Creepy - Down the Stairs

Episode Date: January 16, 2023

Keep and eye on what you value most...***Written by: Lewis Brett Smiler***Bonus Episode: "I Used To Be With Them" written by Jack Nash and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer***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.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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. Down the stairs. Written by Louis Brett Smiler. Ever since Frank and Judy bought the old Victorian mansion, locals have been reminding them that their home was cursed. During the past century, the mansion had been owned by five different families, and they were all victims of burglary. Legend had it that the owner's valuables would mysteriously disappear without any sign of break-in.

It was as if the mansion itself had swallowed up their belongings. Yet, Frank and Judy had owned the mansion for 11 years, and had never had one valuable disappear. Judy once lost her keys, and Frank would occasionally lose a sock, but nothing of great importance ever vanished. Frank often joked that he'd broken the curse. although the locals were not convinced. They continued to insist that anyone who lived in the mansion would sooner or later lose their most valuable treasures. Frank and Judy would be spending two years in Japan on business.

It would be two years away from their queen and mansion. But they were not going to leave their home unsupervised. Steve, Frank's best friend since fifth grade, agreed to stay there as the house sitter. He promised that nothing in the man mansion would vanish under his watch. But Frank was not the least bit concerned. He and Judy had many wealthy friends

whom they'd played golf and dined with. Yet when it came to watching their valuables, there was nobody whom they trusted more than Steve. Shortly after moving into the mansion, Steve would hear continual reminders from the locals about its supposed curse. He could not help feeling amused, as his life already seemed cursed.

The 45-year-old was laid off from his job. His wife had abandoned him. His young daughter barely knew who he was, and his bills were piling up. What could the mansion take from Steve? He'd already lost everything that was important. Well, almost everything. He still had his friends, Frank, and Judy.

The couple offered to pay Steve to watch the mansion, but he would not hear of it. As bad as his finances were, He still had his pride. Frank and Judy were the ones doing him the big favor by letting him stay in their home rent free. Steve told himself that this arrangement was only temporary. Sooner or later, he would have a job again and get back on his feet. The important thing was to be persistent and not give up.

Steve was still the master of his own destiny, and no economic forces were going to bring him down. After spending a few, months in the mansion, Steve was feeling very frustrated. Try as he might, he was unable to find a new job. He'd sent his resume out to several employers, but he was lucky to get even one interview. How he was supportive, Frank regularly called a check on him. He would ask Steve if he'd witnessed any supernatural activity yet, but the question was obviously in jest. At times, Steve wished that the home really was haunted. He would offer some relief from the daily monotony. There was an old sycamore

tree in the backyard. One of the neighbors had informed Steve that the tree looked to be dying, and there was a risk it might fall. After consulting with Frank and Judy, Steve contacted a tree service to have the sycamore removed. For one day, Steve had a little excitement watching the tree specialists at work. However, he knew that. that once they were done, his boring life would resume. At least, that was what Steve was expecting. One of the workers found a wooden box buried near the roots of the tree. Steve opened the box and found a key inside it.

It was a vintage key, probably dating back to when the mansion was first built. How long was it buried in the yard? What was it for? Judy had mentioned that many of the mansion's original locks had been replaced over the years. The key could easily have been for a lock that no longer existed. Steve assumed that was probably the case. Nevertheless, there might still be a few original locks left in the mansion. Steve tried the key in every single lock, but to no avail.

Why was he wasting his time? Still, he could not help feeling intrigued. by the key. Why did someone bury it in the backyard? Was there something the person was trying to hide? Steve then remembered that there was an old wooden door in the basement that he never saw open. It was in a remote corner, very easy to miss. He'd always assumed it was a closet, but he did not know for certain. Could the key possibly match the lock for that door? Steve had nothing to lose by trying. He walked down the basement stairs, past the billiard room, and went down a dark hallway. Steve placed a key into the keyhole, and, much to his surprise, it actually fit.

Opening the door, he was amazed to see a large empty room behind it. Were Frank and Judy aware that the room existed, he could not see them putting such a large space to waste. There was an opening at the other end of the room to the right side. Steve walked over and saw ten steps leading down. Was there another level underneath the basement? Getting a flashlight, Steve walked down the stairs to find another large room that seemed identical to the room he was just in.

There was another stairway on the right side leading further down. Were there two levels under the basement? Steve walked down the next flight leading to yet another identical room. There was still more stairs going even further down. down. This was unbelievable. How many levels were there underneath the mansion? Did Frank and Judy know anything about this? Steve could not wait to call them. As he started heading back up the stairs, he began to feel a little dizzy and suspected that his blood sugar might be getting low. He sat down on the step, pulled a mint from his pocket, and tossed it into his mouth.

Steve had diabetes and would never go anywhere without his trusty mints. They were genuine lifesavers. He soon felt better and continued up the stairs to the basement. He had no idea how Frank and Judy would react to his discovery. It was 7 a.m. at the mansion and 8 p.m. in Japan. Steve tried calling Frank and Judy, but there was no answer. He tried again a half hour later and still could not reach them. No problem.

