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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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- [01:53]
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I have always had a morbid curiosity. From true crime podcasts to documentaries to books and spending hours online looking up killers both infamous and obscure. In fact, when I was in the fifth grade, my parents had to come in and talk to the teacher when I told the class about the body farms the FBI uses to teach future agents to to identify how long corpses have been dead for. I devoured this kind of stuff and still do. But it wasn't until I met Matt, my roommate at college, that this hobby was taken up a notch. Like me, Matt was into the same things, only his parents were rich and gave him enough money so that he could go on what he called death tours. Where he could go see where murderers lived, where they worked, and even to the sites of their grisly murders. And since I was his friend and into the same things as he was, he would pay for my ticket and bring me along. The first place we went was where HH Holmes, Murderer Castle once stood. Since it was no longer there, we both thought this was a bit of a letdown. A shame too, because he was my favorite serial killer. Lots of people look at me odd for claiming I have a favorite serial killer or when I explain that I love true crime and all its gory details. It's not like I am dangerous or anything. I just want to know how someone could go ahead and actually kill someone. Everyone has thought about it, but to actually go ahead and do it is. Well, that's what I find fascinating. The summer break before our senior year, we decided to take off to Arizona to explore where Mateo Salazar hunted for nearly 20 years before he was caught and executed. When Matt suggested this destination, I didn't know who Mateo Salazar was. So Matt showed me his stats, all the people that he killed, how long he was active, etc. His crimes were so gruesome that I was surprised that I had never heard of him. He would abduct people, give them strange tattoos before skinning them alive, and then kill them. No one knows why he skinned people he forced tattoos on, but it's suspected that it was part of a strange and twisted religious ritual. Also, the exact number of people that he murdered is a topic of contention, but it is anywhere between 35 and 50. Shortly after he was caught, the area he hunted in became a ghost town. Not just because no one wanted to live in a place where that many murders happened, but because it was so isolated that there were no jobs to keep people around. Since then, it became a sort of grim tourist attraction dedicated to the man who killed so many. When we got there, I expected to see a tour guide, but other than the dust being kicked up by the wind and the abandoned buildings, there was very little to see. I would have thought that there would have been at least someone in the gift shop, which was the former post office, but that too was empty. Most of the things in the small and dust cover covered gift shop were knickknacks and not interesting to either Matt or I. However, there was one thing that caused a cold shiver to creep up my spine. Under a glass counter was Mateo Salazar's death mask, taken shortly after his execution. Beneath it were the last words he spoke, and when I read them, it sounded more like a curse. My work is not finished. It will never be finished. I'll be back. Matt was not bothered by this, but for some reason that I cannot articulate, I was. I had to leave. But instead of telling Matt the mask made me feel uneasy, he would have teased me if I did. I just told him I'm going off to explore. Which was true. All over town there were plaques. Some gave a brief history of a building and others were about the people who lived or worked there. Most of them were either Salazar's victims or friends who were oblivious to the horrible things that he did when he was alive. Like always, I took tons of pictures while Matt ran off to do his own thing. In hindsight, I wish I had followed him around. Maybe things would have been different if I had. After a few hours had passed, I realized that I hadn't seen him around for a long time. It wasn't like the town was large enough to get lost in. In an hour I had been down every major road and after two hours I saw mostly everything the town had to offer. Yet there was no sign of Matt or anyone else. I wondered if this was one of his tricks, like he was going to jump out and try to scare me or something. If you know Matt, you would know that this would not have been a surprise. However, if he was going to jump out and scare me, he was displaying an uncharacteristic amount of patience because I hadn't seen any sign of him since since leaving the gift shop. I called out to Matt after seeing all I could in that ghost town, but there was no reply. It's hard to explain how it felt having an entire town to myself. The best word I can come up with is eerie, but that falls short. Thankfully, Matt didn't jump out to scare me, but the look on his face hinted that he did something he should not have done, but I was too scared and cranky from walking all day to ask him about it. Driving back to the hotel, Matt asked me what I thought of the town and I told him that I was sort of let down by it. I was hoping that there was more to see at Least