Creepy - Shadows

Episode Date: August 14, 2023

Some mysteries are best left alone...***Written by: Jay Seate and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***Bonus Episode: "Default Admin Credentials" written by: A.J. Payler***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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Also, there are just a few spots left in the 31 days of horror lineup for this year's event. So please, if you have a story, submit it as soon as possible. If you wait until September or October, and yes, some stories still get submitted in October, it's going to be too late. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and chilling and the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas 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 Shadows Written by Troy Seat.

and narrated by Heather Thomas. June, 1891. From her bay window, Aurora gazed past her reflection, out to the murky sea beyond the cliffs as she sipped champagne. Although considered quite beautiful, she was not without issues. Her problem was her brutish husband, the baron. Since their marriage, she'd felt unfairly restrained, a bird in a gilded cage.

The dying light defined shadows in the crags below, while angry waves crashed against ominous rocks, hungry to reclaim them. An eerie moment between the crashes was like the silence before a scream, mimicking the rhythmic beating of Aurora's heart. She eyed her most prized possession, her elegant vanity,

more special to her than the jewels bestowed by the baron. She set down the champagne glass and retrieved the sheet of Frederick's stationary, he'd rolled up and tied with a red velvet ribbon. She slipped off the ribbon and read the missive once more. My darling Aurora, You are the shining star that entered my life with such a blinding light that I am forever changed.

When I was in shadow, you lit my way. You are my salvation and my love. The vine that intertwines the long familiar stone, The kiss as tender as the velvet touch of a breeze. These are images I savor, and my heart beats quicker, knowing I will soon possess you. I have decided to act. I will come for you after I am done with the Baron. Soon, my love.

F. Poor Frederick. Such a romantic. Red ribbons, poetic words. Every possibility of you. offered, save chubby cherubs sending forth their scented arrows. The incessant waves could have elicited a feeling of desolation, but on this evening she felt adulation.

No darkness tonight, if her cupid fulfills the promise revealed in his note. She turned her attention to the winding road that ran across the coastline, waiting. Finally, the twinkle of metal from a carriage. It was Fredericks. Aurora rushed down the staircase to greet him. She threw open the huge door and watched him approach. He was tall and straight, quite the male specimen. His footsteps were deliberate as he plotted up the walkway.

It seemed like forever until he reached the top step, prolonging her anticipation. Is it done? Yes, Aurora, it's done. Taking Frederick's arm. she felt a filthy joy. Then we must celebrate. Yes, I guess we must. Now guilt.

She said as much to herself as to him. It had to be done. Then she smiled. How would you have me this evening? Our first night of freedom. I'd have you in all manner of ways. As you've promised, once the deed was done. then let's make haste to fulfill those promises.

Don't you want to know what happened? She breathed. Only that it is done and over, and no one will ever know. I would as soon never hear of the baronquin, although I must. There will surely be an inquest, but enough of dour thoughts.

I received your letter. It's time for you. to take what's been promised. Aurora knew her image was intoxicating. How else could Frederick have agreed to do such a thing? He'd always gazed at her as if she was some incredible treasure he'd stumbled upon, but that look was now colored with lust. He would kiss my feet if I asked.

Aurora held out her arms. Come to me, my love, and let the wrath of God, deal with the Baron and his beastly ways. Frederick smothered Aurora with kisses. Wouldn't the Baron be amused, thought Aurora, no longer in a world veiled by the shadow of her controlling husband. Sweet Mother of Heaven, Frederick gasped. Tell me this is only the beginning of our splendor.

It can only be so if we're not seen together for an acceptable period. but for now, to the bedroom, Aurora said. It wouldn't be prudent for me to spend the night, Frederick cautioned. Not yet. I'm not thinking of all night. Yet I want a more comfortable place to express our love. She led him up the stairway and into the boudoir. She pointed to the champagne bottle on the sideboard and said coquettishly.

Shall we toast to the future? Frederick's eyes reflected adoration. Dear God, Aurora, I should have done what I did today long ago. So much time wasted. He took her hands and kissed the center of each palm. Aurora pulled free, reached under her pillow, and came away with a small Derringer pistol.