Frank would be calling Steve next week to check up on him, and they could discuss the mansion's secrets down. In the meantime, Steve was eager to do more exploring. What else would he find under the mansion basement? There must be something interesting down there. Why else would someone bury the key to the stairs? Steve tried not to get too excited. There might not be anything to see except empty rooms.

Steve unlocked the wooden door in the basement. again and ventured down the first flight of stairs. He noticed that the room below had a wooden door with the same design. How had he missed it before? It was on the opposite side of the room from the stairs. Steve tried opening the door, but it was locked. No problem. He was able to unlock the door with the same key he had used for the door above. There was a hallway on the other side, and Steve could hear men's voices conversing only a short distance away. How could that be? Were there people under the mansion that he was unaware of?

It was hard to believe. Even more puzzling. One of the voices sounded like Franks. Following the voices, Steve was shocked to find a billiard room that looked identical to the one in the basement. Peaking out from behind the doorframe, he watched an amazement as Frank and his friends were enjoying a game of pool. How was that possible?

Frank was supposed to be in Japan. There was no way he could have come back without Steve knowing. Why was Pete there laughing with Frank? Steve was certain that the two of them now hated each other. Worst of all, how could Ron possibly be there playing pool? Steve vividly remembered his funeral a few years ago. He continued to look at Ron carefully, wondering if he was seen correctly. This pool game could not be seen.

possibly be real. Was this a figment of Steve's imagination? No. His imagination cannot conjure anything this elaborate. He saw that Pete was walking toward his direction, feeling frightened. Steve quickly walked down the hallway and returned to the stairs. He knew that low blood sugar could impact his behavior, but he had never had a hallucination before. What happened just now was downright bizarre. Steve headed back up to the mansion basement, which was more familiar territory, and locked the wooden door behind him. Everything was starting to seem normal again.

Steve hoped that things would stay that way. He was not going to say a word to anyone about the floors beneath the basement. For the next several days, Steve kept himself occupied helping a neighbor with her garden. He also spent plenty of time at the public library chatting with anyone. who happened to hang out there. Perhaps he would start volunteering. It was important to stay social and not get cooped up in that lonely mansion.

Whenever there was a fantasy show on television, Steve was quick to change the channel. He wanted to stay in reality at all times. It was the only way he would ever be able to hold a job or see more of his daughter. It was the only way Steve would ever stay in control of his own life. And no matter how hard he tried, He could not forget the pool game below the basement.

He could not forget the sight of Ron talking, laughing, and being very much alive. Something was definitely wrong. Steve walked down to the basement and unlocked the wooden door. There was still an empty room with stairs leading down to a lower level. He ventured down those stairs to another empty room with another wooden door. There were also more stairs leading further down. Should he continue down the stairs? or should he open that second wooden door again?

He noticed that he had left it unlocked from his last visit. After a brief hesitation, he decided to open the door and see what he would find this time. Much to Steve's relief, it was quiet on the other side. There was still a billiard room, but there is nobody playing pool. There was no frank, no Pete, and certainly no Ron around. The idea of Ron's ghost haunting the mansion was. too much to accept. Steve tried to be thankful for small blessings, but things still did not make sense. You cannot understand why the basement and the floor below it had identical billiard rooms.

As he continued to explore the sub-basement, he realized there was a perfect replica of the basement above. The room lay out was identical. The furnishings were very similar. Steve was astounded to find a washer and dryer in the exact same spot. Even the laundry detergent was stored in the same place. Once again, Steve was starting to feel a bit scared. He spotted a stairway leading up, identical to the basement stairs. Where would those stairs take him? They probably went up to the basement as it was one level above.

He followed the stairs up, but to his surprise, he was back on the first floor of the mansion. How did he skip an entire level? Steve ventured into the living room hoping things would be normal. But something did not seem right. The living room furniture was not arranged the way Steve remembered it. He was sure of that. The television in one of the armchairs were different, and the coffee table seemed less cluttered than before.

Was he having another hallucination? He walked into the kitchen and noticed a different light fixture on the ceiling. His trusty jar of sugar mints was not. where to be found. Steve struggled not to panic. He looked out the window and saw an old sycamore tree in the backyard. That tree was removed only a short time ago. Today's date was June 3rd, 2007, yet there was a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall for June 1997. Steve looked at the newspapers on the kitchen table. They were also dated for June 1997. A ridiculous thought of the made its way into Steve's head.

Did he actually travel back in time? Steve continued to explore the mysterious stairways leading down from the mansion basement. It seemed that instead of going from one floor to another, they went from one decade to another. The first flight of stairs brought Steve from the 2007 basement to the 1997 basement. Frank and Judy had only recently purchased a mansion, and her friend Ron was still alive to play pool. The second flight of stairs transported Steve from the 1997 basement to the 1987 basement. He would see what the mansion looked like with different owners, different furnishings, and different carpeting. Another flight of stairs brought Steve to the

year 1977. There were more drastic changes to the decor. It was all so fascinating. Steve noticed a television in the 1997 living room with a dial and no remote. When was the last time he'd seen a television like that? Steve was about to turn it on, but he heard a car pulling into the driveway. He scurried into the basement, not wanting to be seen. Now that the mansion had different owners, Steve was no longer a welcome house guest. He did not want to think about what would happen if the police arrested him. He ventured up the stairs back to 2007, still struggling to make sense of his recent discovery.

