Creepy - I Am The Dark Triad & Into the Deep

Episode Date: May 4, 2023

I Am The Dark Triad***Written by: Paul Caseley and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Into the Deep***Written by: Jamie Anne and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

Creepy presents. I am the dark triad, written by Paul Casley, and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. As a reporter, I am used to getting weird things from strange people. It happens all the time. The world has changed a lot in the 25 years I've been in this job. When I started, we were using computers. but still submitting paper copies of things. People still subscribed and bought physical newspapers. The Internet hadn't taken over yet. Now, I submit my stories electronically,

and our newspaper subscribers have dwindled down to about 15% compared to what they were 25 years ago. I never thought that I would be working from home when I was first hired, but now I blog as well as send in articles to be posted online. I know that blogging is still so 2005, but it takes a while for the industry to catch up, as is evidenced by the number of newspapers that have ceased to exist. That's something I try not to think about, as it makes me feel like I've wasted my life. Now everyone jumps on social media and posts a meme about something in the news and calls themselves a reporter.

There is no fact-checking, no real legwork for most of them, and they call what I do fake news. Anyway, back to the strange thing. I received the following email a day ago. I am the dark triad. I don't do what I do because I hate myself, but because I love myself. Everyone else is simply a walk-on player in my story. No one matters but me. You have seen my handiwork.

I tried the plastic bag over the head. It didn't satisfy me as much as leaving the note on her typewriter. She still had a typewriter. writer. I went to kill her kid, but innocence isn't my target. I'm not a monster. Six weeks later, I tried a gun. He wriggled in pain as he died. It was fun to watch, but ultimately not satisfying. No one cared about that one like the first one. It took days of people coming and going to notice he was obliterated. At this point, I withdrew to consider my signature.

Now I'm back. I am the dark triad. One thing that London, Canada, has had a rich tradition with, is serial killers. It was the serial killer capital of the world in the late in 1960s and early 70s. At first blush, it seemed like there was someone threatening to reopen that old wound again. I sent the email to three places, our research archivist, the IT department, and the local police. I needed our archivist to look up these supposed crimes to see if they were legitimate. Sending the email to the IT department was a logical step as well.

I needed to see if they could trace the numby who sent it. In all likelihood, it was a crank. But if we could direct the authorities before it was an issue, why not? Finally, I needed to follow due diligence and pass the note to the authorities so they could investigate. Even though I knew they would probably ignore it until there was tangible evidence. The response from IT was fast. I wasn't shocked. They told me that the IP address was from London, but that it had been bounced around a lot and seemed to be originating from the office of the newspaper I worked for. They told me that it was from one of the offices that had been sealed during the last great layoff, and that, in all likelihood, the perpetrator had simply bounced it through the office somehow to make it hard to follow.

Still, they said they would investigate the office connection and see if it had recent activity. The archives took a bit longer, but confirmed that there had been two murders that were unsolved in London, one involving a woman with a child in March of 2009 that had been asphyxated, and one involving a man who was killed by gunshot in May of 2009. The murders were approximately six weeks apart. A note from the killer was being held by the police in the death of the woman and had been hammered out on an old-fashioned typewriter. So far, everything was checking out.

I finally heard from the police service the following day. It was a standard form email that said they took all tips and information seriously and that the one I sent would be looked into. In addition, it had the usual general thank you and notation about how important it was for citizens like myself to report crime. There was no indication that they knew or cared that I was a reporter. In fact, there was no real evidence that a real person. had read the email. I sighed and slumped back in my chair and resolved to do some research of my own. I plugged the term Dark Triad into my computer. I hated it when a killer named themselves. They usually picked a name that was kind of cool while not really fully indicating how deranged they were.

In truth, though, dark triad ended up being both cool and indicative of derangement. The dark triad, it turned out, was a combination of three distinctive, dangerous personality traits that outlines a seriously deranged and also seriously minicious individual. The dark triad took someone who was boastful, air, and lacked empathy, combined them with traits that were manipulative, deceitful, and lacked morality and emotion, and then threw in a good measure of lack of remorse, antisocial behavior, and volatility for good measure. In short, the person harboring the dark triad was simultaneously Machiavellian, narcissistic, and psychopathic.

