Creepy - A Detailed Report of Investigation 1144

Episode Date: March 20, 2023

From the case files...***Written by: Olivia White***Bonus Episode: "Breathe" written by Keith LaFountaine and narrated by Danielle Hewitt***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Please join me and welcoming and thanking new patrons, Angie Ashton, Shaquilla Lewis, Zane Miller, Michael Luna, Jason Cotei, and Victor Moones. To see how you can support the podcast, and get rewards like commercial-free episodes, immediate access to over a thousand Patreon exclusive stories and logo merch. Please check out our donation to us at patreon.com slash creepypod. Just a quick heads up as I get some things packed up. I'm not sure I'll be able to get the usual pre-roll recorded next week

because they'll be out of town with the narrator's working on. Well, I said too much. Just wanted to note that April marks halfway to Halloween, so I figured this was going to be a better time for us to get away from things. I'm betting it'll go a bit smoother than it did last year, which is clearly me saying too much again. Anyway, this week and next week will be the usual schedule, but keep an eye out come April 2nd,

assuming everything goes to plan. I should get going. and see y'all when I get back. Until then, now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous,

chilling, and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories, may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. A detailed report of Investigation 1144. Written by Olivia White. On February 1, 2018, our agency received a report of unusual activity being red-flagged by one of our intelligence operatives. After due process, we began an investigation. into this activity as a matter of national security.

During the course of this investigation, our agents discovered a connection between the events they were investigating in a well-known criminal case that had captured public attention in 2017. Presented here is our compilation of evidence. Our agent's report of her findings during investigation 1144 and our ultimate directorial ruling. Exhibit A.013

Filed August 30, 2000. What follows is a series of letters found in an abandoned apartment in Carmel by the Sea, California, in the year 2017. The letters were found in a shoebox, brand unknown, which had been tucked into an alcove in the wall, covered over by a dresser which had no doors. The shoebox was sealed with twine, tied in a loose knot. The letters were discovered by the building superintendent, one Carlos Mariana, who is not available for comment at this time. The previous occupant of the apartment is currently unknown.

Research continues to uncover the identity of the leaseholder, who is believed to be the recipient of the included letters. The letters are presented in their unedited forms. Nothing has been censored, changed, or removed by our office as is mandated by law, save for certain names of parties involved. Sophia's letter Dear, you let me a sweater. Do you remember that?

It was an act of kindness from a stranger. And at the time, it made my heart swell. It was the night of the party. The party. That's what it's become in my head. My life is divided into two parts. Before the party, after the party. I imagine it's much the same for you.

I'll be it for very different reasons. It was a beach party in July. You know this. Of course you do. But forgive me if I address you as one who's entirely ignorant of the series of events that transpired on that night. The night of the party. Because I have no idea how much you know. I can't remember who organized the party.

I think it was Jimmy or maybe Katie. It doesn't matter. I went because my friends wanted me to go. I had better things to do than listen. a drunken frat guys posturing, frankly. But I went because that's what friends do. And then, an hour into the night, I found myself regretting my decisions

as I sat alone on a log at the edge of the beach, shivering because I had foolishly left my hoodie in my car back home. You came up to me. A perfect stranger with a gentle smile and a crop of unruly blonde hair. You had a bracelet made of wooden beads around your left wrist. Do you remember that? I do.

It's funny which details your brain fixates on. I'd never met you before. You were an old high school friend of Bradley's, you said. I barely knew Bradley, and I certainly didn't know you. And yet, you saw that I was shivering and you offered to let me a sweater. The sweater was tied around your waist. It was cream with blue-trimmed cuffs and a line of bluer on the neck. A typical generic A-N-F sweater, I think.

And since you weren't wearing the sweater, and since I was very, very cold, I accepted your gracious offer. I'll give it back to you at the end of the night, I said. You smiled, nodded. Then, don't worry if you don't see me. Just leave it with Bradley next week. Or, I'll keep it. I have a bunch.