He could not understand how to be able to be. time travel was possible. As much as he'd tried to find a suitable explanation, nothing would come to mind. All he knew is that each flight of stairs transported him exactly ten years back in time. Not one day more, nor one day less. It seemed that the only way to open the wooden door and access the stairs was that special key that had been buried in the backyard. No matter which decade he stopped in, the same key would unlock the wooden door from either side.

Were there any other keys like it? Or did Steve have the only one? How could he find out? Steve would not say a word about any of this to Frank and Judy, as they would never believe him. For Frank, the idea that the mansion was enchanted was nothing more than a joke. Traveling through time in a queen-and basement was beyond crazy. Steve knew what he had seen. There was no way he could deny it.

He also began to realize. how he could use time travel. Ever since Steve moved into the mansion, he'd always wanted to do something special for Frank and Judy. The perfect opportunity had now come. The couple had always dreamed of restoring their old home to its original 1887 appearance, but they were too busy to do the research.

Yet, with time travel, Steve could easily research the mansion's history for them. He was going to travel back to the year 1887 and take color photos of the mansion in its prime. The photos would capture the mansion's original wood siding, Victorian colors, front porch, and all its original charm. There was no finer gift that Steve could give his friends. Of course, he would have to explain to them how he obtained those great photos.

That would be a problem for another day. He could not recall the last time he'd felt so empowered. Steve picked up his digital camera and unlocked. to the wooden door in the basement. For the first time, he noticed that there were no stairs leading up beyond the year 2007. It was possible to visit the past, but not the future. Perhaps it was because the future was not yet written. Steve hoped that was the case.

He began his long walk down the stairs to the year 1887. Since every flight was 10 years, he needed to walk down a total of 12 flights. He wished that there was a sofa on the way where he could rest, but that was not to be. Regardless of which decade Steve went through, the room by the stairs was always completely empty, without even a chair to sit on. There was no evidence that any of the mansion's previous owners had ever used the room.

Probably none of them had a key to get in. Steve counted each flight of stairs as he went down, but it turned out not to be necessary. Once he reached 1887, there were no stairs leading down any further. That made sense as the mansion did not exist before 1887. Steve could not believe that he was now setting foot in the 19th century. His grandparents were probably not born yet. Unlocking the familiar wooden door, Steve excitedly made his way from the basement of the living room. The Victorian furniture was a sight to see. Steve felt

like he was in one of those house museums, except there were no ropes to block off the furniture. from being touched. Judy had often said that a Queen Anne mansion was a work of art and should never be contaminated with modern blandness. She and Frank would finally have a chance to see their home in all of its glory. Steve could not resist taking pictures of all the beautiful furniture and antiques in the living room. After photographing a hand-carved Victorian lamp, he started hearing voices from the second floor.

Steve scurried back to the basement again. He had to remember that he was trespassing in someone else's home and could not risk being discovered. Perhaps it would be best to save his photography for Sunday morning when people were at church. Nobody would catch Steve then. He could not imagine what would happen if someone in 1887 saw his digital camera. As he was proceeding up the stairs to 2007, the image of the hand-carved lamp remained lodged in his head. If he brought the lamp back with him, he could sell it for a few hundred dollars. He could definitely use the money.

It made him uneasy, but then he realized that nobody in 2007 would know or care who owned a lamp over a century ago. Steve returned to the 1887 living room late that night and took two lamps and a bronze mantel clock. All the residents were fast asleep and unaware of his presence. He carefully carried the antique treasures down to the basement and into the secret room, placing them on the floor directly by the stairway. Steve was about to go back to the living room to check out more antiques, but he was starting to feel dizzy. He felt better after helping himself to another mint, only to realize a new problem. How was he going to carry those heavy items of 12 flights of stairs? It would be a challenge for younger, stronger men in better shape.

Perhaps it would be best to resolve the issue when he was more alert. He could leave the antiques in the secret room now and come back for them later. Steve walked up one flight of stairs to the year 1897. Much to his delight, the three antiques were still on the floor exactly where he'd left them. He walked up another flight of stairs to the year 1907. The items were still untouched. They remained in the same spot in 1917 and 1907. The reason seemed clear.

Nobody else but Steve had a key to access that room. How else could these priceless antiques stay untouched for multiple decades? As Steve continued to look over the lamps and clock, more questions started to bother him. According to legend, items were mysteriously disappearing from the mansion without explanation. It suddenly dawned on Steve that his actions just now might have caused. caused that legend? Were all the stories he had heard about the mansion his own doing? Did his actions have an impact before he even performed them?