Her husband had given her for protection. She pointed it at Frederick. He looked at Aurora, his expression abruptly changing from rapture to vertiginous disorientation. What's this? I care for you with all that passes for my heart, Aurora said, and I will truly miss you. But I can't inherit all of this merely to give it to another man. You can understand, can't you, my darling? Then she shot him. With disbelieving eyes, Frederick pitched and fell face down on the floor. One of his hands reached out towards Aurora's foot, as if it might be the Holy Grail, the life raft that could save him. She stepped back and stood next to him until he moved no more.

Already, her fresh kill seemed as waxy and pale as a dinner candle, but still, It was a handsome specimen. His wound would make an ugly spot on the rug, but some compromises couldn't be avoided. She dropped the pistol on the floor and stepped next to the sideboard. With dramatic aplomb, she toasted the corpse with a glass of champagne. I will miss you, you know, she said with true feeling. She walked to her bedroom window and again looked out over the dark abyss.

She managed to have her husband. been done away with and had dispatched her lover all on the same evening. What choice had she? To run off with Frederick and leave the baron's riches to some trollop? She might be both vain and greedy, but living with the baron's proclivities should earn a pardon. Aurora delicately sat on the padded sette in front of the prize's possession. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and admired what softly light revealed. The glow of a woman flush with the exhilaration of all that had transpired.

Her lips were still swollen from a lover's insistent kisses. The mirror observed the body of the poor infatuated man caught in her web, now fallen into a murderous plot. What had she expected to feel? Sadness at Frederick's passing? Euphoria at the Baron's demise? She puzzled over the paradox, but only briefly, and settled on instant nostalgia for the way Frederick had looked at her. She froze the moment in her mind, preserving the rush. Her fingers moved to the vanity's smooth lacquered surface. There was no need for hurry now.

Her plan was simple. A man other than her husband had shown interest in her. None could blame a slight impulsive flirtation, given the baron's overbearing demeanor and nasty disposition. At least, that's how she would make it sound. She rehearsed to her reflection. I showed my husband the letter and warned him of Frederick's intentions, but he hadn't taken the lovesick Romeo's remarks seriously.

She would tell the authorities. Frederick came to the house and announced he'd killed the Baron. He begged me to go away with him. When I rebuffed his entreaties, he attacked me. God help me! I fought my way to my bedroom where I found the means to defend myself. It would be a scandal to be sure, but she would be good at acting horrified at the acts of the flirtatious Frederick.

Everything done and buttoned down, her late husband might have said. In a moment she would dress modestly, even chastely, and take Frederick's carriage to the nearest house with the story of his attack. She would cry as she told of him chasing her up the stairs into her bedroom, where she had saved herself with her tiny weapon. She wondered how long her period of mourning for the baron need last before pursuing a suitable replacement for Frederick. Men were such silly things.

She only hoped future admirers would be as ambitious as he had been. But there would be great entertainment derived in the exploration. That was the plan. Until she heard the oak door open in the foyer. June 2021. Julia's life was peppered with ups and downs, a failed marriage, the unwanted pursuit that sometimes accompanies a touch of fame

and scary dreams. But that was okay because the purchase of an old house offered a modicum of sought after solitude, majestically perched above coastal cliffs. It was built in the late 19th century. She believed the setting could prove inspirational, considering she made her living writing historical tales of romance and intrigue. A royalty check for her latest epic would take care of a year's worth of payments. And if ambience wasn't enough, there might be something more, for she had come across a

of a mystery inside the confines of her new old house. In the cellar, she'd found a brass key amongst assorted tools. It stood out from the other odds and ends as of saying, You found me. An enticing story could be woven around a missing key and what it might unlock, so she conducted a search through the huge house, inspecting every nook and cranny, contemplating a secret passage with a hundred-year-old body hidden within. In her final attempt to find the key's purpose, she remembered the place no one had been able to get into. The door to an attic. Julia climbed a narrow flight of stairs.

Her footfalls eerie in the claustrophobic space. She felt like a prowler in her own home, yet the air of expectation was endemic. Your last chance, she pronounced, removing the key from her pocket and slipping it into the lock. She turned it and was delighted to hear the tumbler's click into place. With a willful shove, the door creaked open. Pushing it further, she stepped inside the room. Evening had arrived, and as if on cue, the wind began to whistle around the eaves. It produced a lonely sound, almost like the cry of a bereft woman.