And then you left. I've been expecting you to offer me a drink or try to get to know me, perhaps. Strange men simply do nothing. offer lone women's sweaters and then leave. They always want something. But you left. I smiled, and between the sweater and your kindness, I was warming up. Our interaction cheered me, you know.

Somehow, it encouraged me to crawl out of my shell and begin to socialize. I scanned the crowd for you. I was single, and you were attractive, and, frankly, I would have been happy to at least consider getting to know you. I could see no sign of you. It was an enjoyable night. We talked and danced around the fire, listening to music playing from the sound system in Mariko's car.

It was cold, but the sweater you'd let me kept me warm. At around 11 p.m., I saw Bradley. I mentioned you, his friend, but of course I didn't have your name. Bradley told me that he had a lot of friends. He was very drunk. I thought nothing of it. The night progressed and more and more of us started to drift away to return home to our beds, our lovers, our parents, our friends, our empty apartments.

All of us at the party that night had a different story. Little could I know that your story would come to be the one that dominated our lives for the next year. I decided to leave. The beach was close enough to my apartment that I could walk. walk home. My friends wanted to stay and I didn't want to ruin their night by asking someone to walk with me. They told me to be careful because we all know what happens to girls who walk home alone at night, don't we? I told them I'd be careful, and I was. I reached my apartment safely, breathing a silent prayer of gratitude that yet again I'd cheated the odds and taken a risk I know

I shouldn't have. I got inside, locked the door. I should have felt safe then. As I walked down the hall towards my kitchen, looking to fix a late-night snack, I thought about the sweater I wore, and how grateful I'd been for its warmth that night, how kind it was for a stranger to lend me a sweater with no real promise of getting it back. I admit I'd been a bit drunk that night, a bit less attentive than I would normally be. It was only as I stood in my kitchen, sipping a coffee, that something dawned on me. The sweater you had lent me was very snug. It fit me perfectly.

It hugged my curves in all the right places. He made my tummy look flat. My breasts look cute. But you were a tall, well-built man. And this was a woman's sweater. I removed the sweater, looking at it as if it was on fire. Even then, I cannot explain why my reaction was so severe. There could have been any number.

of explanations. And yet, somehow, deep in my lizard brain, I knew that something was deeply wrong here. Why did you let me someone else's sweater? I tried to justify it with all manner of harmless explanations. And yet somehow, deep inside, I knew they weren't right. I removed the sweater and placed it inside a freezer bag. To this day, I can't explain why. I've been grilled on this detail over and over, and I understand why the powers of beer are so suspicious.

But I could only say what I've said all along. I just had a feeling. Two days later, when the police showed up at my apartment, I wasn't surprised. When they informed me that they believed I had been given an item of clothing, which was a piece of evidence in an ongoing criminal investigation, I immediately fetched the offending article and handed them the bag. The cops looked at it. than me, strangely. Why have you sealed it up?

They asked. I told them what I told you just now. They asked me to come to the station. During the following year, my story has never changed because there's nothing to change it too. You let me a sweater. Your kindness saved my evening. And yet, somehow, later that night,

I knew. I hope you rot in hell. Safia. Bradley's letter. Hey, you don't know me and I don't know you. I don't know why you're telling people that we're friends, but please stop. I've done nothing. And I don't need to be dragged into the shit you've brought me.

I've done nothing. And I don't need to be dragged into the shit you've brought upon me. Why? Did you just overhear my name that night? Was I simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? I'd never be friends with someone like you. You're scum, and I hope you get raped in prison. Yours, Bradley.

Letter from Herman Saborski, defense attorney number one. I will be writing the judge to recommend a consideration of leniency due to the fact that this is your first offense and due to your otherwise upstanding position in society. Please, don't worry. This will not ruin your life. I am deeply, eternally sorry for my role in failing to secure the verdict we wanted. But sometimes you simply cannot predict how these things will go.