These thoughts made him tremble. Steve tried to assure himself that the actions had not been predetermined. He had discovered time travel and was deciding how to use it. Nobody else was deciding for him. Nobody else was telling him what to do. But somebody else had to know about. the magical stairs beside Steve. Whoever buried the key in the backyard had to have been aware.

As Steve continued upward in 2007, the antiques remained in place exactly where he'd left them. There was no evidence that anyone else was using the stairs or watching Steve. The following night, he headed back down to 1887 to collect more valuable pieces. The proceeds from the sales will go a long way towards paying bills. Steve was starting to regain control over his life again. Several days passed. The mansion's one empty room was now filled to capacity with treasures that Steve was planning to sell.

There were gold jewelry, silverware, chinaware, porcelain vases, Tiffany glass, musical instruments, and a box full of rare coins. During one of his visits to the past, Steve had helped himself to a mahogany rocking chair. By keeping it in his storage room, it allowed him a means to run. relaxed between stairways while he munched on his energy bars. It did not matter in which decades Steve visited the mansion as every owner had luxury goods. He'd carefully tried to schedule his trips when residents were sleeping or away from home. It was not always so easy.

Since discovering time travel, Steve had had more than his fair share of scary experiences. However, there was nothing creepier than watching the 1997 pool game with Frank and his friend. The fact that Pete almost saw him remain very unsettling. Steve kept telling himself that nobody had seen him during any of his trips back in time, and nobody had known what he was doing. He now had a large collection of merchandise to sell, and he could not believe how much money he was going to make. He would be able to spoil his daughter on her birthday, Christmas,

and any other time he felt like it. What gifts could he buy for her? What trips could he take her on? These thoughts brought Steve so much joy, but there was still more work to be done. Where was going to sell this merchandise? Taking a break from time travel, Steve spent the next few days pondering the issue. He decided to start by focusing on the jewelry, as it was small and easy to transport. He knew a jewelry store in Philadelphia with a stellar reputation.

Steve would bring the jewelry there and see how much they would offer. He went down to the basement. unlocked the wooden door and loaded all the rings, necklaces, and earrings into bags. As he was about to bring the jewelry upstairs, something troubling caught his eye. The hand-carved lamps that Steve had taken so many days ago were missing. The same was true for the bronze mantle clock, box of rare coins, and a few other items from the collection. Steve was starting to panic. Had someone else found the secret room?

He walked down one flight of stairs to the year 1997. The items were still missing. Somebody else clearly knew about the secret room and the stairs. How was that possible? Did someone else have a key beside Steve? He walked down another flight of stairs to the year 1987. The hand-carved lamps, mantle clock, and all the other missing items were back again. Whoever had taken the items had probably done it in 1927.

He was in 1997. Steve realized that the door in 1987 was unlocked. Returning up one flight, he found that the 1997 door was unlocked too. Steve could not believe how careless he was. He was always so good at keeping the door locked in 2007 so nobody could enter the room. However, he did not think to lock the doors in the other decades after his visits. Anyone from the past now had access to the stairs. Steve trekked down to 1887 and locked the wooden door.

It would remain locked in every subsequent decade, preventing others from further entry into the room or use of the stairs. Who took the items from Steve in 1997? Frank and Judy had owned the mansion that year. Could they have found the room? Perhaps it was their cleaning lady. Frank's friends frequently hung out in the basement. Any of them could have found the room. How could Steve have been to be able to be?

so careless as to leave the door unlocked in all those decades. Due to that one stupid mistake, his activities were now exposed. Steve was unable to sleep at night, knowing that someone else was now aware of the secret room and the merchandise. How much did this person know about his activities? Was it possible to find out who the person was? Steve tried to assure himself that the police did not know anything about him or the room. However, the fact that an unidentified person was aware continued to trouble him.

The stranger saw an opportunity to steal and could not resist. Steve could not help but wonder if he was any different. He tried to push those thoughts away, but began to realize that he was nothing more than a common thief. He kept reminding himself that he was hard up and badly needed the money. Everything Steve took was from wealthy families, and they were not going to starve on. his account. He could still be a fine role model for his daughter, as she would never know that he stole for her. Yet, Steve knew what he had done, and now he was unable to push the guilt away. Frank had always laughed about the mansion's curse, but it was not a joke. Did Steve himself

create the curse? Was there some other force involved? Before Steve had moved into the mansion, he knew it had a reputation for items disappearing. Was he predestined to take those items all along? Steve still refused to accept that. He had made all his own decisions without suggestion or pressure from anyone else. But how did he turn to stealing so quickly? How did Steve lose his moral compass? These questions were torment Steve for hours.

When he first traveled back to 1887, he had noble intentions. He'd wanted to take photos of the mansion as it originally looked. Instead, Steve's photos contained a Victorian lamp, a mantle clock, and other antiques that he later stole. They now served as a record of his sins. But these sins would be very easy to erase. All that Steve needed to do was travel back in time again and return everything he'd stole. His victims would not be victims anymore, and history would be rewritten. A legend that the mansion was cursed would disappear from everyone's memories.

