Creepy - Day 14 - Running Out Of Tombstones

Episode Date: October 14, 2019

It's only a matter of time...***Content warning: child death***Written by SnakeTongue237***Check out The Heads of Sierra Blanca at listensb.com***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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.

Creepy is proud to be a part of the bloody disgusting podcast network. This podcast and the 31 Days of Horrors made possible thanks to our patrons. So please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons, Amanda O, Candice Philpott, Victoria Yankova, Jolie C, and Michael Grande. Our patrons make this show possible. That's why for all of October 2019, new patrons at the $5 and above level get, in addition to their regular rewards, a limited edition creepy podcast refrigerator magnet. To see how you can support this podcast and get rewards on top of rewards for doing so,

please check out patreon.com slash creepypod. And after you listen to today's episode, I really think you need to check out the new audio drama The Heads of Sierra Blanca. From the creators of Darkest Night comes in amazing mix of fiction and true crime. If you haven't already heard about it, it's been creating a lot of buzz in the true crime community. I've been involved in podcasting for years, and this had me completely invested.

When I first listened to it, I thought it was 100% true. Evidently, so did a lot of people, as it was presented Blair Witch Project style, thrown at the audience and leaving them to figure out what really happened. The story and mixing of this audio drama are some of the best I've ever heard. And personally, I feel like we're witnessing a new wave in audio drama, something that plurs the lines between fiction and true crime in a way that's never been done before. Personally, I think we're on the verge of something amazing and podcasting that could change how we listen forever.

And after this episode of creepy, you can hear some of it for yourself. I wasn't going to play trailers this month, but this is a podcast I really do think everyone should hear. And after you listen, check out the link in the show notes to subscribe or search your favorite podcast app or just go to listensb.com. L-I-S-T-E-N-S-B dot com. And when you do that, leave them a good review. Because of their breaking new ground, a lot of true-kind fans didn't take too kindly to the new presentation. So show some audio-drama love by supporting a great podcast.

Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fascinating. Applications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror, Day 14, running out of tombstones, written by Snake Tongue 237. Cemetery have somewhat of a reputation for being.

creepy places, places in which our imaginations can be stimulated to a point of extreme dread. The roots of a maple tree are mistaken for the reanimated corpses of the damned, crawling desperately to the surface of the earth to wreak havoc on the living. A fine layer of mist is the soul of a long-lost lover, hopelessly trapped between two planes of existence. Shadows are cloaked and hooded vampires waiting to pounce. Stone angels are conduits for demons, and a headstone outlined by the phosphorescent light of the moon is a bloodthirsty werewolf, bearing its fangs. Jack's Mercer wasn't afflicted by such childhood concerns. He had been around the Palestine cemetery so often that it was nigh impossible to spook him. This was still quite

wonder, however. Very few people can enter a cemetery in the middle of the night without letting a shiver or two pass down their spine, even one as utterly mundane as the Palestine cemetery. This place, in particular, was nothing special. A small collection of tombstones, some older and some new, scattered vases with the occasional rose, and of course, the Palestine Methodist Church just down the road. However, Jack's indifference didn't stem from total bravery. He knew that the cemetery itself wasn't to be feared. The real danger lay in the surrounding woods. It was a giant of a man, standing at six feet five inches tall. More so, it was muscular. His tattoo-laid in arms were as thick as trunks from a crept myrtle tree, and a single hand could grip and crush a watermelon

without so much discernible effort. Thirty-seven years of age had given his face a hard, brutal look, making his sparse stubble strangely noticeable. Not that he cared. He wasn't a man of hygiene at all. Why would he be? He had no wife to please, nor anyone to please for that matter, except for the lark.

On the night the lark called on him for the umpteenth time he was sitting on his tarmite-ridden couch at home, watching a late-night John Wade movie. He was in a fine mood. His naturally stormy countenance had taken on a look of contentment. A single red rose, the one souvenir of last month's disaster, had been cast into the fireplace not too long earlier. He wouldn't be plagued by sentiments of unnatural guilt any longer. Furthermore, Jack's loved westerns.