A high limb scratched against the house's siding like a wandering ghost, begging to be let. inside. Julia peered out a small attic window and watched the dying light extend and soften shadows. The scene elicited a feeling of fading beauty, even depression. The room was too small to serve as a proper attic. It had been, at best, a dusty storage room. There was no electric switch on the wall, so she proceeded following the beam of a flashlight. There was only one item of interest amidst a few cobweb-laden boxes and broken furniture stood a mirrored vanity. What have we here? Julia approached the object.

Beneath the thick layer of dust, the relic was beautiful. An equally old, elaborately embroidered stool sat beneath its legs. She pulled it out, brushed it off, and perched in front of the antique. The flashlight's beam reflected a ghostly, image of her face in the mirror. It looked back at her through the clinging dust, like a prophet from generations past. Lowering the beam to the vanity's drawers, she opened one after the other. Each was lined with weathered cloth.

The aroma from the cloth and wood was like inhaling the past. In the center above the knee-hole was a long, shallow drawer. This drawer held something more than discolored lining, a rolled-up piece of parchment. secured with a string of velvet. The paper was cheap in construction and withered with age, yellowed enough to be the Magna Carta. She carefully removed the ribbon, discovering it was a letter. Maybe it would reveal something to aid her research of the house, or who might have owned the wonderful piece of workmanship at which she sat,

delicately handling the page as if it might dissolve in her hands, she read, My darling Aurora, you are the shining star that entered my life. Wow, is the best word describing Julia's excitement. A real mystery. This was more than she'd bargained for. Placing the missive back in the drawer for the time being, her gaze returned to the mirror, thinking about what she'd found. She studied herself and tried to imagine the woman to whom these fanciful,

yet forceful words had been written. Had the intentions of the letter's author been carried out? Did the Baron get done in? Did F come for Aurora? Why would she leave such an incriminating letter if things had worked out the way F wanted? Oh, what a tangle web we weave, when first we practice to deceive, Julia mused.

Aurora hadn't placed F's intentions in a very secure hiding place. Something had gone wrong, Julia felt certain. The mystery of Aurora and F, and the beautiful lacquered vanity, would unquestionably wormed their way through her dreams. Julia rose and left the claustrophobic little room. Closing the door soundly behind her, she descended the narrow stairway. Instead of entering her bedroom, she went into the room she planned to convert into an office and turned on her laptop.

She ran a search on the local coastal region. Cross-referencing with more detailed searches, she came up with a hit. And there it was. A newspaper carried a story about multiple homicides occurring in June of 1891, 130 years ago to the month that the event had occurred. Holy crap. She scanned through the article, mesmerized by what it revealed. A housekeeper in the home's employ discovered Frederick Hamill's carriage in front of Baron Reginald Fitzsimmons' residence, the next morning. She entered the house to investigate

and found three deceased persons on the second floor of the house. Hamill had been killed by a small caliber derringer. Mrs. Fitzsimmons was slain as a result of a throat wound, apparently accomplished by her husband. The Baron had died of gunshot wounds from an unknown weapon.

His bloody trail had led from outside the house, up the stairs, to his wife. According to authorities, Fitzsimmons was shot and left for dead at an unknown location, but had made his way home on foot, only to find his wife with Mr. Hamill. Police are unsure as to the order of events, but they believe Mrs. Fitzsimmons shot the intruder, Mr. Hamill, and was then slashed by the Baron. Strange sensations overtook Julia as the article's suggestions missed it out in the open. People loved their stories of love, hate, and scandal

as much as their preserves they put up in glass jars. Julia knew things were not always as they seemed. She was forming her own hypothesis, already thinking about how this tragedy might become one of her own tales. The ones sprinkled with true events were always the best. The newspaper account was not exactly how it had gone down. The police interpretation was just the cork in a bottle. The proof was in the hidden letter.

Aurora hadn't had the chance to destroy it, or perhaps to be with Frederick again until that fatal night. Had Aurora and Frederick truly been in love, or merely in lust? Who amongst the threesome had suffered the misery of being deprived of love? A sadness seemed to seep into the room as a worm of unease gnawed at Julia. there was this not quite dead husband showing up. It was all so deliciously sorted, this trilogy of death and unfulfilled aspirations.