Hopefully you understand that I did the best I could for you. Your family have been inclined to mine for over 30 years now, and I hope our relationship can continue into the future after this unfortunate incident is behind us. Rest assured, I'll be doing everything in my power to ensure that your sentence is fair and balanced. As I said, this will not ruin your own. life. You have the love and support of many of us around you. Keep your chin up, kid. Herman Siborski. Letter from an unknown university. Note, the university's name and letter heading has been disguised with black marker. Dear Mr. We are hereby writing to inform you, as per our legal

requirement in Clause 4.7 of the enrollment contract which you signed upon acceptance to our university, that your term of education with us has been terminated. Due to the difficulties surrounding your person and the controversy in which you find yourself embroiled, and regardless of the ultimate ruling of the courts, it is the unanimous opinion of all relevant faculty that you must cease attendance of our institution effective immediately. At University, we offer a safe, secure environment for learning and enrichment. We've prided ourselves on maintaining these high standards for over a century. It's the opinion of our faculty and the dean of learning that your continued. presence on campus will pose a direct threat to these values. And we must place the safety of our students over the comfort of one. It is with a heavy heart that we make this decision. Losing any

student is not easy, especially under such a dark cloud as you have found yourself in the last 12 months. Nonetheless, we are confident in our decision and would like to assert that you are no longer authorized to attend classes, reside in our dorms, or in fact set foot down to campus grounds. should you be found in breach of this ruling, we will pursue the relevant legal options available to us. Should you have any further questions, please arrange for your designated legal representative to call the Office of Administration on

between the hours of 8 and 6.30. Yours sincerely. Natalie Bridgman Smith. On behalf of the Dean of Students. Note. There's a handwritten postscript at the bottom of this letter. PostScript. What you did makes me sick to my stomach.

If you ever try to contact me again, I'll take out a restraining order on you so fast your head will spin. I hope you fucking die in jail. Dad's letter. Hey, son. Don't let the bastards get you down, yeah. Your mother and I, we support you. You know that, right? Your sister does too, even if she's having a hard time showing at the moment.

I know she loves you deep down, and she knows you're a good guy. We're doing everything we can to protest what's happening to you. I raised you for 20 years, God damn it. I know my own son, what he's capable of. We love you, boy. Ah, geez, I know I'm not good at this sappy crap. Oh, hey, I spoke to Barry at the Gazette. Bear's one of the old boys, as you know.

He's going to keep a lookout and spike any stories about you that might show up. It's not much, and I know you're getting torn apart on a national scale. But at least it's something. At least the people at home will know the truth, eh? P.S., your mother says hello, and she loves you. Cheers. Dad. Haley's letter.

Hey, surprised to hear from you, honestly. Sure, I can provide a character witness, I guess. But off the record, and being totally frank here, you're asking me to lie to the public. You know exactly what I think of you. I told you I never wanted to see you again after graduation. And yet here you are, begging me to stick up for you in the court of public opinion

after what you did to me? I mean, granted, it's nothing compared to what they're saying you've done now. Just tell me you didn't do it. Promise me. But fuck it. You know exactly that I'm a soft touch and I'll do this because you still have that little bit of power over me. And because I just can't believe you're capable of this. Fuck you for this, but fine.

Just, if I do this, will you please just leave me alone and never contact me again? Haley, unsigned letter number one. Hey, prick, you deserve to die for what you did. Hope prisons treating you well, and by well, I mean that you're going to get shanked. A friend. Unsigned letter number two. Dear Mr. I hope you're ashamed of what you did.

You're a symptom of this morally corrupt, morally bankrupt society we live in. You're a cancer. I hope you pray to God for forgiveness every night, because otherwise only hallowates you when you meet your inevitable, painful end. Un signed letter number three. I've been reading about your case in the papers. I think you've been treated poorly. You're a victim in all this too.

