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- [00:00]
A
Hey everybody, I'm back and the daily uploads are going to continue from here on out. I'm very pleased to tell you that the film that I produced, Gale Yellow Brick Road, will be in theaters February 11th and the tickets will be on sale January 8th. It's a dark wizard of Oz tale and I really think you're gonna love it. I'm gonna leave the link at the top of the description so you can get your tickets and your support would mean everything to me. Please buy a ticket and go see my film. I have put my heart and soul into it and like I said, you're gonna love it. I'm also starting a brand new giveaway for a Nintendo Switch 2 Mario Kart bundle which will be given to some lucky someone on February 15th. So make sure you subscribe, get rid of all these annoying ads and be automatically entered to win every giveaway that I ever do. I really appreciate you listening and your support. If you want to check out my other two podcasts, please check the description for the links to those as well. And please follow on Spotify. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy the stories.
- [01:02]
B
Hey, it's Brooklyn Adams and I'm partnering with Abercrombie to tell you about the newest drop from their active brand your personal best. YPB leggings are made with buttery soft fabrics that hug you in all the right places and common Abercrombie's viral Curve Love fit designed to eliminate waist gap paired with sports bras and super soft sweatshirts. It's activewear that supports every part of my busy lifestyle and gives me my best butt ever. Head into the new year feeling your personal best. Shop Active by Abercrombie in the app, online and in stores.
- [01:32]
C
Olivia Capo here to tell you all about the launch of the new Abercrombie Spring Denim collection. Made the way denim should feel. Their denim has always been a staple in my wardrobe and has a wide range of fits, styles and washes. Every jean is available in both their Classic fit and Viral Curve Love Shop in the app, online and in stores.
- [02:01]
D
Well, the holidays have come and gone once again, but if you've forgotten to get that special someone in your life a gift, well, Mint Mobile is extending their holiday offer of half off unlimited wireless. So here's the idea. You get it now. You you call it an early present for next year.
- [02:16]
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What do you have to lose?
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Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch limited time.
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50% off regular price for new customers. Upfront payment required $45 for 3 months $90 for 6 month or $180 for 12 month plan taxes and fees. Extra speeds may slow after 50gb per month when network is busy. See Terms.
- [02:37]
A
I remember seeing the house for the first time. I was a child of seven. My young parents had just bought their first home. I remember hating living in the cramped, dingy apartment we previously inhabited and opening the door to our new home with wide eyed wonder. It blew my young mind how spacious this house was. I went upstairs to scope out my bedroom. I was so excited that I was getting my own room and didn't have to share with my infant brother on my grand tour of my new digs. I finally made it down to our basement. The basement was nothing like the rest of the house. The upstairs was elegant and classy. The basement was cold, metallic, sterile and stinky. The ceiling was lined with ancient pipes winding in grotesque angles. The floor was covered in rough cement. I recall taking a look at the stairs for the first time and being immediately struck by how odd they were. The stairs were surrounded by drywall which clashed with the rest of the basement. One particular section of the wall was colored differently than the rest. It stood out like a sore thumb. I inched closer to it and felt the texture of felt very strange. I then knocked on it. A hollow sound pervaded the empty air of the basement. Something about that sound immediately put me ill at ease. I walked up the stairs as I could hear the same hollow sound echo in the emptiness of the basement. As we settled into our new home, I began to get comfortable with my surroundings. The house began to feel familiar. Everywhere that is, except for the basement. It just always put me off and I avoided going down there as best as I could. Our family couldn't be happier. My loving father and mother doted over me and my little brother. My life was perfect. Then it began. I would hear errant noises. When I pointed them out to my parents, they told me the old standby that the house was settling. One night in particular indicated that something wasn't right. I snuck downstairs to the kitchen for a late night snack. As I closed the refrigerator, I heard a tapping sound cut through the silence of the night. I craned my head to see if I could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Dread began to wash over me as I realized that tapping was coming from the basement. I inched my way over to the basement door. I opened it to see the blackness of the depths