Fodder for Julia's grist mill. She tried to picture the scene that had taken place across the hallway over a hundred years ago. Cross-referencing the article once again, she hoped to find a follow-up story, but failed. The Baron was undoubtedly an important man, and Julia would bet the matter had been quietly shoved under someone's political rug for one reason or another. When curiosity comes knocking at your door, it's sometimes better not to answer.

The brass key in Julia's pocket felt warm against her thigh. What had finding it unopened besides the storeroom door? Would it unlock a real-life murder mystery, a story not complete without the information contained in the hidden letter? Isn't this the darndest thing? She murmured. But it wouldn't be the darndest thing. It wouldn't be at all. 1891.

Aurora heard the oak door open in the foyer. She had not seen the need to secure it. At first, she heard nothing more than the ocean and cliffs carrying on their perpetual quarrel. Then the sound of footfalls. Could someone have heard the... the shot. A seismic shift of attitude from breezy to blood-curdling struck Aurora's marrow. She ran to the top of the winding stairway. Her next breath caught in her throat as if a large hand had closed around her windpipe. staring up toward her was the baron. He was as pale as

the corpse of Frederick, and he was, God in heaven, speckled with moist soil from what must have been a hasty burial. You're alive! Aurora called down to her husband, trying to think quickly, not sure what he knew or didn't know. Thank God you're alive. The Baron climbed solemnly without speaking, each step thumping on the wooden steps, bringing him closer to his wife. I have just been attacked, she hurriedly said. I fought him off and was saved by your pistol. Her situation was too shocking to give a good spontaneous performance. She forced her tear ducks into action. If only you had arrived sooner, what did he do to you, darling?

Finally, the baron spoke in the deep gruff voice that had often given Aurora the shivers, but never more so than on this occasion as he approached ever near. Why would you think he did anything to me? dear wife. You're covered in mud and there's blood on your scalp. Very observant. It's not the blow to my head, but the suffocation of the earth that did the trick. What are you talking about? You're here and, thank God you survived. But I didn't survive. Frederick told me everything, before he whacked me and made his feeble attempt to hurriedly bury me along the ramparts overlooking the ocean so I might hear its siren coal for eternity.

The Baron continued his slow, deliberate climb, closer and closer to his beloved, a grimace frozen into a death mask, his lips moving only enough to form words. Rich men always felt confident when speaking, even dead ones. Aurora's mouth formed an oval. No words of explanation came to mind. No attempt at play-acting would suffice. Her only thought was to retreat, pick up the pistol, and use it again to make sure this man, or this phantom, was truly dead. She turned on her heel and retreat, but ran into something blocking her path.

The object was none other than Frederick. He stood on the threshold of Aurora's bedroom door. No more escapes, my sweet. he said as some of his voice seeped through the newly acquired hole in his chest. I didn't want to hurt you, Frederick. I was selfish. I wasn't thinking clearly. I...

Frederick grabbed hold of her flailing arms and swung her around to face the Baron, who had reached the upper landing. Too late, dearest. The hole in his chest whispered. He pulled her head back against his shoulder. by her hair. Happy ever after, Aurora, Frederick thinly murmured. You're not real!

I'm afraid. We're very real. The revenant said in unison. The Baron held a knife in an upraised hand. Yes, my dear. A toast to new beginnings on behalf of your cuck-holded husband. His head fingers tightened around the weapon's handle. His frozen scowl was the most horrible sight Aurora had ever witnessed, or could ever have imagined. Her despair was accompanied by a gush of warm blood from the base of her neck.

Her well-tended chest turned crimson, the color of her most daring shade of lip paint, the color of Frederick's red velvet ribbon that encircled his words of resolve, words that had sealed the fate of all three. There would be no more champagne. For eternity might very well be spent in the grasp of two corpses who were very disappointed in her. 2021. She was alone in the house. It was late and her mom wasn't home.

She hummed to drown out sounds, the grunts and groans of ancient wood and brick settling around her. Then she heard them coming, slowly closer. coming up the sidewalk toward the front porch, muffled voices and shoe heels clattered on the flagstone, clickety-clack as they climbed the steps and crossed the porch. She slammed her body against the front door as gnarled,

twisted fingers curled around its edges. She couldn't stop them, couldn't escape. Julia awoke abruptly. Her head spun from a nightmare like a nagging tune that won't quite leave your head. She was exhausted for her. from fighting a terrifying enemy that popped up now and then from the uncertainty of a difficult childhood. Her heart pounded, the dream holding on to her,

still vivid and terrifying. The air was as still and muggy as an indrawn breath with a nasty undertow. How odd! This dream tormenting her so soon after moving to this great old house with its heavy oak door to protect her from intruders, real and imagined. Had the revelations uncovered only a few hours earlier, revived ghostly dream snatchers? Then she heard it, a quiet murmur from somewhere in the rambling, shadowy house.