Just kidding. I hope you choke on a cactus, bitch. Benedict Snoggrass III. Unsigned letter number four. Hello. I had to take the time to write to you because I'm so, so disgusted at what you are and who you've become. We grew up together, man And you were such a nice guy

But this? How did you become the man you are today? I'm ashamed to know you L Letter from Herman Saborski Defense Attorney Number 2 You're never going to believe this kid Something's come up

Get your ass ready because we're going back to court I'll be coming to visit later this week But for now, I hope you're looking forward to freedom It's a miracle Herman Stephanie's letter Hello I never thought I'd find myself writing to you

I especially never thought that you'd end up being the last person I spoke to I bet you're surprised to see a letter from me, aren't you? I don't blame you Let's cut right to the chase, shall we? What you did to me was evil You know it, I know it and yet you still pleaded innocence. You draked my life through that trial for a year.

I doubt you even consider that it could possibly be having an effect on me, did you? And frankly, I don't care about myself. I can take it. I'm stronger than you could possibly imagine these days. But my family, my friends, they have to live with this pain. You and I both know what you did. and yet you still took the stand, insisting you had nothing to do with it, that you weren't even there that evening. So let's go over it, shall we?

I was walking to the party. You were driving your shitty Ford. You pulled over and offered me a lift. I accepted, stupidly, I was a bit drunk, and you told me you were Bradley's friend. And the party was just over the next hill, after all. What could possibly go wrong? You seem like such a nice guy. And you convinced me we'd met before at Jill's 20th.

I don't know why I believed you that night. I'm normally so careful. And then, instead of driving me to the party, you drove me to the woods. You got me out of the car telling me it was a shortcut. It was easier to park here. Again, I believed you. Then, up against that tree, in that little dirty clearing in the forest, you did what you did. And you left me there. And from what I understand,

you went to the goddamn party. Here's what I really want to know. Why did you take my sweater? Why did you leave me there in the cold? Such a small, petty detail, but when I fix it over every goddamn night, during the case they posited that you're in temp, was to pass it off as someone else's and hopes she'd wash it. But why? You left all my other clothes behind. All I can assume is it was some kind of power play, some kind of trip, getting another girl to wear the clothes of someone you just...

Well, yeah. And I don't know why. Compared to all the other horrific things you did, but this is the one that gnaws at me the most. It's just so callous, so cruel. I think my sweater is the reason you got such a harsh sentence. 25 years. And every second of it totally deserved.

The jury was unanimous. Justice had been done. So imagine my horror then. When just under a year later you brought up an appeal and your lawyer managed to get the entire case dismissed. Something new had come to light, apparently. Some new piece of evidence that cast everything into doubt. I don't know how you did it.

I don't know how your team managed to change what happened. But with this new turn of events, they had no choice but to let you go. If you had any shred of humanity left in you, you'd come clean. But of course you don't. People who do these things never do. And now you're free. outliving your life like a normal person. I bet you have folks around you who still insist you're innocent, right?

I remember your parents in court when the sentence was read out, screaming with abject outrage that their beautiful, perfect son could possibly have to take responsibility for his actions. I remember your lawyer. The way he argued you simply couldn't do what you and I both know you did. I'll be honest, I took a lot of pleasure in imagining your reaction when you were found guilty. I deserve that, don't I? But you've stripped that from me now, haven't you? And of course, you did the worst thing you could have done.

You took away my voice. You took away my ability to testify. To point the finger and say, yes, did this thing. Because the dead can't testify, can they? They can't take the stand during a retrial and argue that the new piece of evidence means nothing when she literally saw you kill her. I imagine you're still surprised to be reading this letter. I expect you're wondering if it's a prank, a cruel joke. Let me prove the fact it's not.