With time travel at his fingertips, Steve still had so much power. It was not 3 a.m. yet when Steve made his way out of bed. He was going to return the items he had stolen to their original owners while they were still asleep. Steve went to the basement, unlocked the door to the secret room, and ventured down the stairs to 1987. A few items were missing in 2007. in 1997, but in 1987, the collection remained intact. There should be no obstacles to returning the treasures to where they belonged.

But Steve suddenly found himself with another problem. He had never kept track of which items belonged to which owners. His jewelry bags alone mixed up the collections of at least three different owners. What was he going to do now? Steve walked down one plate of stairs from 1987 to 1977. The room was not quite as cluttered as before. Any items that Steve had stolen in 1987 would not be there yet. He walked down another flight to the year 1967.

The merchandise in the room continued to shrink. Steve knew what he had to do. He had to go all the way back to 1887 and return their merchandise from that year first. He would return the items in 1897 next, 1907 afterwards, and so on. it was not so complicated. Steve remembered that he had left the wooden door to the storage room open in 2007. He walked back up a few flights, closed the door, and locked it behind him. Whenever Steve was not using the door, it should always be locked.

He had already caused enough trouble when he left the doors unlocked in all the other decades. Steve ventured back down and was not going to stop until he reached the year 1887. However, he was only about halfway there when he started to feel a little dizzy. He needed another mint, but when he reached in his pocket, he found that it was empty. Steve had been in such a hurry that he forgot to replenish his mint supply from the candy jar. Steve turned around and began heading upstairs to 2007. Steve had filled the secret room with stolen merchandise, but he had neglected to store any sugar snacks. How could he have been so careless?

For a man with diabetes, the mints were more important than even the most priceless antiques. If Steve ever passed out on those stairs, nobody would know where he was. Now that every door was locked, there was no chance anyone would find him. It was a terrifying thought. It had been one month since Steve went missing, and the police could not find any clues as to his whereabouts. Nobody had seen him leave the mansion, and his car was still parked in the driveway. Steve's wallet and medication had also been left behind, hardly a promising sign.

Frank and Judy offered a reward for any information, but no leads emerged. All that anyone could do was hope Steve was still alive. The police found a group of photos in Steve's digital camera, but this only added to the confusion. The room in the photos bore a resemblance to Frank and Judy's living room, although the decor was very different. Ron's widow was astounded to see how many Victorian antiques in the picture were identical to her late husband's collection. She recognized a hand-carved lamp, bronze mantle clock, and a few other items. Ron had acquired the collection a decade ago, but his widow did not know where it had come from, and the police were unable to trace its origin.

They were also baffled as to where Steve had photographed the collection, or if it was connected to his disappearance. The locals continued to insist that Frank and Judy's mansion was cursed, and that was why Stephen vanished. Items of value were always disappearing during the home's long history, although this was the first time it had swallowed up a person. Frank used to think the stories about the mansion were funny, but now that his best friend was gone, he was not laughing anymore. Creepy Presents I used to be with them Written by Jack Nash And narrated by Jimmy Ferrer

The Potomac is mostly a dead thing Half a millennium ago or so Herring, sturgeon And a dozen other fish species All bustled in its waters It swept micronutrients from its source in the Appalachia To the Brackus Chesapeake Which fed beds of oysters

and cast of crabs and nurseries of black-eyed shark pups. Now what survives there is half-living and half-poisoned. Native creatures succumb to invaders, bottom feeders, and the like. They're flesh shiny, with heavy metals in which they wallow. People can't even drink the water anymore, and few dare to let it touch their skin, for fear of parasites are worse. Today, the river is a roiling mass of brown and flotsam. I'm glad when I glimpse it from confines of a metro car.

Outside, rain, the heavy summer kind that thickens the air and itches with potential lightning, flushes the collective waste of Arlington through its sumers into the Potamic. Flattened raccoon corpses, discarded fast food wrappers, use condoms. all this swirls and churns as the river royals pass to Washington, D.C., to meet the Anacostia. She's equally noxious and pregnant with her own refuse. The rivers will greet each other and join until they vomit unwanted property of two and almost three states into the bay, and finally the ocean. Then Arlington will be clean.

There will, for a short while, be empty gutters. and the warm scent of damp concrete. Black swallows me as the train enters a tunnel. Only three stops to Crystal City. I settle in for a short trip through darkness. Passengers in the rows ahead stiffen. A man in what was once a blue shirt, now a modeled patchwork of brown and black stains,

steers a pilfered grocery cart down the street. Carboard sign attached to the front front reads, anything helps. God bless Psalms 94-2. I pretend to look out the window so I can watch his reflection. I want him to ignore me, so I can conduct my commute dreaming of better things to come. That coffee chat I've scheduled with my boss, or maybe or end-of-year bonuses. He stops near me. I pull my satchel closer, hucking it to my chest. I used to be with them, he says, and points to me. I don't move. He could be talking to anyone in the car, or his mind's own phantoms. Sir? I said I used to be with them. He taps on my shoulder.