He practically worshipped actors such as Wayne, Eastwood, and Cooper. And to enlighten his mood even more, he had a woman for hire coming over at 1 a.m. Just in time for his movie to be over. Cheryl, her name was, a flirting blonde goddess of a woman. According to the Craigslist ad anyway, things couldn't have been going better than the lark called upon him, just as it said it would so many years ago. He knew the call would come soon, but he had shoved the possibility into the back of his mind.

If he had remembered and fully realized the proximity of his hour, it would have laid wreckage to his sunny disposition. The voice of the lark penetrated his brain like a slug from a high-calibre pistol. It hurt like hell. It usually did. and in a moment's notice he was on the ground writhing uncontrollably. His eyes had rolled up into his head and he had nothing but darkness. Felt nothing, but the convulsions running up and down his body like liquid fire coursing through the marrow of his bones.

It was only when foam was beginning to accumulate on the corners of his mouth that the larks spoke in some foreign language that Jacks shouldn't have been able to understand, but did. It is time. His perfect night was ruined. Cheryl could wait until some other time. He had a very important task ahead of him. An assignment that, if left unattended, would result in the tragic deaths of hundreds of innocent people. Jacks was the unsung hero of the town of Palestine.

Every night as the people of the town lay down safely in their beds, they owed it all to Jacks. Though they didn't know it, Jacks headed out to the shed in the back, unlocked it, and stepped inside before switching on the light. The scent emanating from underneath the rotting wood was nothing short of repugnant. It appeared as if a raccoon had trapped himself in the tight space between the bottom of the shed's flooring in the uneven ground below.

Jacks didn't mind. He was used to the reek of festering corpses, not from his job as the local grave-digger. but from the burden that he had been victim to for seven years now. Scanning the shelves, he found what he was looking for, a shovel, a large heavy-duty flashlight, and a coil of rope. The first time he had made his ritualistic drive to the Palestine Cemetery, he had been nervous as a kindergartner on the first day of school. His churning stomach had been tied in several complex knots.

Sweaty hands had gripped the steering. wheel tightly, and his lower lip was being built with such ferocity that it turned white. All that had changed now. He might have been going to the supermarket for a carton of milk for all the emotion he showed. It was a short drive, no less than five minutes long. As soon as he passed the church, Jacks turned his high beams on and pulled into the grass, rolling through the short pasture between the church and graveyard. saw him. The road was practically abandoned on every day, save for Sunday. He barked his Ford pickup

as close to the graveyard as he possibly could. As soon as the deed was done, he found it was best to get back home as fast as he possibly could. No sense in walking the extra 50 yards to the road. Best to just get it over with as quickly as possible. In and out, then go home and watch Clint Eastwood waste leave Ancleaf, all while trying not to think about what you just did. Especially after what happened last time. The cemetery didn't scare him. But Jack shivered nonetheless as the memory permeated his mind. He shook himself, cleared his head, and grabbed the equipment out of the back of his truck.

The long grass swished impatiently about his feet. He would have to cut it soon, preferably next Monday when he was well arrested and fit. As a grave digger of this establishment, it was what they paid him for. With an expert flick of Jack's thumb, the flashlight burst to life, providing a small ray of illumination which he used to look at the headstones. Henderson. Who's looking for the tombstone labeled Shelley Henderson? Although in reality, Shelly wasn't the one laying on the soft white fabric of the casket.

The rotting remains of Shelly Henderson were now slowly dissolving in a pool of stomach acid. The beam of light danced around the cemetery until it found what he was looking for. Heading over to the grave, Jack set his flashlight down on the ground, propping it up slightly on the rope coil as it cast array of radiance over the area where he would be digging. He raised the shovel, then stopped. He knelt and brought the round point of the tool closer to his face. His stomach dropped about a foot. No.