What a great combination! I definitely could see how this would result in someone experimenting with murder and clinically looking for a way they enjoyed the murder the most. For a person with the Dark Triad, everything was all about themselves after all. At this point, I started reading through website after website, explaining, and examining the concept of the dark triad. I found the rating scale by Dr. Peter Johnson and Gregory Webster the most useful in this case. I brought up our self-reported killers email again

and started going through the 12 indicators I could easily check off from their study. They were. I tend to manipulate others to get my way. I tend to exploit others towards my own end. I lack remorse. I tend to not be too concerned with morality or the morality of my actions. I tend to be callous or insensitive. I tend to want others to admire me. I tend to want others to pay attention to me. I tend to seek prestige or status. Just from the email I received a loan, I was able to check off eight of those indicators. There was no way to know this wasn't just a ruse, but I had a sinking suspicion that whoever I was dealing with was a real danger to the public. It was a few days after forwarding the Dark Triad email that I had a visit from the police.

A woman had been killed. There was evidence of ligature on the neck as well as as asphyxiation via a plastic bag over the head. There was no DNA, fingerprints, or fibers found at the scene. The only thing they found was a black triadion. drawn on the wall above the victim's head. They showed me photographs. I wish they hadn't. They remembered my email, and they asked to see it and wanted to question me. I didn't know much. I told them about the links I had made. I told them that we had tried to trace the email and where it had led. In other words, I cooperated completely.

Despite that, I am pretty sure I was no help at all to the local cops. I believe they had all the information I had given them already. Although, they did go to the newspaper building downtown to check out the vacant office. I had little doubt they didn't find anything. I won't lie. The finding of that young woman had really shaken something in me to my core. I always suspected that more deaths would follow, but I really had hoped that it would remain an academic conundrum than a real case to be followed. That first new death bothered me, which was something that my partner raised.

regularly commented on. He knew I wasn't sleeping well and would frequently get up in the middle of the night in order to try and calm me as I had another nightmare. My indigestion started getting worse again from the stress. This is one of those things that people never talk about. You see television shows with investigative reporters and police, and they just jump from one case to another. Some of the truly horrific ones can have real consequences, especially if you're the principal reporter. Some of them can cause post-traumatic stress disorder that lasts for years. This one was that horrible. The photographs were horrible. I wanted to be of more help, but I only had the information that had been given to me.

These feelings culminated in me being awakened, standing in my office in the middle of the night by my partner. I had been sleepwalking, sleep working, it seemed, as my computer was on, and it was fairly evident that at one point I had been sitting typing something. However, when I checked the computer, I couldn't find any trace of what I had been working on. Coffee followed confusion that morning as I could not figure out what I was doing when I should have been sleeping. Apparently, this story was bothering me a lot more than usual. This was probably the case because this story could win me. a Hillman Prize, maybe even a Missioner Award.

For anyone outside of Canada, hell, for anyone in Canada who isn't a journalist, this won't mean much, but they are the equivalent of the Pulitzer Prize in Canadian journalism. Most journalists won't even get close to them, but with the Dark Triad story, I could feel them in my grasp. Years of being overlooked and ignored would finally culminate in a prize that I knew I deserved. In other words, it's kind of a big deal and would show everyone that I am kind of a big deal. I spent my morning doing some digging through the information surrounding these suspected victims, looking for some kind of connection to them. As I was working, my email pinged, and I was treated with another email from an unknown sender.

The dark triad had struck again. The email once again originated from the newspaper office, at least the digital footprint did. As I had already established contact with the local police, I forwarded the email message to the homicide unit. It read, I am the dark triad. As far from the truth as you feel you are, you are closing in on me. You deserve more credit than you receive. I have decided on my method.

on my signature. You will know me soon. You are watching my chrysalis. Trophies are next. What best represents me? Soon you will see. I am the dark triad. That was it.