The nightmare had triggered her overactive imagination, now privy to at least one of the house's secrets. Has she unlocked something more powerful than merely an unsolved crime from the last century? There is a creek in a floorboard. Had something been released? Was an over 100-year-old woman lingering somewhere in echoes from the past? Julia awaited the sound of hinges squeaking or the click of a latch, assuming objects such as these were a hindrance to the dead. Or might it be a soft knock on Julia's bedroom door

to be followed by a presence looming, casting a long shadow in the dim light? Might she feel something spectacular like nightmarish skeletal fingertips hooking into her flesh and pulling her into some unimaginable place? Julia lay still. A day ago, a sinister creek wouldn't have bothered her. Now she believed she could actually hear the house breathe with a supernatural cadence. She felt the atmosphere around her compress. If she'd entered Aurora's coffin, the atmosphere.

couldn't have been more oppressive. Her grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway stopped taking so abruptly. Its silence sliced through the room like a sigh, leaving only the house itself to listen. Julia climbed out of bed. She walked across the hallway to the room where her laptop and legal pad scribblings rested. Lace curtain swayed in a window, ghostlike, by an unexplained breeze. On the outer window-sill, she noticed a snagged leaf. It was brown and gnarled, curled upon itself like a crunchy, dead creature.

It reminded her of how isolated she had become with the purchase of this house. It was the perfect Gothic setting, the brooding cliffs, the crashing waves hurling themselves against immovable rock, as insistent as an incorrible suitor. This is what she had worked hard for. This is what she had wanted. Was she going to let its history drive her mad? She ventured back into the hallway. The only sound was the drip-trip of a leaky faucet.

When she was a child, her grandmother told her a leaky faucet meant a house was crying. Nothing could be as nerve-wracking as when a house seemed to be organic. From the landing, she could see most of the living room. Everything appeared in order, but deep down she knew. Some presence was in the house, waiting for her. Julia climbed the narrow flight of stairs, first one step, then another, then another to the top, and faced the storage room. The key in the pocket of her nightgown wouldn't be necessary. The door into the little room stood ajar.

The air had gone cool. But there was a coldness within Julia as well. An icy fear that made her shiver. A sense of vulnerability washed over her. Her pulse quickened, and she wondered if someone or something could be hiding behind the door just out of sight. Some giggling thing that would reach out and grab hold of her ankle and send her tumbling down the stairs. Another creek echoed in the stillness. Dark secrets clung to every corner.

She hoped for an adrenaline rush to give her the courage to re-enter the room with her puny flashlight. Fear of the unknown suppressed any notion of adventure. Julia found herself in that zone between sleep and wakefulness, fearful of some yet to be revealed calamity. She could feel the fabric of her life tearing apart like rotted silk. She was unsure if she would be able to continue with a little. her research, regardless of whatever else she might discover. A frightening word entered her mind.

Possession. Something was about to happen. A ghost of a draft haunted the room as she entered. Julia gasped. The room seemed to shrink dink dinkly around her. A sensation of being filled with pure darkness seized her. She had to remind herself to breathe. Bile rose as she put one hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

The flashlight beam focused on the vanity. She saw a pale form seated at the settee she had occupied only a few hours earlier. It was a woman. Not old and moldy, but young and attractive. From the attic's small window, early morning rays cast a dim shaft of light across the vanity surface, giving a silky texture to the surroundings. The woman could be seen more clearly now. The ghostly shape resolved itself into more distinct characteristics.