His eyes hadn't been deceiving him. A marooned speck that he had somehow missed was encrusted on the rusty metal. He extended a thumbnail and scratched until it was gone. Without out of the way, he stood, pushing the flat of his palm on the handle of the shovel. Jacks plunged the blade deep into the earth. It slid through the soil easily just as expected. After all, it was only a month ago that this grave had been exhumed. Jack smiled wryly, for a stab of the night.

Not bad. Of course, there would be much more to come over a sustained period of three long hours. For the average group of two to three men, the process of exhuming would take around five hours. But Jacks was a brute of a man on his own, and a fast worker at that. Two hours later, he was four and a half feet into the ground and just beginning to sweat excessively. Perspiration was dripping down the bridge of his nose and giving the Roman gladiator inked into his left bicep a new slick sheen of fluid. He wiped at his brow absentmindedly and continued. The pack of chewing tobacco that he had jammed into his lower lip was growing heavier.

He spat once, letting some of the juice drip down his chin, then kept digging. He struck the concrete of the burial vault seal no less than an hour later. Breaking it wasn't a problem. That part was done already. Within seconds he was staring down at the black steel of the casket. He breathed in and let out a shaky breath. The hardest part of this entire operation was moments away. He had no trouble handling dead bodies, otherwise his job would be difficult.

He did, however, have trouble working up the courage to open the lid of that casket. Looking down at the face of the young boy, he had murdered. That was going to be difficult. He took a moment to reminisce. It was last month, July, when he had killed the child. He hadn't wanted to, but he wasn't given much choice in the matter. On that night, and especially nasty thunderstorm was forming in the distance. The occasional flashes of heat lightning serve as a natural malfunctioning lantern as he dug feverishly,

beseeching the earth for the corpse of Shelley Henderson, an elderly woman who had died only last month. By midnight the storm was upon him. The blackened clouds attacked relentlessly with bullet-shaped stinging raindrops. The deep rumble of thunder shook the air. Jacks could only smile to himself. The water loosened the soil, making digging far easier than it already was. In a matter of minutes, he uncovered the same black steel casket for the first time. The grave was flooding rapidly, and already his ankles were submerged in lukewarm summer rainwater.

Situating one knee on the bottom portion of the casket, he slipped his fingers under the lid and flung it open, exposing the corpse within. In the beginning, he had always had to use special tools to open the caskets, but he had since discovered that he could use his own brute strength. All in all, Miss Shelley Henderson didn't look that bad after a month underground. Her mouth was turned downward in a post-mortem scowl. Her lips shriveled back to reveal dry yellow teeth. Her white hair was beginning to fall out in thick clumps. Blistered brownish-yellow skin had sunken into the bones of her wrinkled face. Worst of all, her closed eyes looked strangely empty,

like bare sockets with two thin layers of rotting flesh stretched across them and sloppily sewn together. Jacks felt the sick, unshakable urge to find a needle and poke one eye hole. He used it if he did, the flesh would slide apart and off her skull entirely. She had been buried in a beautiful white dress, expensive lace, no doubt. The casket itself wasn't too shabby either. Someone had spent a lot of time and money to make sure that she would rest peacefully. Jacks felt a twinge of sympathy. When his mother had died 15 years ago, he had taken.

and measures much like this. He almost felt bad for disturbing Shelley's final resting place. Almost. Jack slid his hand under the corpse's shoulder. Like so many times before, the bare skin exposed that the back had stuck to the cloth of the lining. He pulled gently, slowly. Ironically, he was always as delicate as he could with the bodies, despite the destruction that would eventually become a form.

them. It was discontent some of Shelley's skin peeled and left a slimy residue on the costly fabric. Oh well. Cradling her in his arms like an overcome new boy in a grave digger tugged Shelly out of her shell, lifted her and benevolently set her down in the even ground above, next to his dirt pile. Jacks was just considering how he'd have to move the body quickly when he climbed out of the grave and saw him.

