's engine revved as I sped down the road. I was lost in thought and hardly took notice of the rain crashing against my windshield. Nature seemed to sense my anger. The storm was rising. I poured more vodka down my throat, my eyes constantly darting to the shiny black handgun lying on the passenger seat. Brushing the cold metal with the tip of my fingers, my mind involuntarily flooded with images of my oldest daughter, Mara. Her entire life played through my mind in mere seconds. My last memory of Mara was from when I had to identify her body in the morgue. My hands began to shake. An uncontrollable tremor spread through my body. I pulled over the car, unable to continue, and slammed my fist against the steering wheel. The images of the morgue would not leave me. I closed my eyes. There she was, lying on a metal table. A blanket had been carefully draped over her body, only revealing her Pale face. She had just turned 16. Death seemed to have aged her well beyond that. The pathologist placed his hand on my shoulder. I had not been able to comprehend any of his words. The man's actions had seemed so forced and well practiced. It only angered me more. I had asked for a moment alone. After the doctor left, I hesitated. I instantly placed my hand on my daughter's cheek. Almost instantly, I pulled it back. She had felt so cold. I stared at her lower abdomen, where I knew the knife had pierced her. For a fraction of a second I contemplated pulling away the blanket and exposing the wound. But I could not muster the strength. She looked peaceful now, as if she was sleeping. I feared exposing the wound which had killed her would somehow change that. That had been a little over a month ago. The police had quickly caught the youth who committed the crime. Some bum who had attempted to rob her and wielded his knife a little too over enthusiastically. He had murdered her, although she had given him her purse. I punched the wheel again. It wasn't fair. The youth's trial was yesterday. He'd been acquitted on account of procedural mistakes by the police. The man had smiled at me as they let him out of the courtroom. It wasn't fair. That bum had destroyed my life at an astounding rate. Great. My wife could barely stand to look at me anymore. A week ago, she moved out of the house and took our youngest daughter with her. She told me I needed help. She said she couldn't watch me ruin my life. I didn't blame her. This past month, I found solace in liquor. I could not let go of my pain. It felt festered into an uncontrollable rage. All I could think about was the injustice of it all. All I could see was the pale face of my dead daughter. All I wanted was to kill the man responsible. It became an obsession. I had been unable to console my wife. My youngest daughter had practically not spoken since the loss of her sister. I found her quietly curled up in Mara's bed most days. Unable to let go, unable to move on. It broke my heart. I had felt a strange sense of relief watching them both drive off. I did not need them to see what happened next. I did not want my youngest daughter to witness her dad being dragged away from murder. I preferred the solitude and the warm embrace of alcohol. My eyes darted back towards the gun and I sighed. I had to do this. Otherwise I would never know peace. Determined, I turned the ignition key. The car purred gently before reverting into stillness. I turned the key Again, nothing happened. I cursed loudly and tried again. Nothing. I took out my frustration on the steering wheel until both my hands ached. I grabbed my phone, ready to call a tow truck, but it would not switch on. The wind howled outside. I checked my watch, but it had stopped working. Everything seemed to be in suspension. After a short internal debate, I decided the thought of remaining in the car suddenly seemed unbearable. Feeling restless, I kicked open the door and got out of the car, hastily stuffing my weapon in my jacket pocket. The storm was livid. The rain poured with such force it temporarily deafened all other thoughts coursing through my mind. I was drenched within seconds, but it didn't bother me. I started walking down the road, crossing a little bridge across a river. Mumbled curses escaped my mouth as I realized I was lost. A cold mist lazily enveloped me. Not knowing what else to do, I continued walking until a distant light pierced through the gray veil. Like a moth, I gravitated towards it, its source a small bus stop. Relieved to have found some cover, I fell back into one of the metal seats. My hands were were numb. I rubbed them together for a couple moments before reaching into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes. After taking a long drag, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bus stop. Slowly, I blew out a cloud of smoke and the tremor subsided. Without instruction, my mind drifted back towards the youth who had killed my daughter. A familiar doubt fell over me. I had always valued human life as a family man. I had constantly tried to maximize everyone's happiness. Now here I was committed to blowing a hole in the head of my daughter's murderer. I turned around and looked at my reflection in the glass. I could no longer recognize the pale, lined face staring back at me. Droplets of rain slowly slid down the glass. It gave my reflection even more of a somber appearance. I looked back out in front of me and took another drag from the clammy cigarette stuck between my fingers. Closing my eyes, I exhaled, expelling another cloud of smoke. Rough day? The voice startled me. The cigarette slipped from my grasp and fell down my shirt. I jumped up, swearing as ash scorched my chest. Jesus, I muttered at the young boy standing before me. The boy grinned. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I shrugged and sat back down. The boy took a seat beside me. It holds a strange beauty, doesn't it? I glanced at him. What does? He nodded out at the storm. There was a silence. I broke it by standing and pacing up and down the little bus stop. When is the bus going to get Here. The boy gave me an appraising look. I'm afraid no bus can take you to where you want to go, John. I absentmindedly shrugged off his words and lit another cigarette. After my first drag, it hit me. I stared at the boy. He stared back. A latent intensity burned in his eyes. How do you know my name? I know a great many things. I snorted. Sure. I know the pain you feel, John. I have seen it before. Many times. I crushed the pack of cigarettes in my hand, feeling a fresh wave of anger crash over me. You don't know me. The boy gave me a second sad smile. I have seen this before. Someone loses someone close to them. As a result, you feel rage build deep inside of you, fueled by guilt because you weren't able to prevent what happened. Unable to see that it was beyond your control to begin with. You could never have changed what happened. Yet you cannot forgive yourself either. The mind cruelly tortures the body until your heart is riddled with sorrow. Now your existence is anguish. You wish you had been the one to die because the thought of living on just seems too difficult. Living in this world does not seem bearable. At the sight of such a loss, I remained speechless, unable to comprehend the little boy beside me. The boy sighed and scratched the back of his head. I've seen this before. After a while it all begins to look the same. The faces may change, but emotion remains constant. Your face is lined as so many before you, a canvas of hate and anger. The boy sighed again and jumped to his feet. Murder will not bring her back. I spun towards the boy. What did you say? Mara is gone. Murder will not bring her back. The boy spoke the words so casually it took me a moment to register them. Then, before I could stop myself, I slammed the boy against the glass wall. The entire bus stop trembled. Don't you say that name. I shouted. Tears began streaming down my face. Don't say it. The boy stared at me with a blank expression. He put his hand around mine and slowly pulled loose from my grip, his fingers hard as iron. I feel for you. I really do. Your daughter deserved better. Shut up. I know you think revenge will dull the pain. That somehow using that thing in your pocket will make you feel better. I fished out the weapon. The boy stared at it. Something dark swept across his face. He briefly held out his hand before suddenly retracting it, as if the weapon had electrocuted him. That will not solve your problems. That guy deserves to die. I spat out the words with as much bile as I could muster. Then I fell back into the metal seat, suddenly exhausted. Exhausted? My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I took some deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself. The boy stood motionless, staring at the falling rain. You know, it never gets easier, he finally muttered. After all these years of helping people cross over, it still remains difficult to let go. Sometimes some deaths are so much more deserving than others. I should not judge anyone. Yet I cannot help but feel for some of them. Occasionally the ones I meet radiate such light it pains me to extinguish it. I don't always want to, but I have no choice. My existence is one of duty. The boy radiated an eerie calmness as he spoke. I felt my heartbeat returning to normal. Who are you? How do you know these things? The boy gave me a sad smile. I guess I am a traveler. Everyone will meet me at some point in their lives, whether it is in the beginning or the end, or somewhere in between. I don't understand. The boy shrugged. I wouldn't expect you to. The boy looked at his watch. The bus should be here any minute. As soon as he had spoken the words, two lights cut through the inky darkness. The bus stopped before us and the doors slid open. The boy climbed up the little staircase. Once he got to the top, he spun around. I have never done this before, but will you take a short journey with me, John? Where are we going? The boy shrugged. I'm not sure yet. All I know is that. That you should join me for this. I hesitantly looked at the boy. There was something about him. I felt compelled to join him. I took the boy's hand and climbed up the stairs behind him as the doors closed. The bus driver was old. Very old. A shroud of matted white hair draped around his shoulders. Icy blue eyes stared at us. I instinctively pulled out my wallet and passed him some cash. The boy laughed and held back my hand. I'm afraid that won't work. I don't have anything else. The boy tapped my wristwatch. Show him that. I stuck out my arm towards the driver. He stood, stared at it before also tapping the watch a couple of times and inspecting the unmoving dials. Seemingly satisfied, he waved us inside. The boy hurried towards the back of the deserted bus and waved me over. I sat quietly beside him. Where are we going? The boy grinned. This journey is not. Not about destination, per se. Then what is it about? It's about everything. The boy exclaimed. And also about nothing. The boy must have recognized the exasperation on my face. He cleared his throat. You should consider yourself lucky, John. I laughed humorlessly. I should consider myself lucky. Lucky that my daughter is dead. Lucky that my other child had barely spoken in weeks. The boy's eyes grew hard. Having someone you love ripped away before their time is difficult. I understand that. Do you really? I muttered sarcastically. More than you could possibly imagine, the boy replied coolly. I have guided many people before their time. I have comforted both young and old, held the hands of both murderers and the murdered. I have held newborn babies and taken children from their parents embrace. I have walked the fields of countless battles. I have waded through rivers of blood. Wherever I go, the dead follow like moths attracted to a flame. You could not comprehend the endless sorrow I must navigate. He wiped a single tear from his eye. Within them I only saw grief, as if his words had opened an old wound. I felt sorry for him. Sometimes I feel so far away from everything, the boy continued. I worry I have become too indifferent, that I will fulfill my duty without truly understanding what it is I should be doing. I felt like a spectator watching eternity unfold itself. I offer hope to those I meet whenever I can without knowing whether my words are true or not. I have no idea what comes after this, John. I wish I knew. I wish I understood my purpose. My life is a paradox. My existence is perennial and yet one of insufferable solitude. You must feel lonely. The boy nodded. After that we sat together in silence. The boy stared out the window. He seemed deep in thought. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, and before long I had fallen asleep. I woke up disoriented. The bus was deserted, and for a moment I thought I had dreamed my encounter with the boy. Then the bus driver turned around. His blue eyes pierced through me, and he pointed towards the little hill that we were parked beside. He's waiting. With a quick nod, I jumped off the bus. I reached the top of the little hill, panting. The boy leaned against a tree and observed the spectacle unraveling itself. Below, a small crowd had fathered before a tiny grave. A priest stood reading from the Bible. His actions seemed almost mechanical in their repetition. Why are we here? The boy remained silent. Whose funeral is this? The boy nodded at the crowd down below. You know whose funeral this is? I quickly scanned the crowd, only recognizing familiar faces. Is this my funeral? Is that what this is about? Are you showing me what will happen if I murder Mara's killer? You know, the boy repeated, his voice a mere whisper. I looked at the people occupying the front row of chairs. My family was nowhere to be seen. My Youngest daughter's godparents sat before the pitiful hole in the ground. They held each other as they cried. My knees suddenly felt weak. Slowly I slid to the floor as tears soaked the earth around me. Where am I? Jail? A simple yet sober reply. Where is my wife? The boy's eyes remained on the little crowd below as he scratched the back of his head. She is not here, John. Where is she? I sobbed so hard the words left in a single slur. Your wife found her after you were taken away. The little girl could not cope anymore and hung herself in Mara's room. Your wife was unable to handle the strain and had a breakdown. She is currently forcibly restrained in an asylum two hours away. Next week she will suffer a stroke. The boy glanced at me, his eyes riddled with pity. She will never recover. Slowly her will to live will siphon away until only the smallest amount of lies dormant in her heart. She will be trapped in her body, a mere husk of her former self, wanting to die yet unable to do so. I would not wish such an existence upon anyone. My tears had subsided for something worse, A feeling I could hardly put to words. A feeling of loneliness so immense I could barely breathe. I felt like I was being crushed by infinite grief. The boy smiled sadly. You see how cruel destiny is, John? By all accounts, your actions will be directly to blame for this. One moment of rage will destroy everyone you care about the most. What you seek is justice. What you offer is condemnation. A searing anger took a hold of me. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing me like this? The boy shook his head but offered no reply. I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away and never look back. But I couldn't find the strength to get to my feet. Instead, I dropped my head in my hands. I thought I had more time. The boy smirked. Everyone always thinks they have more time. I wish I could have told her how proud I was. The boy placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. She knew. I patted his hand, unable to respond. Together we stood on the little hill in silence. The minutes crept by. Why did you really come to me? The boy scratched the back of his head and looked at me. He seemed to be deliberately deliberating with himself. I have always believed myself to be bound by laws I have no control over. Laws I don't quite understand. To my surprise, the boy suddenly chuckled. But lately I met someone so outrageous they dared to challenge my path. Can you imagine a speck of dust challenging the full might of the inevitable? The boy fell silent for a Moment. Then he continued. She made me wonder whether I too can challenge what which seems inevitable. Maybe the constraints which bind me are self imposed. Maybe I fear the freedom disobedience would grant me. The boy smirked. I love live for those moments. Reminders of how exceptional life can be. She made me realize something, John. If she managed to find the strength to confront me, then maybe someone as lost as myself, bound by eternity, might possess the power to break free. I don't understand. Sometimes when people. People die, their gaze manages to pierce through time and they get a glimpse of what is to come. Your daughter saw all of this? He pointed at the crowd below. Then the boy smiled. Mara was exceptionally stubborn. When I met her, she absolutely refused to come with me. She refused to submit to her fate, as few have done before her. The thought brought a smile to my face. Do you know why she refused to come with me, John? Out of anger. The boy shook his head. Out of love. Her love for you. For her mother. For her sister. Her love was strong enough to challenge forces even I dare not resist. I was in awe of her, John. That's why I promised her to show you this. She truly was a kind child. Silent tears rolled down my face, but their sting was less painful than before. The boy grabbed my hands and gently pulled me