Julia rubbed her eyes in disbelief. She wanted to flee, but was unable to tear her gaze from the figure. She picked up the scent of something sweet, perfume, and something else. The non-specific, coppery smell of her face. blood. This is impossible, she thought. But she was seeing it just the same. Aurora? She whispered. The wraith suddenly noticed Julia. The reflection in the vanity's mirror revealed a woman, though pretty, veering a forlorn expression that comes with loss. It was then that Julia saw the disfiguring blemish, the heart-shaped stain of dried blood formed between her breasts,

a deadly symbol of unrequited love. Julia knew she should turn right now, this instant, and run. But, just like in some cheap horror movie where the kids stay in a house, even after their senses tell them to haul ass, she didn't. This inaction could be a fatal mistake, considering what she'd read in the old newspaper. Here was a tale for the ages in a place that would never make sense. A dead woman experiencing the secret desires of a dead lover from so long ago. Julia reflected on the old article,

Could Aurora have staged the whole thing only to be slashed open? This story idea swirled around in Julia's head, but curiosity was now her master like the proverbial cat. Would whatever. force had created this apparition, allowed Julia to communicate in some way? What wicked thing had finding the old key created? What had finding the yellowed letter released?

Aurora? Julia said again, accepting the impossible. The seated woman slowly pivoted toward Julia, her face softly sculpted by early morning light. Julia's complacency collapsed. Another scream tried to form, but it lodged in her chest, becoming a tight-fisted ache. Her knees went weak, and she grabbed hold of the doorframe to keep from falling. Aurora's face was one Julia knew well, one she saw every day in a picture on top of her chest of drawers,

the one of herself book-ended by her parents. Aurora? Julia whispered a third time. Unable to speak any louder. It was then she noticed something more in the aged mirror, the specter of two additional figures lurking in the distance. She knew exactly who they were, one taller and younger than the other.

They stood near Julia. Suspended between two worlds was more than this writer had bargained for. She slapped her own face and felt the sting. Comprehension washed over her in a ghastly flood. The old house was haunted. A flying Dutchman carrying three lost souls and part, or maybe all of herself, had been a player in this unholy Trinity,

performed 130 years past. Signs of normalcy remained, the brass key in her pocket, the sound of persistent waves, fading remnants of anything close to normal. From the wound on the seated woman's neck came words softly spoken as if through a filtered soundbox. Come sit next to me. Where you belong, Julia.

Had she done something wrong to deserve this fate? Had she been drawn to this house by unseen forces? She was then invaded by an eerie sense of familiarity as a door of understanding was now fully open. What did you do, Aurora? What did I do? God help me. Am I you? The two male images in the mirror had taken form.

Julia felt their hunger, their need. Another whisper, for maybe that's all the dead can do, sounded by the pair in unison within the suddenly crowded attic space. Happy reunion, my time. darling's, looking, then feeling, then knowing. Julia turned her head as shadows stirred. No longer did any place exist other than the world of a nightmare in which she lived, one beyond comprehension.

No story to be written, but rather to be experienced. Julia, with feet of lead, transfixed, closed her eyes and let the darkness. Or your bonus episode. Creepy Presents Default Admin Credentials Written by A.J. Paylor. People argue about how complex password should be.

But the truth is, it makes a lot less of a difference how a password has changed than whether anyone ever actually bothers to get around to changing it. Most people would be amazed to know what percentage of computer systems never get their passwords change. It changes from industry to industry, but not as much as you'd think. Hovering somewhere between a third and a half across the board. Even in high-tech fields where the people involved should and definitely do know better. Kind of shocking, right?

Routers, switches, mainframes, entire networks. much any and every crucial piece of the entire telecommunications backbone, basically all running on the default credentials they shipped with for years at a time. And these default admin credentials, the magic passwords that let anyone access and mess around with the guts and internal workings of the thing, you can look them up online without ever having to buy a piece of equipment. Check it out yourself. So, if you do your homework and you can find out the make and manufacture of any given system,

you have a damn fair shot at a butter smooth entry without even a whiff of risk. It doesn't matter whether a company manufactures soft drinks, builds military kits, or designs networking technology. If you can find out what make of equipment they use and finagalum means of uninterrupted access to set equipment, at least half the time plugging in the pre-configured default setup password will give you full admin privileges. The best part is, 99.9% of the time you can count on the fact that the type of person who doesn't bother changing their passwords on one system never bothers to change their passwords anywhere. So, once you find a viable target, it's generally safe to assume whatever system they have access to,

are similarly undefended. Security cameras, alarms, even personal email. Hacking a password like you see in the movies and on television, random guessing, birthdays, hobbies, childhood pads, even unconnected objects around the room, it's never necessary. It doesn't work like that anyway. Because somebody too lazy to change the admin key pass

for their multi-thousand security system is the same person who keeps their computer login on a sticky note under the keyboard. If you're one of these people, takes solace in the fact that you shouldn't blame yourself. It's just human nature. And believe me, you aren't alone by a long shot. We all imagine our friends, neighbors, and enemies are vigilant about keeping responsible practices. But for the most part, they're all just like you.