Much shorter than before, an oddly more familiar. It hadn't really dawned on me that before that point that the dark triad wasn't taking trophies, but now it was noticeable and clear. I had an idea about what would be missing from any new victims, but knew there was no point in sharing my ideas with the police. They didn't care about the reporter's idea. They only wanted me to keep shoveling them the crap that I kept receiving from this maniac.

I can't lie. At that point, I had idly started wondering if it was someone that I knew, someone who had access to the newspaper offices and my files. I would love to say that it was only two or three people, but about 150 people work out. at the newspaper, and at least a third of those have direct access to my personal systems. There are IT people, management, editors, some other reporters have access as they use my previous stories for research purposes, and I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to request access if you asked. There are also human resources personnel who check in periodically. This isn't a high-security operation. It is a public newspaper, and we don't really hold much under lock and key. That doesn't even count the times that I probably left my computer on at the office,

back when we mostly worked at the office, logged in. At that point, that point, all the custodial staff also could easily use my machine and work area. Computers have made things a lot easier in terms of some things. There is a much greater ease in research and collaboration now than there ever was. It is harder for a story to be lost and destroyed forever. However, it has also made certain things. harder. I've always laughed at the movies where they catch the criminal by tracing it back to a computer. This isn't impossible, I know that, but the publicized cases that hit the news

are the exception, not the rule. Most computers and offices are not secure, meaning your number of suspects are far beyond the normal machine operate. Anyone with a key to that office or a way of remotely accessing that machine is now a suspect. While I was considering all of this, the police contacted me to tell me about the dark triad's latest victim. Found this morning, ligature marks on the neck, plastic bag over the head, the signature was complete. That night I found myself exhausted as I drifted almost directly into sleep. I'm sure you can only imagine the dreams of someone tasked with the kind of story I was pursuing. I can tell you they were not happy.

I generally don't remember my dreams. I think most of us don't. A product of our subconscious, they activate in our deepest. sleep, allowing our brain to make sense of our day. This time, I did know there was a lot of walking in mine. I was conscious of at least that. I was also conscious of confinement and a feeling of rage, the likes of which I had never felt before. The rage seemed to be hiding something, more deep feelings, feelings of redundancy, inadequacy, and that I was old before my time.

The rage was there to supplant those feelings and to ensure that my importance was well known and understood by all. The dream was unsettling, strange, yet oddly empowering. It was in the midst of the midst of, this dream that I woke up suddenly and found that I was not in my bed at home. The room I found myself in was bare and run down. I had obviously traversed across town to some of the

derelict parts of the city. Light was cast into this room via camping lights, creating a shadowy, dark ambience that was both liberating and unsettling at the same time. There was a dank smell, a coppery smell throughout the room. It was at this point that I noticed my breathing was constrained, as if I was trying to breathe through a medical mask that had been wrapped in plastic. It was, at this point, that I noticed that I was wearing something resembling a wrestling mask. Only the eyes were open so I could see what I was doing.

This, of course, did nothing to eradicate the feelings of disorientation that I was already feeling and heightened a momentary sense of panic. As I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, I flexed my hand and heard something clatter to the floor. followed by a muffled cry. I looked down and saw the knife. I gasped inside the mask and glanced around the room, seeing a plastic bag and a piece of boating rope in the muted light.

I also saw a figure tied to a chair. For a few minutes, I fumbled around until I found the typed note sitting beside the young woman strapped to the chair. We are the dark triad. This is our next victim. I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all come together. I know how much you resent them all. I understand how you work and your talent has been overlooked.

We deserve better, but instead of burying your anger, I express it. Together, we will create everything we hoped for. My thing will grow through my acts. Yours will grow through reporting them. I have been working through you, waiting for you to pick up the thread I've been leaving. You finally found it and pulled it. From here, the choice is yours about how this will play out. Will you turn this free?