As you were killing me, as you were slicing me from sternum to throat, your body on top of me, pressing down. down. That horrible plastic garment you wore to keep the blood off you, cutting into my shoulders. You whispered something to me. You leaned against me and whispered in my ear. Your breath smelling of menthol will set you free, you said softly. Nobody else knows this, do they? You never came out at the trial. The only two people who know this are you and me. You're victim. So now you know, it's me. Don't worry, though. I'm not back from the dead to haunt you just yet.

I didn't believe that spirit writing was a thing before I died either. Bless my sister and her eternal interest in the occult. I teased her something awful when I was alive. Looks like I'm eating crow now, huh? So yeah. There's nothing else I can do from beyond the grave. But who knows? If I can reach you with a letter, then maybe, someday in the future.

I can reach my icy hands from beyond the veil of death. And they can grip you just as my words have gripped you now. I hope you enjoy your freedom for as long as it lasts. Eternally yours. Stephanie Carter, 1995 to 2017. Exhibit B. Point. filed August 26, 2018. What follows is a series of crime scene photographs procured from the Sacramento Police Department

on request of our office. The photographs depict an unknown subject, unsub, who's clearly deceased. The manner of the subject's death is of great curiosity to us. It is the belief of our agents that this death is connected to case 1144, which has been under investigation since February 1, 1st. 2018. Descriptions of the photographs have been documented alongside copies to preserve the evidence should such a situation arise in which they're no longer visible. Photograph number one. It's a picture of a motel room. The decor is of low quality, peeling wood panels covering the wall. In the bed,

seen on the right hand side of the photograph, is covered in dirty white sheets. A speck at the bottom left of the photograph could be a scrap of garbage or dirt, but analysis suggests it's a cockroach. The curtains of the motel room are drawn and shut, and faint sunlight can be seen through the flower pattern fabric, suggesting this photograph was taken sometime between the hours of 11 a.m. and 4 p.m., which is corroborated by the records of the forensic pathologist who took the photograph. In the center of the photograph is a body in a severe state of mutilation. The body, which appears to be male, is spread out in a star-like formation. His arms and legs positioned as if he's making snow angels,

source officer number 80297. His torso is a bloody mess, as if he's been torn apart by an inhuman force. Original reports believe that an explosive device has been detonated inside the manned body, but a lack of residue proved this to be untrue. The coroner's report currently cited, at the cause of death is unknown, and an unofficial coroner's note, which did not make it into the final

police report, states that it appears as if the body was torn apart from the inside out, with something actually erupting from within before death. Photograph number two. This is a photograph of the same motel room. It depicts the bed seen in the previous photograph. But here, the bed has been moved by forensic technicians. On the floor under the bed, a symbol has been drawn in what appears to be chalk. The sign is a three-pronged symbol which, from clockwise, appears to be a question mark,

a reverse question mark, a line. The police report designates the sign as unknown arcanum, photograph number three. This is a photograph of the face of the body from photograph number one. It is a man's face. His eyes are wide open, although his eyeballs are missing. There's obvious evidence that his eyeballs have exploded from within their sockets. The nose is also missing. A bloody hole leading into the cranium is the only evidence that a nose was once present.

The man's lips have been removed, although not with surgical precision. They appear to have been bitten off, although whether by the victim himself or third party is unknown. The victim, having bit his own lips off, is unlikely because he's also missing all of his teeth, none of which were recovered from the scene. Exhibit C.06 filed August 28, 2018. What follows is the testimony of Agent Marie Du Quinn, a season and respective agent with a history of successful cases.