a tour guide that could have told us what the Internet couldn't. I assumed that Matt wouldn't have been disappointed with my opinion, but it didn't bother him. After a long moment, I turned to look at him and saw a smile that did little to hide some mischievous deed. I asked what he did, but instead of answering, he said he would rather show me when we get back to the hotel. And I knew I was not going to like what he would say. Back at the hotel, he opened up the backpack that he had with him all day and pulled out the death mask of Mateo Salazar. He had stolen it from the gift shop. With a smile, he said he was going to hang it up on the wall back at the dorm. Needless to say, I was upset about this. Even more so when he said it was alright because he looked and there were no cameras. As if I was mad that he might get caught and not because he stole something. I was tired and I didn't want to fight. It wasn't like it would have done either of us any favors if I did. So I decided to drink at the hotel bar for the remainder of the night. When we got back to the dorms, Matt stayed true to his word and hung up the death mask on the living room wall. There it served as an interesting conversation piece when we had guests. It didn't take long before our guests had claimed that they were getting a weird feeling from it. When asked about it, they said it wasn't so much as the feeling of being watched, which was also the case, but more like it was radiating evil. At first we considered this nonsense. No one had that feeling before we told them about its origins, so we chalked it up as the placebo effect. In truth, though, sometimes it gave me the creeps. I too would get the feeling of someone watching me when I was alone. In the weeks that followed, I would be doing something for class, reading a book, or researching something online. And in the corner of my eye, I could have sworn that its eyes were open. However, every time I looked, its eyes were shut. I told myself it was the trick of the light, my imagination, or that I should take it easy with the edibles. However, none of that explained how Matt's behavior changed. He started missing classes. He stayed out all night and hardly spoke to me. I should have done something, but at the time, the only thing I could think of was talking to his parents. Sometimes, when he thought I was asleep in my room, I could hear Matt talking to himself. One night I spied on him and discovered that he was actually talking to the death mask. I needed a break from this and decided to go to a party. I didn't go with Matt, not because of how much he changed, but because parties were never his scene. So I was a little surprised to see him standing in the corner looking at everyone at the party. The way he was looking at people wasn't like his usual self. It wasn't like he was trying to build up the nerves to talk to a girl that caught his eye. It reminded me of the way a reptile looked at something cold and unfeeling. Eyes calculating to decide if it was worth the effort to go after. Coming up with an excuse not to return to the dorm room was a no brainer. I needed a break from Matt, so that night I slept at my girlfriend's house. The next morning I was reluctant to return, but when I did, I saw police cars in the parking lot and on the grass next to the doors. People were crying and holding each other. When I asked what happened, they told me my roommate killed a girl while I was gone. I refused to believe it, but then someone showed me a video on their phone of the police marching Matt out of the dorms as he was laughing. The police interviewed me and I cooperated to the best of my ability. They didn't ask about Mateo Salazar's death mask, so I never mentioned it. After a few hours of interrogation, I was free to go. But I was warned not to leave town. The people in the dorms treated me like a leper and kept away from me. Not surprising. After all, it wasn't a secret that the two of us had the same interests. And it was only natural to assume that I was involved with the murders too. The details of Matt's crimes came out over the next few days, and to me they sounded exactly like Mateo Salazar's. He abducted three people, two girls and a guy, and killed them. Rumor was he also gave them tattoos and skinned them. I couldn't help but to think of Salazar's death mask if I wasn't already freaked out by it. Hearing the details of Matt's crimes was the straw that broke the camel's back, and I decided to get rid of it. However, before I could throw it in the trash, someone knocked on the door. When I answered it, I was surprised and confused to see two people who didn't look like they were police or FBI. Not only were they hairless, but they also had bright orange coveralls. After asking who they were and what they wanted, the shorter of the two angels answered in a monotone voice and said they just wanted the mask. I would have given it to them for free but they pulled out a checkbook and asked me to name my price. When I said the number I thought they would haggle me, but they didn't blink and wrote out the check. Surprised at this sudden windfall of money, I didn't say or do anything to stop them when they let themselves in in and took the mask off the wall. They left without a word after taking the mask and I watched them depart down the hallway. On the back of their coveralls was the same name on the check. The Catadesmos Museum.