Ronnie Blakely. That was the kid's name, although Jacks didn't know him personally or at all for that matter. In fact, he would only learn the name of the child later that week, when he read about his disappearance in the newspaper with trembling fingers. He was a short little guy, especially compared to Jack's. The few characteristics of childhood marred his face. Someone like Shelley Henderson probably pinched his cheeks every once in a while, especially with those freckles and chubby facial features.

His chestnut brown hair, partially obscured by the hood of his yellow rain slicker, was curly. His hand secured a single red rose, a rose that Jacks would eventually destroy in his fireplace. He was looking at Jacks, half confused and half frightened. His tiny green eyes kept flitting from his frozen form, one knee on solid ground, the other legs still in the hole, to the nearby body. Jack's was panicking, though he didn't show it. This wasn't supposed to happen. This couldn't happen.

Not now, not a kid. Oh, God. Why couldn't it have been an adult that had walked in on him? Adults could be bargained with, reasoned with, and threatened. Not a kid. All kids ever did in Jack's experience was talk. And from the looks of it, this particular kid had quite a story to tell. When he did tell what would happen, Jack's certainly would be impressed.

and in the town of Palestine would be doomed. A child standing that 20 paces away from him could unintentionally murder hundreds. A ball of energy began to build in Jack's chest as he stared at Ronnie, who was silently sizing him up from a distance. The energy spread to his legs, his arms, his whole being. He knew what had to be done. But did he have the power to do it? A single tell spurred the chase.

Ronnie's look quivered slightly, almost infinitesimally, but enough. Jacks wrenched himself on his opening a more quick motion, grabbing the shovel from its place beside the flashlight. Ronnie turned and started to run. Jack's follow feet stamping furiously into the marshy grass, his wife feet squishing against the soles of his boots. It didn't take him long to catch up with his height and build. They're both still running when Jacks raise a shovel over his head, both still running when he

brought it down, concentrating all the strength in his body on this one fatal swish. The head of the shovel embedded itself and ran his skull with a short crisp thwock past, and his legs were still kicking desperately as if he was still capable of running away. The primal groan of pain escaped his lips, followed by a series of short gasps. Jax's was gripping the handle of the shovel so tightly that he was sure it would burst to splinters at any moment. He tasted blood. It was his own. He was biting the inside of his cheek hard.

The brassy taste mingled with the remnants of tobacco. Ronnie was flailing his arms, his hands desperately reaching towards the back of his head as if to dislodge the metal from his brain. A few thin, eerie scratches were oddly noticeable through the din of rain as his minuscule fingernails scrabbled over the shovel's head. Suddenly,

Every bone inject's body felt drained. He lightly wrenched the shuffle downward, and it released itself from the child's head with a hiss of pressurized blood, which lightly peppered his face in arms with a veneer of warmth before the rain washed it away in rigulets that cascaded down his form and tainted the soil. He closed his eyes, only listening to the thud of the body hitting the ground. He went to his truck. got inside and locked the door. There was a bottle of Shmirnoffs in the glove compartment, man's best friend in case of crucial decisions.

It took him a long time to consider his options. He could get out right now. He could run away from Palestine and never come back. But then... No. He refused to think of the destruction that response would entail. He was a good person. Truly, he was.

His mother, God bless her, had raised him better than to commit such a cowardly action. There was only one option. The right option. An hour and a half later, Shelley Henderson had been fed to the lark, and Ronnie was six feet underground, lying in a bed of eternal sleep. His slumber, however, would soon be broken. The lark like that. fresh bodies, and he had to be running out of tombs to raid, right? That was a scary thought. Soon he would run out of graves to dig. Jacks did his best to push the thought out of his mind.

He had faith in his lifetime philosophy. Do what you can, well you can, and if you have a problem, wait until it presents itself instead of worrying about it. He had taken one thing from the boy, A single article to preserve some sort of his innocence that was otherwise wiped off the face of the earth. The single red rose. That was a month ago, Jacks realized. It seemed like just last week. Last week when the search parties were issued, last week when Ronnie's pitiful mock funeral was held just yards away from where his actual body resided.