I arrived in Sacramento that night. After the cops discovered the body and we picked up on it. Our equipment alerted us to one Layla Carter, whose sister, Stephanie Carter, is well known as the only victim of the Carmel Killer, an unknown perpetrator who had been previously falsely identified as one. At this time, we were not aware that the body discovered in the Sacramento motel was that of... I interviewed Miss Layla Carter after Agency Tech reported a positive detection of unauthorized or illegal piercing of the veil. Miss Layla Carter expressed surprise and disbelief at the nature of our agency, and it first claimed that she had no idea that things like this went on. After further interviews, however, it became clear to myself that Miss Layla Carter's proximity to the scene was a strange but undeniable coincidence, and that an unfortunate equipment malfunction had led to a falsely positive identification of the presence of an echo of Miss Stephanie Carter, Lela Carter's deceased sister.

while the equipment undeniable shows Miss Stephanie Carter's spectral signature in the motel room of as well as on the deceased man's body. It is my expert opinion that Layla Carter's presence had simply caused a unique malfeasance and agency equipment. This has been corroborated by my partner, Agent Tyler. Furthermore, Miss Layla Carter was able to draw our attention to the previous abode of Mr. There we were able to collect evidence that asserted his guilt in the crime. of which he was accused outside of our agencies were met. Scans of

this apartment offered up evidence that the man had been messing with forces he could not possibly understand, although records of these scans were sadly lost during an equipment crash that night. While I assert that it is entirely possible and understandable that Layla Carter could have conspired with her deceased sister, Stephanie Carter,

and sought revenge on for his now undisputed role in Miss Carter's death, We can only judge our investigation in the evidence, and there's simply no evidence that Stephanie Carter's echo is present at the death of thanks to equipment malfunction. As such, we conclude that Layland and Stephanie Carter are to be cleared of any and all wrongdoing, and no further action shall be pursued against either of them. Furthermore, as evidence points to as being the author of his own demise through unknown high-level supernatural experimentation, is our recommendation that Mr.

existence is scrubbed from our reality under protocol 1318. End of agent report. By the power is vested in Mia's director of the IJA. I hereby sign off on the report of Agent Du Quinn and approve her recommended action to be taken. Immediately and with prejudice. Once the appropriate conclusion has been achieved, investigation 1144 will be marked as closed

and sealed. Director Braun For your bonus episode Creepy Presents Breathe Writhed by Keith LaFontaine and narrated by Danielle Hewitt.

I feel her lips pressed against mine and that's how I know she's real. The woman from the ceiling crack the woman stealing my breath I resist the urge to open my eyes The last time I did that, jerking deeper into my pillow, heart lurching into my chest, she disappeared. All I saw was the glow of her fingernails, painted with moonlight, as they bent and buckled,

sliding into the crack and disappearing from view. As I exhale, she inhales, and I hear the ragged gust of breath as it slides into her lungs. Does she have lungs as I know them? She must, because she swallows air as though it's a finite resource. Her lips taste like ammonia, or what I assume that noxious flavor is. Worse? Her skin is dead cold. The only reason I know she's a she is because her breasts press against my chest when she steals my air.

I open my eyes finally. and as my lashes flutter, I feel her slip away. The parting break of her lips is like a seal being broken. I wipe the crud from my eyes, but by the time my vision clears, she's gone. I stare at the crack in the ceiling. Why not just stop up the crack? Why not just get plaster and paint? Or even an old-fashioned slab of duct tape and close the damn thing up.

I ask myself this question often, especially as this occurrence has shifted from a weekly disturbance to a nightly terror. It's simple, really. I'm curious. That morbid fascination fills me, and I must know who she is, how she got up there, and why she needs my breath of all things. Damn curiosity.

I take my pair of kitchen scissors to the Amazon box, and when I slice it open, I see another box inside. This one is adorned with the picture of a camera. All that work running articles about the latest Toyota Camry and the benefits of leasing a car as opposed to buying paid off, I guess. I glance up at the crack and I move on to the next box. Inside that one is a tripod.

It takes me all a few hours to find the right spot and set up my rig. The SD card I bought can store up to 512 gigs. I don't know how much I'll need, but that seems like plenty. With a few taps and some bottom lip chewing, I managed to set up the camera so it takes photo bursts every five minutes. The sun is set. It's dark out. I have to go to bed.