Or will you leave her for me and allow yourself to ask? add to the narrative you have already started reporting on. Are you going to cause an ending or a beginning? I leave the choice up to you. If you wish to fall back into obscurity, part of a dying medium, ending your life with a meager pension and no one remembering you, Set this thing free. If you want more, and you know you deserve more,

leave her for me and go to sleep. Sleep will allow me to finish what I started. I will destroy this note, and our association will be cast. In the end, the choice is yours. deserved fame or obscurity. We can become the dark triad. I would like to tell you that I wrestled with my conscience and weighed this woman's life with respect to my future,

or that I took the moral high ground. If I'm being honest, though. I was thinking of the journalistic awards I would have bestowed on me as I drifted off to sleep. Creepy presents Into the Deep, written by Jamie Ann and narrated by Megan McAfee. I'm standing on the edge, staring at the water. It is mostly clear with a light hue of blue. The smell of chlorine fills the air. My skin will. will carry the scent even after I shower later. I look at the clock one more time before I hear the alarm.

The sound of the whistle blows, and I glide through the water. My mind goes blank, and my heartbeat quickens. Within seconds, the excitement and rushes over. My head comes up from the water, and I take a deep breath. Funny thing about breathing, it feels really good to do, especially when you spend half your life trying to stop it. I'm on the varsity swim team, and some scouts have their eyes on me. They must win the next few races in my division to have a shot at a scholarship.

I will be the first in my family to go to college. No pressure, though. I look up at the scoreboard and check the times. I'm in first, and my teammates start giving me high-fives. I turn to my coach, and she smiles at me with a nod of approval. I glance over towards the stands. My mom is jumping up and down and hugging everyone around her that will open their arms. We laugh in my head and give her a grin. I love you in sign language, and I reply with the same sign. A few days later, I am sitting in my room working on my last high school English essay. My mother comes running up the stairs like the house is on fire. I close my laptop and brace myself for her urgency.

She bursts through the door and almost trips as she hands me an envelope in her hand. There's a letter from the scouts. I inspect the weight and wonder if it feels too light to be of any importance. My mother impatiently yells for me to open it. We hesitate for a moment and start to tear the envelope open. I begin to read the words out loud to my mom. Dear Alana Smith, we are pleased to congratulate you on winning the Raynard Swimming Scholarship at the University of Edinburgh. I stop reading and drop the paper.

My mother can't control herself. She runs to me and picks me up and hugs me so intensely I think I might faint. And go to dinner that night and celebrate. Our conversation is consumed with plans for packing, and preparing for the long trip to Scotland. I have lived in Washington State my entire life. Driving to neighboring towns for swim meets is the extent of my travels. The weeks pass quickly, and I walk the stage and collect my high school diploma.

Three days later, I was headed to the airport. My mother would be accompanying me and spending a few weeks in the area. She would set up my dorm room while I learned my way around the school grounds on town. This was a dream vacation for her as well. My dad died when I was a little girl, so it has always just been us. She never tried to date. She always told me that I was all she needed in this world. To be completely honest, I'm not sure who needed who more.

I hate to admit this, but I was happy my mom was coming. I needed my best friend by my side. Our travel they arrived, and we made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. Now comes the tough part, a 13-hour flight. I took a few NyQuil pills and homes. hopes it would help me sleep through half the flight. It did one better for me. I woke to the sound of people all around me gathering their carry-on bags. I rubbed my eyes and yawned and stretched. Mom handed me my bag and leaned down to give me a kiss on my head. I would usually shove her off,

but I knew that I would not be getting many more of those once she leaves to head back home. So I welcomed the fleeting affection. We are greeted by a handsome, dark-bearded man holding up a sign with my name on it. We load into his incredibly small car and head to the university. He asks us all sorts of questions. I'm having a hard time understanding his accent. He mutters something about Americans under his breath, but I just stare out the window. This countryside is like nothing I have ever seen. The trees are greener and bigger than ours back home. There are countless sheep everywhere and shepherds with fast-running dogs hurting them. It's like a scene from the movie Montana that was released in 1950. The sky above is a little gloomy. The gray clouds cover the sun.