It was so ironic, Jacks couldn't help but find it darkly funny. Jack stared down at the casket which housed a lark's monthly meal. He breathed in, letting the cool air fill his lungs. Then in one fast, precise motion, he bent down, hooked his fingers underneath the lid, and jerked the boys next to final resting place open. Ronnie had fired even better than Shelley Henderson. In fact, he was virtually the same as when he was alive. With the exception of the blood that matted his hair and the thick layer of moss then now covered his face.

and of course his exposed skin was noticeably paler, but that was to be expected. Nonetheless, Jacks felt sick to his stomach. Not from the body itself, but the fact that he was the one who had caused this once-living creature to lie still. Gingerly, he placed a finger on Ronnie's shoulder and pressed. The skin underneath was oddly spongy. Then, pursing his lips, he worked an arm under his bow to his bowels. back, leaned in close, and hoisted him upwards. That's when Jack's got sight of the boy's wound in a feeble ray of flashlight.

His insides turned to water. His arms began to shake involuntarily. A green oozing crust was layering the exposed cut, which was outlined by a large, ugly yellow, brown discoloration that was noticeably large even through the haziness of Ronnie's hair. It reminded Jack's ludicrous. chrissly, of the bruised skin of an apple. The exposed brain matter within the cut itself might have been red toothpaste with a small stretch of the imagination.

Jack spit his tongue hard to keep the vomit down and push the body upwards, thrusting it more roughly than required onto the ground above. The last time he'd seen such gore was three summers ago when he had exhumed the body of a car crash victim. Physically the walk into the woods was the easiest part. You just cradled the corpse like your one true love in your arms before setting out. The lark had one specific place it liked to appear, and Jacks reached out less than five minutes later. He had stopped at a clearing in the forest with a deep incline that led into a huge abyss of mud and slime about 50 feet across.

Jack stopped and laid the body out on the ground, in the right position for the upcoming task. He smelled the lark before he saw it. He always did. As much as he had been around the dink stench of decomposition and even bloated cadavers, the smell of the lark always managed to make him wrinkle his nose and disgust. It was ozone, combined with warm rotted eggs and a strong touch of the sewers. The ground under Jackson's feet trembled slightly. He took a step back, cautious of his surroundings.

One of his biggest fears was that he would exit on. tumble down into the pits, then all would be lost, in more ways than one. Then from the chasm of filth below, a low, gentle stirring in the muck which was starting to issue a low hum as it bubbled, gently at first, and more violently as it progressed into a full gurgle, complete with the build-up of fizz near the outer rims of the pool of sludge. A single black tentacle emerged from the slime, sleek, smooth and shiny. The reptilian ropes swished through the air like the tail of an angered lion testing the night.

Apparently it liked what it felt because it was soon joined by more. Jacks couldn't track of their number. All of them vibrated spasticly, unveiling the source of the bubbling and fizzing. This was a new trick, probably an attempted intimidation. And one that was working at that. A cool hand of reassurance touched Jack's mind. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. It was an illusion.

All an illusion created by that beast in the ground. It was that same illusion that had lured him into the woods all those years ago. Forced him into that deal. A series of high, shrill, pitch-clicks echoed off the trees. It was laughter. The lark was laughing at him. Jax could do nothing but swallow his breast. pride and pushed the comfort to the edges of his consciousness, forcing himself to face the cruel

truth of the world. There was no consolation here. He hated the lark, and the lark would destroy him without a second thought. That was all. It was several years ago when they had first met. Jax was young and naive. The lark must have known this, must have been able to sense that touch minds are easier to twist and pervert, because now he was on the low end. He was on the low end of a high-stakes deal for the rest of his years. Every month, one exhumed body for the lark. And if the lark didn't get what he wanted? Palestine.

Bitterly Jack's spit where it remained of his tobacco. A tired sense of rage was expanding in his being, starting in his heart and working his way through his veins. Jack's was exhausted, plain and simple. Exhausted of giving so much to people who had given him so little, exhausted of the constant boring cycle that his life had become, exhausted of knowing there was no escape. In a single romp of pathetic and doleful fury, Jaxx rushed forward and kicked Rani's body directly in the sternum, sending him tumbling down into the void, where he was encompassed by the math writhing tentacles.