I wonder if she'll come down tonight. I'm woken not by the pressure on my chest, nor the press of her lips, nor her ragged inhalations, but rather the loud noise of camera shooting. She never runs away. Or flies. Hell, I don't know, when I tense up.

That's a good thing, because as I pinch my eyes tight resisting the urge to open them, my entire body tenses with the motion. The camera stops chattering and all I'm left with is dead silence. Well, silence punctuated by her ragged inhalations. It's like reverse CPR in a way. A strange pity fills my stomach. I open my eyes before it grows and she predictably skitters away. When my vision clears, I hear the camera pick up its whirring clatters.

I almost go and check the camera, but I decide against it. What if she comes back? I want a picture of her face. Hell, I'd take anything that might give me a sense of who she isn't, why she's doing this. So I close my eyes. I don't sleep. I take the next day off work. I feel bad for lying to my boss. He's both kind and gullible.

When he asks me why I need the day, I tell him I've got that bug that's going around. There's always some kind of bug going around. Sure enough, his response comes in a few minutes after my message. Oh yeah, I had that last week. Feel better. The temptation to check the camera is immediate. But I decide to instead take a shower. As the hot needles pour over my face and drip down my back, my mind wandered. She can't be a ghost. She has a form. Ghosts are just air.

That was what my mother said, at least, in her irascible tone, usually two or twelve cigarettes deep. Just air. That's why they opened doors and flicked on lights as opposed to throttling the life from your throat. But the woman also wasn't alive. At least, not in the strict sense. If she was, her skin wouldn't be as cold as a dead fish. I cut off the water and step out. After drying, I wrap the towel around my waist and tie it off. The faint trickle of water from the drain is audible, as is a skitter-skitter. As if I was none the wiser, I would assume it to be a mouse.

But I know better. I don't have an attic. That means she's writhing around in the wall somehow. I need to check the camera. No more stalling. My morning coffee steams on the kitchen table while I power up the camera and flick over to the photos it took the night before. I sip the black stew in my mug, and I choke on it. The second photo shows her. No skin. Just red muscle. A hand slips free from the crack. And then the rest of the form comes spindling through like a spider.

She's bald. Worse, poking through the folds of cherry red, I spy the lines of bones. Especially in the places where the muscle is the thinnest. The scalp. The hands. The feet. But curiously, she does have lips. And fastened around her fingers and toes are the remnants of white skin.

The flesh is old and worn like battered leather gloves, but it's there nonetheless. I flip to the next photo. She climbs down the wall. I can't see how she's defying gravity, but her head is angled up, staring at me, while her body is flat against the white paint. The toes of her right foot hook into the crack,

but beyond that, she's free from it. It occurs to me then, at it's odd, how red she is, knowing that pure muscle and flaps of old flesh press against me at night. And how it's so cold. Dead muscle, dead bone, dead flesh. Next photo.

She's frozen over me. Her hands pressed into the mattress, her pale lips lowering to mine, her beady eyes and deep red muscles standing out starkly against my pale chest and arms. It's then I remember those photos are taken five minutes apart. This woman's descent is as slow, low and methodical as it is terrifying for me to witness in snapshots.

I flipped to the next photo. Her chest grows as she inhales. I can see it there. Muscles tensed, body swollen. I turned the camera off and drink the rest of my coffee and three large burning swallows. Nothing, not even my darkest nightmare, could have predicted what the woman looked like. And now I can't get out of my head, the image of her pale lips against mine. of that cherry red body pressed against me.

I stand from the kitchen table and dump my mug into the sink. I need to do research, a lot of research. Even now, I can hear her skitter, skittering in the walls, waiting for night, waiting to take my breath. Boo hag. That is her name. I'm still not sure if she's a woman or a monster, or if there is even an important delineation between the two. But I at least can call her something, and for some reason that gives me a morsel of comfort.