- [15:13]
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If we knew more about our sleep, what would we do differently? Would we go to bed at a consistent time or take steps to reduce interruptions to our sleep? With the all new Sleep Score, Apple Watch measures your bedtime consistency, interruptions and sleep duration. Then every morning it combines these factors into an easy to understand score from 1 to 100 so you'll know how to take the quality of your sleep from good to excellent. Introducing the new Sleep Score on Apple Watch iPhone 11 or later required we.
- [15:44]
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- [16:17]
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One night out with some friends, I was dared to go inside of a local abandoned house. Everyone from my school knew about this house. Being a young teenager, I said, sure. I approached cautiously, stepped into the decrepit house, its creaking floorboards echoing through the dimly lit hallways. I ventured deeper. A chilling breeze whispered through the broken windows, sending shivers down my spine. Shadows danced on the peeling wallpaper, playing tricks on my imagination. A sense of foreboding gripped me as I entered the living room. The air grew heavy with an unsettling silence, broken only by the sound of my own heartbeat. Something wasn't right. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I made my way up the stairs, each step groaning beneath my weight. The musty scent of decay lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of fear. The hallway above seemed to stretch endlessly, its darkness swallowing the feeble light of my flashlight As I tiptoed, further across from me stood a large, old wooden door. Against my better judgment, curiosity propelled me towards it. I pushed it open, revealing a room frozen in time. Dust covered furniture and faded photographs lined the walls. But it was the mirror that caught my attention. Its surface was stained and cracked, reflecting a distorted version of myself. As I stared into its depths, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing there. The room was empty. Yet the feeling of being watched intensified. Panic welled up within me as I realized that I was not alone in this house. Whispers filled the air, slightly faint and muffled. I strained to listen, my heart pounding in my ears. The voices grew louder, their chilling words crawling under my skin in a desperate attempt to escape. I turned to run, but the door slammed shut, trapping me within the room. The whispers became screams, echoing through the house, tormenting my mind. Shadows writhed and twisted, merging into a grotesque figure that advanced towards me. Fear consumed me as I realized I had stumbled into a realm of darkness beyond comprehension. It was a place where nightmares took form, where the line between reality and the supernatural blurred. As the dark figure closed in, a cold grip tightened around my throat, choking the life out of me. It was at this moment my eyes opened, only to realize it was all a dream. I have been homeless for a while, not helpless nor without a home. I won't get into it because it serves no purpose to the story. I sleep under the stars every night, and I do not mind the mist and the overcast weather. In the morning, I find it easy to rise. The light is not too overbearing as it reaches my eyelids. There is no heat, nor is there cold. The birds and the frogs and the crickets are the first sounds in the morning, and I find no equal in the extremity of events. Since I've chosen this lifestyle, there have been some events that stand out, some more than others. Time is precious, however, and it would be best if I summarized this story now as quickly and concisely as possible. Sleeping with the elements leads to many different outcomes. I must see, say, whether or not I choose to. I wake up every single day at 3:30 in the early morning. This is what I believe is considered the witching hour. For the most part, it is silent and statuesque. There was one time where I awoke face to face with a raccoon peering back at me. We were both close enough to kiss each other's noses. I jumped up in a flash flurry and the raccoon scampered off. Still, it sent me into conniptions Stories about raccoons are just child's play as far as I'm concerned. One night not too long ago, about three to five weeks ago, I woke up at the witching hour like I typically do and rolled onto my back to peer into the black web of sky that entangled the stars within it, harassing the sky like a trickle of rainwater blemishes the integrity of a windowpane. A silver of light bolted across the sky. It was blurry and it was dim to look upon it was as if to try to see something behind a wall of dark black ice. I really didn't get a good look at it because it moved so fast. The dim shooting star molested the