It looked like a thousand water moccasins were crawling over the corpse, especially in the light of the moon. Within a minute, wallowed by tentacles and muck alike, Jack's work here was done. He turned to go. Now, about those tombstones. There were very few left in the Palestine cemetery. Jacks knew that. What would he do when he ran out? Surely he could get bodies from other cemeteries.

No, moving them would be too much a chore. In any ways, few cemeteries were isolated as Palestinians. Jacks thought of the shovel. How easy it had a bad murdering Ronnie one swift quick blow to the head? Could it be all too difficult to do that again? The rose was burned, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, no more guilt. Yes, he could do it again, probably several times as a matter of fact once the Palestine Cemetery became useless to him. if he was lucky

maybe he'd even get caught a sneak peek at the heads of Sierra Blanca It is undoubtedly one of the most dangerous places on the entire planet Whoever did this was not your typical killer There's something much more impersonal behind this than anything I'd ever seen in my career Something coldly

37 year old Lorena Salas found dead in her home The killer believes to have drugged her, then set up an elaborate contraption around her home, which ended in her decapitation. This is The Heads of Sierra Blanca. Welcome to the Heads of Sierra Blanca. My name is Monica Rodriguez. And I'm Magdalena Salas, but you can call me Lena.

I'm a former El Paso County police detective and a current private investigator with over 20 years' experience in the field. I've known Monica for half my life. She's been a close friend of mine and my families for as long as I can remember. When Lena's aunt, Lorena, first moved to Sierra Blanca, we were best friends. I might even go as far as saying we were inseparable. That being said, Monica and Anne came together to make this podcast because we both wanted to reinvestigate a case that changed our lives forever. The Rube Deck murders.

For those of you that don't know, the Rube in Rube Deck stands for Rube Goldberg Machine. A Rube Goldberg machine is a device that performs a simple task in a complicated way, like a ball rolls and hits into some dominoes which then knocks over a vase. And usually at the end of this sequence it performs an important task, such as turning the page in a newspaper. The killer would construct a similar device, except his climactic ending involved the decapitation of his victims. That's the deck. To understand the crimes, it is important to have some general

knowledge of the history of the region. Before I moved two hours north to Sierra Blanca, I grew up fearing for my life. This wasn't just because a killer could show up at my doorstep at any time, but because if they did, no one would even care. That was just life in Ciudad Juarez. It is undoubtedly one of the most dangerous places on the entire planet, plagued by drug warfare and the mysterious violent deaths of hundreds of women and girls since the early 90s. Tudad Juarez sits just across the border from the U.S. city of El Paso, Texas.

Amongst the thousands killed overall, well over 300 women and young girls have died since 1993, with local groups believing the real numbers to be far, far higher. The cause, the drug trade, but also sex slavery, even satanic rituals. There have been many federal and state investigations. But still, the authorities seem unable to identify most of the killers or even establish strong motives. These were independent women, mostly abducted on their way to work, like your mom.

My mother was the sole provider of our family and labored away at the same maquiladores as so many of these victims. When I talk about this, I talk about economic violence. A lot of them work in transnational corporations that are along the border. They're paid very low wages. And all of these jobs are predominantly held by women. They're making maybe $80 a week. And it also relates to the sex trade. It was also pretty clear who was behind most of this.

This is what journalist Johann Hari had to say about it on the Joe Rogan experience. He's most well known for his book covering the war on drugs called Chasing the Scream. If you're a member of the Zetas at that time in Juarez, it's different now because another drug gang has displaced them. You own the state, right? You have, if they control 70% of the economy, you have more money than the government, right? So the police worked for them when I went to go and interview Rosario. He said, when I would go and murder, he said, when I would go and murder, to people, the police would come with me.