back to my feet. In time, you will see her again. She will be waiting for you. For all of you. But she hoped she would still be waiting a while longer. Do you understand? I did not have the strength to answer. All I could do was give the boy. Boy. A weak nod. Together we walked back to the bus and took our familiar seats in the back. Thank you, I said after a moment. Thank you for taking care of Mara. Thank you for helping me. The boy looked taken aback. Wherever I go, people usually fear me. They recoil at my touch, even if I only mean to help. I have always been hated because I am a reminder of the inevitable. Never before has someone thanked me. His words carried such emotion. I tentatively put my arm around the child's shoulder. The boy gazed up at me. Tears slowly formed in his eyes. He leaned into me and cried. I let him. Before long, I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, we were back at the bus stop. The boy accompanied me to the front, where the doors slid open. I walked down the little stairs. The moment my feet hit the pavement, the dials on my watch began to move once more. This is where we parked, the boy said from inside the bus. I looked at him sheepishly. My mouth opened, but no words came out. I did not know what to say. Where will you go from here? The boy shrugged. I never know. Are you Death? I suddenly asked. The boy grinned as the door slowly slid closed. I sat at the bus stop long after the bus had disappeared. Then I walked back towards my car on the bridge. I took the weapon from my pocket and threw it into the river. I was ready to go home. I am not very good at writing. In fact, I feel like sometimes I ramble off topic. But I will give it my best to keep this in order. This is one of my many terrifying stories that will forever haunt me for a little context. This happened when I was very young, around seven or eight years old. We lived in quite a big neighborhood. At the time it was just my parents, my brother, who was three years older, and myself. My mom loved later, had two other children. It was probably late spring leading into summer. Nights got longer and warmer, so my mom likes to keep the windows open. That being said, the sliding back door was connected to our kitchen. Our living room is what you come into first when you open the front door. We were sitting in the living room one night with my mom watching watching one of her favorite shows. We were all enjoying spending time with each other. Our dad worked nights so he was not here during this. I remember my mom sitting on the corner of our sectional couch, my brother on the armchair next to her and me right beside her. She always had to have ice cold Pepsi with her at all times and and as kids we always want what our parents have, so of course I asked her for a drink. She didn't want me to have too much before bed, so she told me to go get a small cup and she would give me just a little bit. I remember skipping into the kitchen, excited since she said I could have some, and reaching up to open the cabinet to grab a cup. In the moment I realized I was too short to reach. But at the same moment, something sent a chill down my spine as I heard glass shatter. Confused, I wasn't quite sure where it came from, so I spun around to look. There outside the back patio was a broken beer bottle. I went back into the living room to tell my mom what I had heard in scene it was the 90s, so parents at the time, we all know, didn't really care or worry as much as they do now. She brushed it off as some fluke or you're just hearing things. Ordeal in the moment. I believed her. Of course I did. She's my mom. So I went back the second time to get the cup. I was on A mission. I can get that cup by myself. I didn't need help, so I scurried over to the counter and hiked my knee up on top to give me a boost as I'm kneeling on the counter ready to grab the cup. There it was. A weird breathing sound coming from the back porch. I turned my head slowly, slowly to look as I jumped down off the counter. I still couldn't see much as it was dark outside. I started walking closer to the back patio to get a better look due to our back porch light being on. And right when I got to the sliding screen, a man stepped right in front of me. I remember feeling a deep burn in the pit of my stomach and static on my skin. Not only was this man standing there looking down at me, he was only wearing a shirt. A half cut gray shirt. That's it. Nothing below. Just the shirt which would appear to be wet. What was maybe not even a minute long felt like 20 minutes. He went to reach for the screen door latch. Thankfully I was able to unfreeze from the horror and run back to my mom screaming. By the time she got there, he was gone. Disappeared into the pitch dark of the night. The next morning I woke up and met up with my friends. We were on the backside of all the townhomes playing when it hit me. Looking at the majority of everyone's back porch. There was a broken beer bottle. This man seemingly was peeping into everyone's back door. I'm guessing to finally come across one that was open. Later, it dawned on me who this man might have been. The maintenance man of the townhomes and his daughters went to my school. He. He always gave me the creeps and I just had this feeling that it was him. I don't know what would have happened if I never unfroze. In that moment as he reached for the latch, if he had opened the door, would he have grabbed me? Would he have hurt me? Would he have tried to come inside and hurt my mom? Would he have tried to come inside and hurt all of us? I'll never know. Thankfully, no one knows. Nothing was ever done. Nothing was ever reported. I'm not even sure if my mom believes me. That maybe I was just exaggerating him being naked. But I know what I saw. It will forever be burned into my memory.
- [55:10]
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- [69:15]
Dane
It's.