carpet of stars amidst it and pierced the night, unquestioningly tearing the beautiful array of cosmos through and through. I peered further into the dark to see the stars and found myself dumbfounded and intrigued and stone still. All was silent and at this point in time all was lost. I deemed that there was no more credence to give the occasion, since all that passed had lasted a mere 15 seconds and no alarms were raised, so to speak. I closed my eyes again, rolled over, and focused on keeping my eyes closed on breathing and the position of my body. I am not vulnerable, I told myself with as much confidence as I could muster. After not too long my body relaxed, my mind submitted, and once again I felt my body giving in to the necessities and allowing me to sleep once again for a few more hours. Then I woke up again. It seemed as if no time had passed at all. The air was just as solid, the sounds were silent, muted, morphed into oblivion, and I was the only one awake in this solitary world. I just can't get into my dreams now, or that would take a novel. But I will say this much. After lucid dreaming for a decade and a half, I I know the difference. This was no dream. I was most surely awake, very awake, on edge. Yet it was so serene and tranquil there was no justification to be askew. As my eyes peered to my left and my right laying on my side, the most untypical thing happened to me to this very moment. I will never be able to completely describe it. The best I can do for you is to describe it as Take two tubas and have them attempt to hit a middle C and then have a few more French horns join in, only they are going to octave above and all of them are slightly out of tune with each other. It was definitely a chord of some sort, the difference being to a human being is this did not sound brassy. It sounded more metallic, if that makes sense. It was as if the tubas and French horns were not real. More realistically, it was a replication. That's the best way I could describe it. To me it sounded like the tuba was a middle sea and the the French horns were an octave above and they struggled to linger on this note. At first I thought something similar to what is that? Perhaps the folks down the way were having a party and they wanted to raise the roof with a good song, bad song to pick. It was just one long, breathing heavy note that seemingly came from nowhere. But then at five minutes or so there was silence once again and then the notes shifted up half a note up, the staff lingering ever so present and then faded out again. Odd, I said to myself. I closed my eyes again, delving deep into the idea. I had a vivid imagination. Imagination. But then it started again. These slow notes, just two notes wavering in the sky above like an out of tune rusty squeeze box. And loud, gargantuanly loud. The reverberation was maddening as it shook the concrete underneath me as I lay there defenseless. That moment right there, all that happening there, really wasn't much I could do. It didn't make very much sense to me and I was rather sure I had just been imagining things. After another 10 minutes or so, the attempted melody picked up once again and repeated itself through and through while I just lay there thinking to myself, man, what is this? That the strange melody from the Milky Way disappeared as discreetly as it had appeared and there was no more. I had never heard it before and I certainly have not heard it since. I haven't the slightest clue what that song from the sky may have been. It lasted no more than 20 minutes and nothing worth writing home about happened. Being slightly out of the ordinary, however, it had my mind wandering and wondering and confused and convoluted about what had exactly transpired out on the misty night as I laid alone upon the grass. Okay, so what I'm about to do tell you is completely true. About seven years ago, both me and my girlfriend were on the run together. We had both gotten in trouble and decided to catch a Greyhound from North Carolina to Missouri to stay with some friends. To make a long story shorter, we ended up in Springfield, Missouri and rented a house with a buddy of mine named Stoney. The house we moved into ended up being a very creepy place. Me and my girlfriend could both feel something wrong about it, and we told Stoney that we Thought it might be haunted. He wasn't the type to believe in the paranormal, and for the most part, I wasn't either. Until a few days down the road. Me and my girlfriend had to leave for the weekend and wouldn't return until the following Tuesday. When we finally got back to the house, Stoney was sitting on the front porch looking really freaked out and dismayed. I asked him what was going on and he replied, you guys were right. Something isn't right about this place. He wouldn't specify what he meant, but it was clear to see that something had