They would dispose of the body, right? I remember... And what year are we talking about? This is like six years ago. So my mom, my aunt and I packed up and left. Fifteen years ago, we came across the border to build a new life

in Sierra Blanca. I was 10 years old, and although it was only 80 miles from Juarez, it felt like a different planet. Life seemed peaceful in a way it never had before. Here, tumbleweeds outnumbered people a thousand to one, and there are only two restaurants in town. Hell, Sierra Blanca is so small,

there isn't even a grocery store. For many years, Sierra Blanca's most infamous instance of crime was this. While you heard that red-headed stranger, Willie Nelson, was arrested Friday at a Sierra Blanca, Texas border checkpoint. He was charged with possessing six ounces of the deadly devilweed marijuana. But that all changed in 2007. My aunt Lorena got a job waitressing at Delphinas, Sierra Blanca's only Mexican restaurant. She started making great money on tips and moved out of our spot to her very own house. For her, that was everything.

And as a family, we were excited to celebrate it. On the night of March 26th, Tia was supposed to come over for dinner. mom and I made homemade tortillas chilaquilles the works after waiting an hour we called her and it went straight to voicemail at that point it didn't seem all that strange no alarm bells were ringing we called again an hour later still nothing we waited by the phone but something didn't feel right it wasn't like dia to just blow off her own family we just knew something had happened. So mom and I decided to stop by her house and make sure she was okay. But she wasn't. This just in Sierra Blanca, Texas, 37-year-old Lorena Salas found dead in her home in the late hours of the evening. The killer believed to have drugged her, then set up an elaborate contraption around her home, which ended in her decapitation. The perpetrator also appeared to have been live streaming the entire chain of events.

The Hutzpeth County Sheriff's Department examining the footage as we speak. We are working diligently on behalf of Hutzpeth County and the Salas family to find justice for this heinous crime. We have no additional comment at this time. I couldn't believe it. The whole event was unconscionable. I remember watching my mother cry herself to sleep. Night after night as if there was something she could have. have done to stop it.

I couldn't console her. She was completely numb, incapable of letting this new reality sink in. Elena, how did you feel? I remember stopping at Delphinas every day on my walk home from school. It was ten minutes out of the way, but I didn't care. As I'd approached the restaurant, I'd get a little jolt of hope. That maybe. Just maybe.

She'd be there. That I'd look through the window and she'd be pouring coffee. That she was just working this whole time and that all of it was just some sort of messed up dream. But of course, that wasn't true. The police had virtually no incriminating evidence and no potential suspects. It was a media frenzy with the same handful of facts

circulating endlessly going nowhere. We had a chance to sit down with the sheriff to discuss it. Could you introduce yourself for the tape, please, Sheriff? Yes, I'm Sheriff Arvin Gardner, G-A-R-D-N-E-R from Hudson-E-R from Hutzpeth County. I was born here in Sierra Blanca, and I'm living in this town almost my whole life. And how long have you been working for the force? Well, I graduated from the Academy in 1975, and then worked in Hidalgo County as a deputy for a little bit of bit until returning in 1980. Then in 1990, I was elected Hutzpith County Sheriff. So in total,

I've served this county damn near 40 years. So with your depth of experience, how do you normally investigate a case like this? And what were your first thoughts? Usually during a homicide investigation, you dive deep into the victim's life. You talk to their family, friends, co-workers, significant others, try to find leads from there. You know, know, nine times out of ten, when someone winds up dead, the perp was someone they knew. Your aunt, though, she kept to herself. Yeah. She got up early, went to work, spent time with family.

She had no extra-professional relationships with coworkers or customers, no significant others. We couldn't find any reasonable motive for anyone who knew her. And what did you learn from the video? Well, that whoever did this was not your typical. killer. There's something much more impersonal behind this than anything I've never seen in my career. Something colder. Unfortunately, to best understand the Rube Deck killer, I think it's important to play some snippets of the audio. The first three episodes of the heads of Sierra Blanca are available now. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest

stories for future episodes, please visit us. At Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Or email us at CreepyPol. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise dated.