I steal myself and summon an apologetic smile as I turn. I don't have any cash, I say. He sits. I shy closer to the car's wall, as if his career. Ear and Eptitude were contagious. I used to be with them. Long time ago. He traces a finger along the blue-stitched logo of my bag. DPR consultants. Defense contractor, like you, was a senior partner, too.

I let my polite nod convey that I don't believe him. Then the train slows, then stops. Doors slide open to allow the exchange of passengers. I consider brushing past him and out, but this isn't my station. I remain seated as the door shut. The journey resumes. I curse myself for deciding not to pay for parking today. It's true, he says, smiling.

I note specks of dried food clinging to his graying beard. Worked with the best of. him, actually. He turns and plunges his hand into the depths of the cart, which is filled with shopping bags and blankets and unknown things, bald in newspapers. He returns holding a dented plastic card. A clean-shaven, much younger man, who may be this person sitting next to me, or maybe someone else entirely. It's hard to tell, grins within a square picture. The name underneath identifies him as Martin DuPont, senior partner, DPR consultants. He offers to let me hold, but I decline.

With a shrug, he tucks in into his pocket. I glance around to make sure no colleague or potential client is witnessing this. Everyone is buried in a phone or a book, willfully oblivious to my forced exchange, with what is either a D.C. burnout, or a delusional man who had found a lost employee ID. I was like you back then, he says. Wanted to make a career.

Lots of ambitious people come to D.C. Because they want to become some senator and congressman or a talking head on CNN. But D.C. is just a media show where you try to out-yell everyone. The really smart ones like me and you know real powers. on the other side of the river. The Pentagon, the CIA, FBI.

They're all in Virginia. And the people who really pull the strings are us contractors. He leans back and cackles. People seated around us flinch. I say nothing and he scoos closer anyway. We contractors, he says. I wish he would stop saying we and us. Do all the work.

Government needs to do a meal. things but have so many rules that they can't do shit. So they hire contractors and consultants. Private sector people. To get the work done fast and without all the red tape. Need to build new weapons? Hire a contractor. Gotta coordinate military training.

Consultant. Hell, spying is even outsourced these days. This point, the federal government is just bean counters to make sure the contract. get paid. I almost murmur my agreement, but that thing better of it. And, man, I loved it. His gaze unfocuses, as he talks as if the pass were out the window and far behind my head.

Over 22 years I got to work at the Pentagon. Half a dozen military bases, some places that aren't even on maps. Officially, anyway. A wink crinkles his face. I even flew on Air Force One. I try to imagine him, made of crisp edges and gravitas. In a boardroom or an office. It's hard, but it's not impossible.

There's a sharp glimmer far back in those brown eyes that the current circumstance is yet to blunt. I knew what? Is your stop? We both glance up. as the train rattles into Pentagon City Station. I hesitate, and then I shake my head. I can withstand a few more minutes. He grins as if I had invited him to dinner.

People shuffle in and out. Then the train moves on. Like I was saying, he says, I knew exactly what I was doing, but I justified it. Just like everyone else, what we were doing would protect American lives. that this was all for the greater good.

I was a patriot. Deep down I knew I was in it for the paycheck, sponsored by the American taxpayer. At his laugh, a woman in the seat in front of a stands and moves to the far corner of a car. The train winds to a stop in the tunnel. Passengers groan from a mumbled intercom announcement that I can only make out track,

delay and thank. Man continues. Talking as I check my watch, I told myself I wasn't hurting anyone. I'm just a consultant. Really, I didn't care what I was doing as long as I got paid. That is, up until one night

when I was working late in the Pentagon. You ever been in an SCIF, where they don't allow electronics? Don't even let you take out your own notebook and scratch paper. I had, cramped in soundproofed rooms, security guards itching for an excuse to search a pocket or a bag, stumbling out, bleary-eyed in the sun where you realized the world kept spinning while you were in a void of secrets. Shiver of delight ran through me.

He nods when he sees a ghost of a smile on my face. Then you know just how lonely it is and how quiet it can get. Just you and the work. no distractions. Anyways, I was in one, working on a schematic. Don't ask me for what. When there was this tap on my shoe, gentle, almost polite.

A train lurches forward and I brace myself against a seat. Light blurs past the windows and we pick up speed. I ignored it at first, thinking it was my imagination. sitting too long or something, a twitch of my toe probably, and then it happened again, but more consistent. He jabs my shoulder thrice, froze for a long time. It was never a religious man, but I prayed until I glistened with sweat, I'll tell you. When I finally got the courage to look down, well, I gave my soul to Jesus, and then

if there he would spare me. LED screens announced our arrival at Crystal City. I stand and begin sliding past him. He grabs my arm and rises to block me. His movement releases sour odors of damp clothing. His words come rushed in, like pressured air escaping from a punctured canister. What I saw made me leave that work forever, and you'll see them too.

Doesn't matter where. Pentagon has some CIA more, but they're everywhere in Arlington, street corners, backyards, waiting. We're all stained. We all took part. And they'll find you when you... I don't hear the rest.