below. My ears perked up. There it was again. That hollow tapping sound. The same sound I heard on My initial visit to the basement from hitting the drywall. I turned on the lights, steeling myself to go down the stairs and investigate. The tapping continued. As I took the first step, fear overtook me. I ran back to my room and hid under my covers until the morning lights gave way to a new day. I remember walking down the stairs, being the first one up and about. I ran to the living room to play Nintendo. On my way, I passed the door to the basement. It was shut, though I was in a state of near panic when I ran from it the previous night. I distinctly remember leaving my door open and not turning off the lights. I rationalized that my mother or father must have gone down there for some reason, and I lost myself in Super Mario Bros. 3. Later, I mentioned the incident to my parents and they just assured me that what I had heard was the sound of the hot water heater clicking on at night. I knew better, but welcomed a logical explanation. About a month after the move, my mother asked me to run downstairs and grab a load of socks out of the dryer in the basement. I reluctantly told her that I would. It was the middle of the day and enough time had passed to dull the fear that I had felt a week prior. I turned on the lights. I ran down the stairs, hearing the hollow sound echo with my footsteps. A cold sweat started to form on me. The smell. Smell hit my nose as I reached the last step. I made my way to the dryer and grabbed a basket. I pulled the socks out hastily and shoved them into the basket. After I shut the door to the dryer, I surveyed my surroundings. The stillness of the basement was so eerie. Then I heard it. A faintly audible whisper. At first I thought it was somebody calling from upstairs, their voice scarcely making it down into the basement. However, this was not the case. That sound was coming from the basement, specifically from under the stairs. As I stood frozen with fear, it began to increase in volume but still remained barely above the threshold of human perception. What was being said? Incomprehensible to my young ears. Then it stopped. As quickly as it began. I moved toward the stairs, keeping my eye on the oddly colored portion of the drywall. As I took my first step to escape this ever growing nightmare, the most profoundly terrifying moment of my life occurred. A loud, hollow bang shook the stairs, almost knocking me to the ground. I ran up the stairs as fast, as fast as my legs would carry me through tears and shaking uncontrollably, I told my parents what happened. They tried their best to calm me, but nothing they said could ease My mind. I told them in no uncertain terms that I would never go down to the basement again. They must have been convinced of how terrified I was because they honored my request and never sent me down there again. After another three months in the house, things returned to normalcy for me. And honestly, there was about a two week period where I was happy again. This would be the last time happiness would exist in my life, or my family's for that matter. One moment in particular comes to mind. I remember lifting up little Jonathan above my head lovingly as his pacifier fell out of his mouth and brushed against my nose. I pulled him in for a big bear hug and I remember how he smelled that wonderful smell that only babies emit. I was so content. It all came crashing down for me and my parents. The night of July 2, 1991. That is the day Jonathan went missing. A ransom note was scrawled in barely legible English and left in his bed demanding $20,000 in cash. It informed my parents that if they contacted the police, they would kill him. My mother and father took to their room and argued loudly and emotionally over whether or not to call the police. As I listened with tears streaming down my face. My mother eventually wore down. My father and the police were called. Seeing as the location of the drop and time were indicated on the note. The police set up a wiretap just in case the kidnapper decided to call. I asked my parents and the police if they had thoroughly searched the house in case he was still there. They assured me that they had and that Jonathan would be fine after the drop. But the seed of an idea was already growing in my mind. It would blossom throughout the rest of my life. My parents followed the instructions to a tee. They dropped off the money and then waited in the location where they were supposed to pick up Jonathan. He never came. Needless to say, this tore my family apart. As the weeks passed and there was no news about Jonathan, my young, vibrant parents became husks of their former selves. My mother especially. She blamed herself for getting the police involved and believed that to be the reason Jonathan was not returned. One night, as she was sobbing, alone in shambles, clutching a bottle of wine, I finally decided to divulge to her the theory that had been brewing inside my skull. I told her that I thought it was whoever or whatever for that matter was under the stairs that had gotten Jonathan and that maybe he was still alive. She slapped me across my face so