Anyway, all this is taking a long way to get around to explaining how I ended up in the situation I got myself into. The Wiltshire building is a squat, ungainly three-story painted slate gray, situated on the corner of a couple of glorified back alleys down in the industrial section of San Diego's Point Loma neighborhood. Point Loma itself is a peninsula, so access in and out of the place is limited to a couple of major roads and traffic tends to slow to a cross. whenever anything a note happens there. Which is why I thought an overcast Labor Day would be the perfect time to finally get around to breaking into the offices of Carillion's industries. A four-room arrangement on the Wiltshire Building's second floor.

A day with no business meant no traffic, no interruptions, and no risk. In and out in an hour or less, and no one gets hurt, least of all me. It seemed perfect. Unfortunately, that's not the way it worked. Oh, I got past the office building security system without a hitch. It was old and unpatched and vulnerable to about seven different strategies, and rode the elevator straight up to Carillion's front door. The keypad was a different make than that of the building itself,

but offered no greater challenge. So I was in their lobby within five minutes and had their security cameras shut down within ten. For the next half hour, I scrounged through the front of the Carillion offices. Ball caps screwed down tight on my head to keep from leaving any stray hairs for the authorities to test my DNA and shade my face from any backup cameras I might have missed. Latex gloves keeping my fingerprints from any of the surfaces I touched, sunglasses on to hide my eye color, and so forth. You know, the usual routine. A couple of petty cash boxes scavenged from bottom desk drawers added up to about five. thousand in legal tenders stuffed into the pockets of my workman's jumpsuit.

Always dressed like you might have some legitimate excuse to be on the property. Plus a jumpsuit covers a lot of potentially identifying marks. So I was pretty happy with today's take before even getting into the back offices. What I should have done at that point was to cut my losses, turn around, and leave the office and building and drive right the fuck out of point a loa right then. I would have been coming out five grand ahead and run almost zero risk of being caught. But then I turned a corner, looked through a thick glass door and realized that behind the expansive black walnut desk in the CEO's office, there's a safe set into the wall. Not just any random wall safe, but a Crowle-Seamunds 480,

recognizable by its distinctive hexagonal profile, infamous in certain circles for its many, many design flaws, which made it only slightly more protection than just leaving your valuables in a mound in the middle of the floor. Now, in retrospect, I should have been suspicious there was nothing obscuring the face of the safe, a piece of junk or not. I mean, even the dumbest uppity prick hangs a self-aggrandizing portrait or a blow-up of boat or some ugly painting he paid too much for on the wall to conceal a safe, right? But okay, I missed that in my zeal to find out just what that Crowell-Seemons 480 might contain. No one could blame me for that.

The same admin paskey that opened the Carrillion front office door unlocked the touchpad protecting the CEO's inner sanctum. No must, no fuss. Before you could say payday, I had my ear pressed. to the safe, tapping around its edges to see what she had to tell me. And baby, it was a lot. This model hadn't even been upgraded in accordance with a recall. Croll Siemens was forced to send out after the depths of their incompetence became known.

That meant all it would take to pop the door was a flathead screwdriver applied in just the right spot. And the multi-tool I always kept hooked to my belt while on the job gave me three three different flatheads to command. So here's the thing. In my line of work, if you get past three different security hurdles to get access to a thing without trouble, that tends to set a pattern, right?

It lulls you into a state of arrogance. Like you can do whatever you want, people too stupid to take the most basic precautions to protect themselves. You get lazy, is what I'm saying. And that's what happened here. I mean, some rich asshole has a non-upgraded Cole Seaman's 480 set into his wall. To me and others like me, that's just asking to be robbed.

I guess that's what the idea was there, now that I put it all together. To create the image of an irresistible target, paint the picture of a sitting duck in such a way that only a person with my specialized knowledge would recognize it. and why would anyone do something like that? The only reason would be to draw that person in. I recall thinking, just before popping the face off the safe, that I had no idea what the hell business Carillion Industries was even in. Real estate, bail bonds, financial services, who the hell knew?