The train comes to a shuddering stop at the station and I dip under him. Twisting past commuters to dive through the door into the platform, just as the door slides shut. He tosses something small and round. It arches through the air and hits my bag and then clatters to the ground. Train pulls away, his face pressed against the glass vanishing into the black.

I picked up what he threw. It was a 7.62 millimeter bullet. It's copper metal jacket to form to expose the lead underneath. I find a woman seated near the escalator and hand her five dollars. I tossed the bullet in the trash. I don't see him on my way home or on any metro ride in the weeks that follow. I looked him up online. There have been a senior partner named Martin DuPont, but the name is all I could find.

Not unusual for this line of work. I try to forget, but questions buzz at the back of my brain, as persistent and urgent as a hornet's nest hidden in a wall. What did he see? What could have broken a man like that? Stress, maybe? Mental illness? He's in the back of my thoughts as I work late in my office in Crystal City.

I've turned off the office light so I can enjoy the solitude of a dark office. Planes landing at Reagan National Airport fill my window with a red and white flash. I steal another glance at the two stacks of business cards on my desk. One is old, where I'm called a junior associate, and in the others which are new and crisp. My title has one less word. I'm eager to hand them out, so people know my bank account will soon have more numbers than it did a week ago. Pulling my thoughts away from promotions, I returned to my task. A three-month communications plan for a low-level government agency.

No a CIF for secrets, just flat words and well-ordered sentences. The bricks of bureaucracy. The cards reassure me the late hours and lonely nights will be worth it someday. As I reorder the arguments of an opening paragraph, there is a tap on my shoe. My fingers freeze over my keyboard. A muscle spasm, I tell myself. symptoms of sitting too long. Holding my breath, I twist my feet left and right,

probing the space under my desk. Nothing. My foot, my right foot, glides over something hard that rolls with my movements. I crouched down to sea. Copper jacket of a spent bullet winks in the semi-darkness. Sweat prickles my skin and my stomach hollows out as I pick it up. Its misshapen head is as distinct as a fingerprint.

The bullet. My mind fills with the man's face pressed against a closing metro train door. I stare at it in on my open palm, racing to understand how it's not the bottom of a landfill. How is again made its way to me. Some joke or prank? My breath catches. Him? My eyes scanned the cubicles of the office walls for the injigent man from the train. Everyone left hours ago, and they turned off the fluorescence. I looked down at my hand.

The casing glanced in the ambient light of the darkness, and under my hand, on the ground, is her. Painted on the carpet under my chair as a figure of a young girl. One cloudy eye, Stairs up at me from under a tangle of black hair. Its companion is missing, along with the skin of her cheek. Her head is bent too far to the left, and a white gleam of bone protrudes from her neck. Blood spreads outward from her head and chest. Bullet drops to the floor as I stumbled back. This was not here when I sat down.

Another thought eclipses this. Who would create a ghastly image? Such a ghastly image. Of a dead child. But no, I dashed to the nearest lights and flick it on. Busing fluorescent lights flickered to life. I return to my desk and we as a laugh of relief. An optical illusion.

The girl has composed not of paint but patterns in the carpet. The office floor is covered in hundreds of squares of industrial carpet. Each made of multicolored swoops and whirls designed to camouflage stains and dirt. What I took in the dark to be black hair is a merge of forest green swirls. Blood nothing more than a happenstance of purple patches. I stooped to examine the fibers. her eyes in abrupt damp of beige, her skin curving tans and oranges. What I thought was a bit of bone was no more than a gum wrapper, flattened by a chairroller,

placed just so. Random conflations in my imagination had done the rest. My heart settles as I stand. Curious I hadn't noticed it before. Now that the pattern is revealed to me it's impossible. not to see the mangled corpse of girl staring up at the ceiling. My eye drifts to the bullet, his gleaming copper dares me to explain it away as a trick of the light.

I lock it away in the desk drawer. A week later, I'm in the lobby of the Pentagon. Yet the line to get past security does not move soon. I'll be late for a meeting with my client. The satchel at my side holds the communications plan that must be approved by the end of the day. I grip its leather strap until it squeaks. Then wish the bulb man at the metal detector and x-ray machine

would take the keys out of his pocket already. My boss's voice weighs on my shoulders. I'm trusting you to handle this meeting by yourself. I know you're ready, so don't let me down. I force myself to concentrate on anything else but my dwindling time. I focus on the portraits beaming from oak-paneled walls, the aromas of morning coffee as an intern dashes down the hall, the click of business shoes walking across beige tarasso slabs. I look down at a fabricated stone.

White flecks of marble punctuate the concrete matrix like a petrified static. There must have been a flaw in mixture beneath my feet because too many stones are clustered together. They flow down the length of the slab, curving sharply here and there, leaving blank spaces in their wake. The longer I look, the more details appear. The squirrel resembles a head. That one would be the brow of a nose. Here, a row of teeth. There.

The curve of lips pulled back into a scream. The woman ahead of me shovels up. But I don't move. I'm transfixed on the unmistakable image of a man, holding the stump of a severed limb to his chest. Marbled eyes stare with pain and fear and accusation. My mouth has gone dry. This could not have been a random pattern. He's too detailed.