hard that I saw stars. She screamed at me, the guilt expressing itself as rage. She told Me to stop the childish crap and just accept that Jonathan was taken out of the house by some sicko and that he was dead. My childhood died that day. I remember contemplating taking a hammer and exposing whatever was under the stairs myself. But the fear of childhood was just too overwhelming for me to actually do it, let alone step one stair down into that basement. My family moved shortly after this incident. I remember looking to the future with what might resemble optimism, only to have it come crashing down yet again. My parents divorced. The grief was too much to share. And not a year after that, my mother took her own life. The guilt must have just overwhelmed her. My father did his best to raise me, but Jonathan's long shadow always hung over our lives. Twenty years later, I began to think long and hard about my little brother's disappearance and how angry it made me. My family had a chance at a normal and fulfilling life, and it was snuffed out in an instant by whoever took him. I wasn't just robbed of a little brother. I was robbed of any chance of happiness. As I grew up, I accepted the official story of what happened. But lately, curiosity began to get the better of me. I began driving past the old house, seeing that it was currently vacant. Ideas began to swirl in my mind, so I broke into the house. Bolstered by alcohol, I decided to do it, knowing I would likely find nothing under the basement stairs, but hoping that this would close a too long chapter in my life and allow me to finally move on. To my dismay, the stairs sounded exactly the same as I remembered a hollow sound pervading the emptiness of the basement. I stared at the spot in the drywall, still discolored, still just as ominous as when I was a child. However, fear was not going to stop me now. In. In fact, I was feeling the opposite. I was feeling a courage I hadn't felt in a long time. The moment of truth was upon me with all the force within me emboldened by years of pent up rage, I ran towards the wall. Shoulder first. The drywall came crashing down around me. I opened my eyes as my bravery was immediately eroded and turned into absolute horror. Bones. Bones everywhere. My horror increased to unimaginable heights as I surveyed the tight space, seeing the myriad of skeletons strewn about. The light played menacingly on their tiny frames. Tattered pieces of paper were scattered, scattered about with God only knows what written on them. There must have been the remains of 20 to 30 children. My fright reached a crescendo when I realized that with no exceptions, they were all missing their Skulls. One particularly tiny one begged for my attention. I became weak in the knees and fell backward when I saw what were unmistakably bite marks up and down the tiny forearm. As I hit the ground, I expected to hear a dull thud as I landed on the concrete. Instead, I heard a hollow sound. I looked to see what I had landed on. A trapdoor. Finding new courage, summoning strength I didn't know I had, I opened it. Below me lay a dark tunnel, a crawl space that could barely fit a person lying on their stomach. The dank smell wafting upward made me reluctant, but I knew what I had to do. Before I was conscious of what my muscles were doing, I found myself crawling through the darkness toward whatever lay on the other side. As I reached the end of the tunnel, I looked up to see a sliver of light cutting through the darkness. With trepidation, I pushed upward. Cautiously, I poked my head up. To my surprise, the tunnel had led to the other side of the stairs. I crawled out to find myself in the corner of the basement, facing the stairs behind a dryer covered in years of dust. The implications of all this sent my mind reeling. But before I could form a coherent thought, the lights turned off in the basement. My heart caught in my throat as I began to hear someone descending the stairs. Slow but sure steps announced I was no longer alone. With every thud, my heart skipped a beat. I began to hear that incomprehensible whispering. The familiarity reignited the fear and woe of my lost childhood. Worrying the darkness would not adequately hide me, I sought cover by ducking behind the dryer. Not willing to take the risk of catching a glimpse. Though every fiber of my being screamed to do so, panic began to set in. What am I going to do when he, or whoever it is discovers his lair has been revealed? While I was mulling over my options, the screaming began. I say scream as a frame of reference, but there is no way to truly describe the guttural noises that I heard. The sounds, smashing. The silence of the basement were so bone chilling, so surreal as to defy description, he had clearly discovered his perverse sanctuary had been disturbed. Before I knew it, I was up the stairs, running for my life. I made it to my car, too scared to turn around. With all of my muscles working, I opened the door and put the key in the ignition in one swift movement. As my car sprang to life under the streetlight, a shadow fell over my car. I gunned it, never once looking back. Flooring the accelerator to the local