There's a chill in the air that makes me roll my window up. We drive for about two hours, up and down, a narrow winding road. These hills could make any car sick person hack up a lung. However, I'm overjoyed and a little overwhelmed to be living in this moment. I get settled in my dorm and take a tour with my guide. She introduces herself as Clara, and she would be my swim captain. She's a beautiful woman with long red hair and bright green eyes. She tells me all about her studies and invites me to hang with her and friends later. My new swim coach is a tall, dark-haired Scottish-born woman who has a face as strict as the clipboard she carries. She introduces me to my teammates and informs us that we will be doing

a cold water training exercise in the morning. Morning comes and my swim team takes a bus to a body of water called the Firth of Fourth. Coach tells us that this body, of water leads out to the North Sea. Get off the bus and our team huddles together. All the women seem welcoming to me being there. I'm looking forward to seeing what I'm up against. The winds are chilly, which means the water will be freezing. I can't act like it affects me, though.

I'll have to power through whatever freezing temperatures await me. Our instructions are clear. Stick together as a team and follow the current out 10 miles, then turn and go back to shore. coach gets in a small wooden rowboat with a stopwatch around her neck. Once she paddles out a few feet into the water, she blows the whistle for us to begin our practice. Me and the other seven women dive into the water and start with a freestyle swim while we get acclimated to the water. Coach begins to row faster and pokes fun at our slow start.

Clara, our captain, yells for us to change the pattern of our stroke to a breaststroke. We all follow in sink and move quicker through the chilly water. The cold of the water doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. Swimming has always felt like second nature to me. Ever since I was five years old, I would hold my breath as long as I could in the bath. Each attempt, I would get longer and better times. I belonged in the water. Forty minutes later, we reached the ten-mile point.

I turned to see the land, but it's only a blur from where we are. The waves have begun to pick up as we take a short break. Another girl from the group begins to complain, about her leg cramping and yells for the coach. The coach rose nearer and asks what all the commotion is about. She tells the girl to take deep breaths in and out and to slowly stretch the muscles in her leg. The girl begins to panic and another girl rushes to her side, holding her arm steady. She cries to the coach that she can't swim back. The coach tells her she needs to finish the exercise or she would not be participating in the first match in a week.

I feel bad for the girl, but I'm also a little surprised. The water was cold, but ten miles was a piece of cake. An Olympic swimmer can go a hundred miles at best. Some of us wanted to do that one day. After minutes of listening to the girl whine, the coach gives in and tells her to get in the boat. She starts to row back towards the direction of land when something bumps her little vessel. The girls were busy arguing about what stroke they should start with to head back to shore. They didn't notice the commotion with the rowboat.

The coach looked at the water, turned to the girl. to figure out what just collided into her. She begins to row again, and whatever hit the little boat the first time, hits it again, this time harder, flipping the boat and landing the coach and my teammate in the water. Coach is pissed, but before she can yell at us, something pulls her under. I go under the water and try to identify what is going on, but it's too murky to see. When the coach does not resurface a few moments later, the girls start to panic. They begin to spread out and hysterically swim in different directions.

I yell that we must stick together, but no one is listening. I watch as one by one, more girls go under the water and do not come back up. Strange ripples surround us, and it's clear that something is swimming toward the surface. I become horrified at the moment I realize it's not one of the girls, but some alien-like being. This is no killer shark, white shark or bull shark, which were all my first thoughts. This thing was like nothing I had ever seen before Its head breaches the water And the figure is more visible now

Its skin is as dark as the night And its eyes match in equal blackness It reveals an open mouth of countless rows Of razor sharp teeth that are dripping with blood My teammate's blood It has sharp scales that stick out from the top of its head And go down its elongated neck It roars an ear-shattering sound

that makes us cover our ears. It rises higher and higher out of the water till its neck is almost six feet above us. There are only three of us left. We're surrounded by water, no land nearby, just treading water and feeling terrified. Clara whispers that she doesn't believe her eyes, that it's Nessie. They look at her stunned and ask her if she really means that the creature is indeed the Lochness monster? Of course, I knew of the rumor. of the sea monster that had been circulating since 1933. But come on, monsters aren't real. My head is spinning.