scared the crap out of him. My buddy wasn't a cupcake either. He was a tough little dude who wasn't really scared of anything. He had even broken out of jail before. But he refused to go back in that house unless we were in there with him. We ended up moving our mattress into his room because he didn't want to sleep alone. It was a rainy day outside and I was off of work, so I decided to rent a couple of movies. We pulled our mattress beside Stoney's and turned on the tv. Stoney randomly asked if we would pray with him, so we all stony stood in the center of the room and said a prayer. While he was praying, I was overtaken by this terrible feeling. It almost felt like we were upsetting something by praying. As I backed away, I started to feel really weird and dizzy. So I got in the bed and laid my head in my girl's lap. I slipped into tunnel vision and was paralyzed for the next couple of minutes. Hearing voices. There was a very deep, pulverizing voice that scared me to the core. Talking to what I perceived to be a human female. The deeper voice was not a regular human. It almost sounded metallic in a way. For lack of better description. I remember it bragging about how it had been around forever and that it was immortal. It said that humans were stupid beasts and did not deserve to live. I remember it specifically saying that we were poisoning ourselves for some reason. The female voice asked, should we take him now? And the other voice said, no, he's killing himself and we'll see him soon enough. I started thinking to myself, is this thing talking about me? Do they know that I can hear them? The very moment I had this thought, they began saying things that were specifically about me. They were naming all of these bad things that would happen to me in the future while seemingly getting off on my fear at the same time. They said my girl would leave me and I would end up alone and in prison where I would be Repeatedly assaulted and stabbed. The way they were laughing about these things was truly evil and disturbing. They were literally getting off on my fear. It was a bloodthirsty evil that I can't even put into words. For the two to three minutes this was going on, I couldn't move a muscle. I wanted to get my girl's attention, but I could not move my finger to even scratch her leg. Then all of a sudden, the voices stopped and I could move again. As soon as my girl saw my face, she could tell something was terribly wrong. For the next week, I was shook up and ended up spending a lot of time on the porch with Stoney until we all moved out of that house. Before you judge me, just know that I wasn't on anything. I have never suffered from any kind of mental illness and I have never heard voices before or after that day. People try to tell me it was sleep paralysis, but I never closed my eyes or dozed off at any point in time. Regardless of what anyone may think, I know that what I heard that day was demons. I want people to know that true evil is real and not just an imaginary thing that we humans use to blame all of our flaws on. I use this day to remind me that true evil exists and to keep me in check and on the right path. When I remember the reality of what happened and the sound of that voice, it still shakes me. I hope that none of you guys ever have to encounter what I did that day. Just take my word for it. On a fateful December morning in 1948, Somerton Beach. With its tranquil sands and gentle waves. It became the setting for a mystery that would defy explanation for generations to come. The sun was just beginning to break over the horizon when a passerby stumbled upon a man's lifeless body. He was impeccably dressed in a well tailored suit and tie, giving the appearance of a man of refinement. However, upon closer inspection, it became evident that this was no ordinary discovery. It marked the beginning of an extraordinary enigma. The man's attire bore a peculiar characteristic. All labels had been surgically removed, leaving no clue to his identity. His footwear was of the finest quality, devoid of scuffs or signs of wear. Even more perplexing was the presence of an unlit cigarette hanging behind his ear as if he had been interrupted mid smoke. The arrival of authorities at the scene led to an examination that would confound even the most seasoned investigators. The autopsy conducted on the unidentified man revealed no traces of violence, poison or any obvious cause of death. His pupils were curiously constricted, hinting at the possibility of poison ingestion. Yet no poison could be detected in his system. His overall physical condition appeared to be robust, adding a layer of mystique to the baffling case. Amidst the absence of clues, a tantalizing lead emerged. A small scrap of paper was discovered hidden in an obscure pocket of the man's trousers. The paper bore a single phrase, tamam should. This