police precinct, I breathlessly tried to explain to the attending officer what had occurred and collapsed to the floor mid sentence. Now it is a month later. The day after my discovery, the police launched an investigation and quickly made the same gruesome discovery. I was thanked profusely by the police and the community for what I had found, with officers telling me they were going to be able to close the books on multiple missing person cases. However, they were not able to find the perpetrator of these heinous crimes. They began to test the DNA of the bodies. A profound sense of relief overcame me when I received the call informing me that one of the tiny skeletons belonged to Jonathan. I shared the news with my father. The look of relief on his face face tugged at my heart. The burden he had carried for so many years was lifted. We hugged as tears filled both of our eyes. However, the relief has been short lived. The thing that keeps me up at night is that whoever did this is still out there. The question that plagues my mind is whether this monster is literal or figurative. Either way, I hope I never find out. Years ago, back when we thought we were invincible, my two friends and I decided to go camping in the fall. We were 15, stupid, and thought that we were bear Grylls, that we could do anything. Of course, this wasn't some super prepared expedition. We threw a small tent, some chips, maybe some soda, some water into the backseat of my friend's dad's old car. We were headed to a campground deep in the Pacific Northwest woods. You know, one of those places where the fog rolls in like a movie set and there's no cell phone service at all. Good decision making was not our strong suit. By the time we got the tent set up, it was already dark. We had one flashlight between the three of us, which meant a lot of tripping and swearing as we got situated. The tent was just big enough for the three of us if none of us moved or breathed. We staggered our setup in the tent. Two of us with our heads on one side and the third guy's head down by our feet because the tent didn't quite make the fits 3 adults promise on the box. The night was silent. And by silent I mean creepily silent. No crickets, no owls, not even the wind. It was like the forest was holding its breath waiting for something. That should have been our first sign to get out of there. But no, we were adventurous. I guess you could say adventurous. Idiots. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to a sound. At first I thought it was part of a dream. A muffled voice like someone talking on a cell phone in another room. Except we weren't in a room and there was no one else around. Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? The voice said. My heart stopped. I lay there staring up at the tent ceiling, trying to convince myself that I hadn't heard it. Then it came again. Hello? Can you hear me? I turned my head and whispered. Guys? Guys, are you awake? My friend next to me immediately hissed. Are you hearing that? We sat up so fast the tent nearly collapsed. My other friend, who was down by our feet, shot up too, his hair sticking out like he had been electrocuted. What the hell was that? He whispered. We all froze, listening. The voice came again, clear as day. Hello? Can you hear me? And it was coming from the middle of the tent, right between our heads. Now, let me tell you, there's nothing like sheer terror to make three teenage boys lose their minds. We scrambled around the tent like maniacs, throwing blankets, shaking out pillows, patting down every inch of fabric. We were looking for a phone or a speaker or something, anything that would make that noise. But there was nothing there. It was just us sitting there in our socks and PJs and panic. The voice saying, hello, can you hear me? Hello? I turned to my friend across the tent. Wait a second. What did you hear? It sounded like someone was saying, hello, can you hear me? Same, said my other friend. Dude, it was right here. He pointed to the middle of the tent where our heads had been. We all just stared at each other, trying to process what was happening. Then, just like that, the voice stopped. Silence again, Vic. Heavy silence. The kind that makes your ears ring because there's nothing else to hear. We didn't sleep the rest of the night. We just sat there wide eyed, clutching our flashlights, jumping at every creak and rustle outside. I'm pretty sure I aged five years in those few hours. When the sun finally came up, we didn't even bother making breakfast. We. We just packed up as fast as we could and bolted for that car. None of us even wanted to talk about it, but you could tell we were all thinking the same thing. What the hell was that? As we threw our stuff into the car, I noticed something that made my stomach drop. All our phones were still sitting on the back seat, exactly where we had left them the night before. None of them had been in the tent, and of course none of them had any signal. We just stood there, staring at the phones like they were cursed. Finally, my friend broke the silence. Okay, he said. So either one of you has a speaker hidden Somewhere, or. He trailed off, his face pale. None of us laughed. To this day, I don't know what happened. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was some weird sound carrying through the fog. Or maybe the woods were just screwing with us for fun. All I know is that I have never gone camping again without triple checking my gear and my sanity. And every time someone says, hello, can you hear me? On a phone call? I get a little chill that runs down my spine. When I was in third grade, my life felt as close to perfect as a kid could ask for. My parents were still together, and they seemed genuinely happy at the time. Not like fake happy that you see in movies, but actually happy. My older sister and I got along most of the time, even though she could be annoying and mean. We had a nice house, went on vacations, and I had everything I could want. Honestly, I didn't even know how lucky I was. You don't learn that kind of thing until you grow up. Everything felt safe and normal. At least it did until that one night. It was late. I don't remember the exact time, but I had been dreaming about something. I can't even remember what it was. But then I just woke up. Just like that. You know that feeling when you're falling in a dream and it just jolts you awake? It was like that. At first, everything seemed fine. But then I saw him. My third grade teacher. He was standing in my room, just standing there, staring at me. At first I thought maybe I was still dreaming. It didn't make any sense. Why would he be here? But he didn't disappear when I blinked. And the longer that I looked, the more real it felt. He didn't say anything. He didn't even move. He just stood there, completely still, staring at me with this blank, almost calm expression. His eyes, though, made my skin crawl. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I just lay there, frozen, while my chest got tight and my breath came in short, shaky gasps. My brain was screaming to do something, anything, but my body wasn't listening. He just kept watching me like I was some kind of science experiment he was studying. Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I started crying. It wasn't loud. I was too scared to make noise. But the tears started pouring out and I could not stop. That's when he moved. He turned, walked to my window, opened it like it was no big deal, and climbed out. But the weirdest part. He put the screen back on before he disappeared into the night. I don't even know how he did It. A few seconds later, my dad came into the room. What's the matter? He asked, rubbing his eyes like he had just rolled out of bed. I tried to explain, but the words came out in this jumbled mess of crying and hiccuping. I pointed at the window, but of course there was no one there. No sign of anything, just the moonlight shining through the glass. My dad checked the window and then shook his head. You must have had a nightmare, buddy. There's no way anyone came in here. Everything's fine. Just go back to sleep. But it wasn't fine. I knew it wasn't a nightmare. My mom came in and tried to calm me down, brushing my hair back and telling me everything was fine. But I saw the look she gave my dad, that one that said, what's wrong with him? The next day at school, I couldn't stop staring at my teacher. He acted completely normal, like nothing had happened. He handed out worksheets, explained math problems, and didn't look at me even once for most of the day. I started to wonder if maybe my parents were right. Maybe I had imagined it. But then, right before the bell rang, I glanced up from the paper airplane. I was coloring, and he was staring right at me. His face was still, but there was this tiny, almost invisible grin at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't a happy smile. It was wrong, like he knew something nobody else did. My hands started shaking. The bell saved me, though, and I grabbed my stuff and bolted. That night, I tried to stay awake. I told myself there was no way I was going to fall asleep, not with him showing up in my room. But I was 8 years old, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fight it. I passed out, and when I woke up again, it was to the feeling of someone sitting on my bed. I opened my eyes and there he was, my teacher, sitting crisscross applesauce at the foot of my bed, staring at me. His expression hadn't changed, and neither had that creepy little grin. This time, for some reason, I wasn't as scared, and I whispered, w why are you here? He didn't answer. He just put his finger to his lips and made a soft sh sound, telling me to keep quiet. Then he got up, walked to the window, opened it, put the screen back on again, closed the window, and disappeared, just like before. I told my parents again the next morning, but again they didn't believe me. You've gotta stop watching those scary movies, my dad said as he poured cereal. My mom just sighed and told me I needed to stop letting my imagination run wild. After that, I stopped trying to convince them. This went on for months. Every couple of weeks he would show up in my room. Sometimes two or three nights in a row. Sometimes he would just stand there. Sometimes he would be sitting on my bed. He never touched me, never said anything beyond sh. And then one day it stopped. When I started fourth grade and I got a new teacher, no more late night visits. But I still saw him in the hallway sometimes, and every now and then he'd catch my eye and give me that same small grin. It wasn't as scary in the daylight, but it still made my stomach hurt. Now I'm in high school and I still wonder if I made the whole thing up sometimes, but I don't think I did. It feels too real, even now. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, half expecting to see him standing there watching me, waiting for me to wake up. This is a story my mom told me once, and honestly, it creeps me out whenever I think about. Happened years before I was born, back when she was in her early 20s, living alone in a small house on the edge of town. It was a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where people didn't bother locking their doors most of the time she thought nothing bad could ever happen there. After this, though, I think she changed her mind. One evening she was expecting a friend to come over. It wasn't anything special, just a casual hangout, maybe dinner, maybe some tv. My mom decided to hop in the shower before her friend arrived, figuring she would have plenty of time to freshen up. But just in case her friend got there while she was still in the bathroom, she left a note on the front door. It said, I'm in the shower. Come on in. Simple enough, right? She said. She always thought it was funny how trusting she used to be back then. These days the thought of leaving your front door open with an invitation like that seems insane, but back then it felt normal. Anyway, she taped the note to the door and went about her business. The shower was one of those old ones with the loud water pressure that drowns out any every other noise in the house. My mom was halfway through rinsing her hair when she heard it. A knock on the bathroom door. Not on the front door. The bathroom door. She froze for a second, a little startled, but not scared. It was her friend. She obviously showed up. She saw the note. She just wanted to let her know she was there. I'll be right out. My mom called loud enough to be heard over the water There was no response, but she didn't think much of it. She assumed they would just sit in the living room or the kitchen and wait for her. She finished her shower a few minutes later, dried off, and got dressed. But when she stepped out into the hallway, something felt off. The house was completely silent. No voices, no footsteps. No sign that anyone had arrived. She glanced into the living room. Empty. The kitchen. Empty. She checked the front door, and sure enough, it was still unlocked. The note was still there, like nobody had touched it. Her stomach sank. She called out, hello? Her voice echoed back at her, and that's when she started to feel uneasy. The house wasn't that big, and it wouldn't take that long to check every room. She peeked into the guest room, then her own room, then the tiny laundry room in the back. Nothing. Nobody. She walked back to the bathroom, almost on autopilot, and stared at the door. It was a plain wooden door, old but sturdy. She reached out and touched it, her hand hovering near the knob. She told me later that she half expected it to still be warm, like someone had just been leaning against it. But it wasn't. It was cold. Trying to shake off the weird feeling, she went to the living room and sat on the couch, grabbing her book to distract herself. She convinced herself she had imagined it. Maybe the water pressure had caused some weird noise that sounded like a knock. Or maybe it was the pipes. That's what she told herself anyway, but she couldn't quite shake the tension in her chest. About 10 minutes later, headlights swept across the window. Finally, her friend was there. She got up and opened the door, and there they were, stepping out of their car with a smile. As her friend came inside, my mom tried to play it cool. Hey, did you knock on the bathroom door when you came in? Her friend gave her a confused look. I just got here. What are you talking about? My mom froze. You didn't come in earlier at all? No. You just saw me pull up. Why? My mom didn't answer right away. She said later that she didn't want to freak her friend out, so she just laughed it off and said, I thought I heard something. Must have just been my imagination, I guess. But she couldn't stop thinking about it. If it wasn't her friend that had come in earlier, who was it? After her friend left that night, my mom double checked every lock in the house. She even wedged a chair under the doorknob, something she had only ever seen people do in movies. For weeks after that, she could not shake the feeling like she was constantly being watched. Every time she took a shower, she would lock the bathroom door. Even if she was home alone. She never got an answer to what happened that night. Nobody else had a key to the house, and there was no sign of anyone breaking in or touching anything. But she swears she heard that knock clear as day, and I believe her. It still makes me wonder, though, if it wasn't her friend who was.