This is, of course, assuming the Internet has given me correct information. For all I know, the name Boo Hag could be the creation of some Redditor out there who wanted a silver of infamy and made up a story about her. But I know she's real. I have the photos, after all. Night falls while I dive into my apartment's history. The landlord said that there was nothing there. Well, turns out there's plenty there, a monstrous amount of it, in fact.

I once thought landlords had to tell you if somebody died in the apartment you wanted to rent. Turns out they do. But only if someone died within the last three years. And the three years before I moved in, this place was empty. Maybe that's why it was such a steal. First up is Mr. Roger Gould. A badly scanned copy of the Morning Gazette reports that Gould was found dead in his bed next his wife with his skin missing. The wife was booked for the crime. But nothing I read gives any

indication she was capable of or interested in killing her husband, let alone skinning him. Next is Mrs. Ellie Rogers. Her official cause of death was sleep affixia. Her daughter was the one who found her three days later. Her skin was supposedly so blue, the young woman had mistaken her matriarch for a lumpy bed sheet. Most recently, about 10 years before I moved in, Mr. Angel Borgon moved in with his wife Nancy. They were 33 and 31 respectively, and supposedly, Angel died of a heart attack two weeks later. How did a likely healthy 33-year-old man suffer a heart attack? Maybe he downed one too many cheeseburgers, or maybe he woke up with red musculature, stealing his breath, and he panicked. I rub my eyes. I'm tired. But I can't stop reading these articles, these stories. I can't

stop thinking about the fact that three people, two men and a woman, died horrifically because of this woman, because of this boo-hack. Pressure on my chest, ammonia on my teeth. I jerk away, and as I do, I hear her rattling shriek. Nails dig into my arm, razor-sharp and thick. and slabs of my flesh peel away as if there are nothing more than raw bacon to be tossed in a pan. I yelp in pain, and the boo hag skitters away, back to her crack, back to the wall. Blood spills down my arm, and as it does, I glance at my computer screen. It's still a light, but the battery flashes red and it warns of imminent shutdown. The clock in the corner reads 3.30 in the morning.

I want to hit myself for being so stupid, for falling asleep. I stand and stumble to the kitchen. While the tap runs over my gashes in my arm, I look around the ceiling. There's a new crack in the living room wall. I pour soap on the wounds and scrub it in grimacing at the sting. And once the pain subsides, I swear under my breath, stalk to the bathroom and pull the first kid out from underneath the sink. I should fight it. That's my first inclination.

I should grab the bat from my study. and I should bash its brains in. I'm so full of rage. I decide to rob it of its femininity. Red muscle and white bones. That's all it is, stealing my brain, ripping old men's skin from their body.

But even if my bloodlust lasts the night, I don't think I can act on it. Not out of ethical distaste, but simple self-preservation. With how fast the woman moves, I doubt I can get a swing in before she claws out my throat. After I bandage up my arm, I return to my computer.

It still warns me of imminent death, but I close out the message. On the screen is a strange tip from one of the many tabs I have open. Put a broom beside your bed. Hell, I'll try anything. I open up a few social media sites and I upload the photos from my camera to them. I title all the posts the same thing. One Hawthorne way. Don't move in. Then I close the laptop, grab the broom from the kitchen closet, and shuffle toward the bedroom. I wake up once more, probably no more than an hour later.

But I don't feel the pressure on my chest, and I don't hear the woman's ragged gasps of breath. Rather, I hear a wheezing voice. Without opening my eyes, I steady my breath and listen. one, two, four. Each number is followed by the faint whisper of a broom-bristle being adjusted. She's counting them. I almost laughed right then, because it seems absolutely ludicrous. But then, every part of this is ludicrous. Every damn second of my life in the past few days has been ludicrous.

So I stifle my laughter and I clamp my eyes. and I listen to her count the broom bristles. Eight, nine. I resolve one final thing in my mind. When morning comes, if I'm still alive, I'm packing everything up and leaving before nightfall. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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