cryptic phrase phrase was found to be Persian. Translated to ended or finished. It was a line from a book titled the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The discovery led investigators to a copy of the book found in an abandoned car near the beach, within which a perplexing coded message was concealed. The plot flank thickened when investigators uncovered a telephone number belonging to a mysterious woman scribbled on a concealed page of the book. This number eventually led them to a nurse named Jessica Thompson. Initially, she vehemently denied any knowledge of the deceased man, but her behavior raised suspicions. Ultimately, she confessed to owning a copy of the same book, but denied any connection to the Somerton Man. As the years rolled on, a plethora of theories and conspiracies took root. Some speculated that the Somerton man was a spy embroiled in a web of espionage, while others contended that he had succumbed to natural causes or was entangled in a complex love affair. The backdrop of the Cold War era fueled suspicions of international intrigue. Nevertheless, the case remained unsolved, and the true identity of the Somerton man continued to elude investigators and amateur sleuths alike. The tale of the Somerton man represents a baffling enigma that has persisted for over seven decades. Despite relentless investigations and the tireless curiosity of amateur sleuths, the identity of the man and the circumstances of his death remain cloaked in mystery. The coded message, the enigmatic woman, the conspicuous absence of concrete evidence continue to tantalize those who seek to unravel the secrets hidden beneath the sands of Somerton Beach. Until the day the riddle is deciphered, the Somerton man shall remain a timeless symbol of the unknown within the realm of true crime. In the picturesque landscape of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the Keddie Resort stood as an oasis of tranquility. Cabin 28, a rustic yet charming abode, was the residence of the Sharp family. Sue Sharp, a devoted mother, her two children, Dana and John, and their friend, Dana Wingate. The year was 1981, and Keddy was the epitome of a peaceful haven, a place where city dwellers sought refuge from their hectic lives. On the CRISP Morning of April 12, 1981. The peacefulness of Keddie was shattered by the return of Sheila Sharp, Sue's teenage daughter, from a neighbor's sleepover. The sight that greeted her inside cabin 28 was nothing short of a nightmare. Her mother, her brother, and their friend Dana Wingate lay dead, bound and brutally bludgeoned. The cabin was a scene of unimaginable violence, and Sheila fled in terror to seek help from the resort's management. Law enforcement arrived promptly, and the investigation into the Keddie Cabin murders was launched. The crime scene was chaotic, with potential evidence strewn across the cabin. It was evident that this was no random act of violence as the other children sleeping in the adjacent bedrooms remained unharmed. Suspicion quickly turned to Marty Smart, Sue Sharp's ex husband, and his acquaintance Bo Boubied, who had been spotted around the resort on the night of the murders. Marty's wife Marilyn had joined them for part of the evening, but insisted that she left before the violence erupted. Both Marty and Bo had criminal records and a history of violent behavior. The investigation into the Keddie Cabin murders was filled with twists and turns. Several leads were pursued, including potential connections to local drug dealers and organized crime. But the case eventually grew cold. The murders remained an enigma, haunting the memories of those who had been touched by the tragedy. In 2016, a glimmer of hope emerged when new evidence, including DNA, was unearthed. This development led to the arrest of three Marilyn Smart, her brother Dana Wingate, and John Sharp's classmate, Justin. Justin, a mere child at the time of the murders, was believed to have witnessed the horrifying events. The cases against Marilyn Smart and Dana Wingate were subsequently dropped due to alibis that placed them away from the scene on the night of the murders. Tragically, Justin had taken his own life in 1982, and the justice for the Sharp family remained elusive. The Keddie cabin murders remain a haunting and unsolved chapter in true crime history. Despite the emergence of new evidence and suspects, justice for the Sharp family remains an unfulfilled promise. The shadows cast by the Sierra Nevada pines continue to guard their secrets. And the legacy of the Keddie Cabin murders leaves an indelible mark on Keddie Resort forever. Etching a chilling tale in the annals of the resort's hablas espanol Spriest du Dzoitsk.
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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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It's it's.