Too perfectly outlined. Too real. Sir? I blink and look up. A security guard is motioning me forward. I glance at the Tarasso. Then around me. Does no one else see this?

How can they not? Do you mind? A woman three spaces behind me scowls and gestures for me to advance. Side-stepping the macabre image, I put my bag on the conveyor belt along with my phone, keys, and wallet. As I stepped through a metal detector, an alarm sounds. A security guard behind a monitor plucks my bag from the X-ray machine. She glares at me, then opened my bag and upends it. People behind me murmur and shock and alarm as my blood goes cold.

Dozens of bullets clatter and ping against the floor like metal hail. There are all sizes and shapes. Copper, lad, brass, even a round black one. I guess a musketball are all misshapen. Some covered in bits of gore. I know I am going to be fired. I was not arrested. The bullets were spent, not active. That did not mean Pentagon Security did not search me and interrogate me for hours. Why did you bring projectiles to a government facility? Was this intended as some kind of threat? How many guns do you own? I tried to explain, but they looked at me, the way I looked at the man on the metro. When I returned to my office, there was a note on my desk. Jared, please see me in my office at three. Greg from HR will be joining. Cheryl. So I

258, I endure the stairs and murmurs of soon-to-be ex-colleagues and take the elevator to the tenth floor. Cheryl's receptionist gives me that smile. She'll be here in five, he says. Then nods for me to enter. I open the door and then clap a hand at my mouth to stifle a gasp. They are everywhere. A woman cradling a broken child appears for merging colors in the carpet.

Whirls of mahogany desk contain a weeping man holding his head in his hands. A boy peppered with holes emerges from a mosaic pattern of the couch. Even the Monstera plant in the corner contains a sobbing grandmother on its leaves. Wherever my eye falls, I see more and more. There are dozens, hundreds. They overlap one another in a kaleidoscope of agony and terror. The hand of a writhing baby is a star. snarl of a bearded man. His shirt, the dress of a woman holding her torn stomach. I stumble back,

gasping as if all the air had been sucked from my lungs. You okay? The receptionist says. When I turn to him, ice water seeps into my veins. The floral pattern of his shirt is made of tiny, shattered bodies outlined in reds and oranges. The papers on his death are A ruined village. The room is alive in patterns of pain. How had I not seen this before? How does he not? I need to get out.

I need air. Without answering, I stumbled to the elevator. My finger stabs the button for the ground floor. Why do the doors take so long to close? Why is the ride down so long? I pushed past the people in the lobby, ignoring their irritatory. hit it shouts and dash outside. The air is ripe with the perfumes of impending rain.

Violet clouds loom above. I take in a breath, let it out slowly. The moment of relief evaporates in my eyes, just as they adjust to the city. There's not a space free of the contorted images. Concrete, asphalt, branches of trees, passing cloud of dust, each a face, a wrecked body, a frozen scream. There's no escaping it. I sink to my knees. Propheteer, a voice says. It comes from everywhere and nowhere in particular.

It is the hum of a passing tire. A breeze through the leaves. A coo of a pigeon. It is Arlington itself. Seeing what you have done to me, who are they? I whisper. The city's reply is a roar of an airplane overhead, the honk of a bus, a siren. They are those whose grief was nothing more than stepping stones on your path to comfort. The city shudders, whether from rage or a train underground, I cannot tell. They come to me from Vietnam, from Iraq, from Syria. The world overcries to me.

See what your people have done. I wear your injustices on my face. It's not my fault, I say. My voice is thin. I just do calms. I never heard anyone. I'm no soldier. Liar, a carhorn blair's making me jump, hypocrite.

Soldiers chase duty. You chase wealth. Soldiers take up arms, but you guide their guns. Make it stop, I say to the city. I don't do anything. I sink lower, and the lines and stains on the sidewalk below me is the face of a man. Perhaps my age. He holds a warm.

woman, between them an infant, its eyes closed. A grackle lands on them. It drops the bullet to the sidewalk and stares up at me with a yellow eye. Stains of your cruelty are not so easily blotted out the bird calls. I pick up the bullet. Its weight is familiar in my fingers and its copper is cool to the touch. A laugh builds from my throat. And now I know what the the man on the Metro saw. It was this. What we contractors have done. The pain we have authored and guided for centuries from Arlington.

Center of our power. The laugh roils out of me until it melts into sobs. People walk around me but none approach. To them I am just another lunatic on the street. As my tears drip down my face to darken my suit, The first drops of rain spattered to the ground. In a moment, it is a torrent. Gutters fill, lifting discarded cans and food raptors and refuse to the sewers.

A minute's the potomical swell, turning from green to brown. It surf is shiny with bits of cellophane. Arlington will be refreshed and renewed, but these stains will remain. They weathered a thousand thunderstorms, and we'll weather a thousand more. I put the bullet in my pocket. Standing, I head for the nearest metro station. It's the best place to wait out a storm. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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