All my thoughts are clouded with confusion over what my eyes are seeing. For a moment, I forget to feel scared, and I am fascinated, until the creature goes back under the water. I snap back to reality and tell the girls we need to flip the boat over and get in. We huddle together and begin to swim towards it.

Just as we reach the little rowboat, one of the girls starts to scream and grabs my arm. She goes under, pulling me with her. I grab her hand and try to pull her and myself back up. I'm able to reach the surface and take a breath. I pull her hand towards the surface once suddenly. The weight of her changes. I pull harder, and to my horror, only her hand comes to the surface.

I look at the bloody mangled hand I'm holding and drop it with a scream. I turn to swim away, and I can't stop myself. I start to puke. The events are too much. My mind and stomach would never recover from these events. If I make it out alive at all. The last remaining girl, Clara and I get to the boat with all our might while fighting the waves, the current, and the fact that a monster is hunting us from low. We muster up the strength and push the boat right side up. Clara climbs in first and offers me a hand to help pull me in. I grab it, and I'm in the boat and shivering in seconds. We look at one another and do not say a word.

I grab an oar, and she does the same. We get into sink and begin paddling as fast as we can. It begins to rain violently, and our vision of the land becomes even more blurred. She finally yells for me to paddle faster. I try, but the oar keeps slipping from my grip. The raindrops come down colder and harder with every inch of progress we make. The wind is blowing against us, and it feels as if we're being pulled backward toward the sea rather than forward toward the land. Lightning strikes in front of our little boat, and we both freeze instantly.

The shadow rises out of the water. It grows larger and larger, towering above us. I know this is the end of my journey. I waited my whole life for the opportunity to be something amazing, and now I would be eaten by a mythical monster, one that was supposed to be. completely made up. Tears run down my face as I close my eyes and prepare for my death. Screams come from behind me, and I turn to see Clara being grabbed by the Loch Ness monster. It has a hold of her arm, and the sound of her bones shattering in its mouth will haunt my dreams

forever. Not thinking, my body goes into action. They grab the oar and start beating the relentless creature. Its face was right at my eye level, as it was about to pull Clara into its slaughter abyss, I beat it harder with as much force as I have left in me. The cracking sound fills the air and the oar breaks. I grab a piece of the splintered wood and jam it into the creature's eye. It releases its hold on Clara's arm and lets out an earth-shaking cry. Clara lays in the boat, screaming and holding her blood-spewing arm. I take my wet shirt off and tie it around her arm as tightly as I can get it.

The monster flails and finally goes back under the water, Not waiting another second, I grabbed the remaining oar and start to paddle. I yell for Clara to hold on that I would get us back to land. The rain continues to beat down on us, but I keep rowing. By the time we get to the shoreline, my hands are bloody with small splinters all over, but I can't feel the pain. The bus driver runs over and pulls us under the sand and calls for help on his radio. I run as far away from the water as my legs will carry me,

and I collapse on the ground, thankful to be touching land again. I gripped the sand in my fingers and finally realize how torn up my hands are. I grip the sand in my fingers and finally realize how torn up my hands are. I watch as the driver tends to Clara's mangled arm. I stare at her in complete shock. Before I know it, there are red and blue flashing lights all around. Clara is loaded into an ambulance and an EMT tech is talking. to me and inspecting my hands. Police are all around and asking me countless questions.

They cannot answer any of them. I just sit there, staring out at the water, watching for the merciless monster to reappear. Many people and news anchors have said that Clara and I must have suffered from extreme exhaustion and hallucinated the reported events. They said it was probably a great white shark that took the lives of my swimmates and coach, but Clara and I know the truth. The sea monster claimed its victims that day, and the massacre would replay in my mind every night as I closed my eyes. Nessie is not a figment of anyone's imagination. The Lachnus monster is real and is out there in the deep, waiting for you. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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