The name was vague enough that it could apply anything and everything or nothing at all at the same time. I wasn't even sure how the place had gotten on my radar. Not entirely. There are a few deep web bulletin boards where guys like me buy, sell and trade information about potential jobs, targets, and the like. So chances were solid, I must have run across it there.

But I knew I hadn't paid for the tip, so it couldn't have been too carefully vetted. These websites are obscure, sure, but I don't fool myself. They're secure enough that cops and other miscreants don't know about them. As I applied the pressure with my multi-tool, I felt the face of the safe about to give way. The muscles in my shoulders tensed unconsciously, bracing for the piercing squeal of an alarm as it popped loose and came off in my hands. But there was nothing.

I grinned. tossing the face aside carelessly. With the entire guts of the lock mechanism exposed, even a toddler could open the thing in less than a minute. Just click the tumblers into place, turn the handle, and blammo. That was why Crowle Seaman's paid out big bucks in their settlement. That was why anyone who was serious about trying to protect their belongings

had long since gone back for the upgrade. I was no toddler, so I had the door wide in a few seconds. As I reached my hand inside, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I shrugged it off as the thrill of the moment, the excitement of the hunt. That wasn't it at all, though, I now realize. It was my instincts, screaming at the top of their lungs to try and warn me off at the last minute. Too late.

My fingers tripped some kind of laser sensor or heat sensor, movement sensor, one of those. situated inside the safe. Now, such a thing isn't unheard of, but in a place sloppy enough to have default credentials as issued on all their systems and a piece of crap wall safe, no one would expect it there. I certainly didn't.

And that's what they were counting on. The office door behind me slammed shut with a hydraulic crash, a battery of resolute thunking, signaled deadbolt sliding home into the wall, is all around me. The doors, the windows, even the drawers of the desk itself. All secured firmly, with me still standing there with my hand in the otherwise empty safe and my dick in my hand, figuratively speaking, my chin sagged my chest, and I knew I was caught. For the next half hour, I checked and double-checked and triple-checked every opening, every lock, every crevice,

from the sealed industrial triple pane windows to the two-inch diameter ventilation shafts to the less than 16th inch gap between the door and threshold, I haven't pulled off the electrical plates, probing around the wall for weak spots in the drywall. But in my heart, I knew I wouldn't find anything, no matter how hard I looked. Mostly I just had to satisfy myself because I wouldn't have been able to forgive, myself for not trying if I hadn't at least made the attempt.

But as expected, my search came up empty. There was no way out of this room. And I had the expertise to know that for certain as an irrefutable fact. They sure as up was up and down was down. That was how they caught me, playing to that knowledge. When the mind knows a thing, he yearns to exercise that knowledge. to show off what it knows, try to distinguish itself above the pack.

It's just human nature. And there, trapped alone in the aridity of that solitary office with nothing to do but think, it came to me where the Carillion info came to me from. It was in a file I kept on my laptop in my apartment containing information I dug up and cobble together, and yes, sometimes even paid for,

regarding potential targets, jobs I might undertake in the future. You can't just rely on waiting for things that drop in your lap, not if you want to maintain any semblance or a regular cash flow. You never know when you might need a bunch of money all of a sudden, after all. So a guy in my position always asks to be tossing around somewhere between a few and a few dozen possibilities. I didn't consciously recall putting that carrillion data in there, but I guess I must have assumed I copied it in there late one night after having a few strong double IPAs and tossing back a few gummies. Wouldn't be the first time I woke up to information in my job file I didn't consciously remember putting in there.

No, admittedly, most of that type of info usually turned out to be irrelevant garbage. Now, what I think is, someone planted that information there to lure me, knowing it would fly away. to the top of my queue by presenting a target too tempting to resist, or at least for a guy like me to resist. I couldn't help kicking myself. All I would have to do to prevent this would have been to change the default admin credentials on my laptop, the way I had on my modem and router. One weak link in the chain.

One tiny oversight. And I was lost. Now, I have no options left but for me to sit here, slumped in this not as plush as it looks office chair, staring out the unbreakable windows, waiting for the blinding San Diego son to come up, all wondering what type of person whoever eventually comes to get me might be, and what someone's smart enough to pull this off could possibly want with a guy like me. My guess is? There's no way it's anything good.

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