Creepy - The Blackout Box

Episode Date: July 6, 2020

Decisions, decisions...***Written by Marcus Demanda and narrated by Jessica McEvoy, Jimmy Ferrer, Nate Dufort, Owen McCuen, and Erika Sanderson***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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The Blackout Box. Written by Marcus Demanda. And narrated by Jessica McAvoy, Erica Sanderson, Jimmy Ferrer, Owen McEwn, and Nate DuFort. I woke up, but I couldn't move. Bright light, burning down on me from a sterile white, ceiling, blaring circular bulbs encased in steel. I blinked, and I found that with some effort I could turn my head, if nothing else. Across from me, three feet away, lay a man on a rolling cot,

strapped at the wrists, ankles, and waist. He wore a hospital gown. He was asleep. He looked perfectly fit, uninjured, probably in his early twenties. I tried to crane my head forward, taking a personal inventory, but my head wouldn't go that way. Still, turning my eyes down, I was able to make out that I was in an identical gown, on an identical cot, and identically restrained. Why? What had I done? I tried to speak. My lips moved, but no sound came out. Panic threatened, and my brain immediately went to work fighting it down. I'm 18 years old. I live at home with my mom. I'm a senior at Woodbridge High School, an honors student, top of my class.

I'm on the swim team. I was accident. I'd never heard the other car crash. Strange. It had been out of control. Fish tailing, tire squealing. All of it, I recalled perfectly. I could still see it, just as it happened.

I have an idetic memory. In fact, I'm exceptional in every way, at least according to my parents and teachers. What time was it? Why wasn't Mom here? Where the hell was I? Turning my head the other way, I saw surgical trays on white blankets atop carts.

I saw a wall of closed metal cabinets. And there was a door opposite me, which opened even as I noticed it. I caught only the briefest glimpse into the hallway beyond, sterile white, just like the rest of this place. I couldn't tell anything else, because the view was mostly blocked by the figure who came through it, and he closed himself in with me right away. He wore a lab coat and blue jeans. He had glasses and a dark go-te. tea and was probably in his late twenties. Without my own glasses, it was hard to tell much more than that

until he clumped right up next to me, his hard shoes echoing in the wide room. I tried to speak. I wanted to say, where am I? Who are you? Are you a doctor? What happened? My lips hardly trembled. No sound came out of them He smiled at me Hello Amber He took my wrist in hand Pressed his thumb against the vein Good, good

You're almost normal My name is Gregory Colson Your fellow candidate The one on the other bed Is Matthew Shane Tracy But I bet he goes by Matt He looks like a man Wouldn't you say

Why can't I talk My brain screamed at him. What happened to me? Then, what do you mean, fellow candidate? What is this? Wiggle your fingers. He said. Wiggle your toes.

Make your little piggies dance for me, Amber. I felt my eyes bulging with the effort to communicate with him. I felt the tears come. Felt them run down my cheeks. I tried moving my fingers and toes. Nothing. Are you trying? Blink once for yes, twice for no.

I blinked once. Excellent. He said, and got to work unfastening the restraints. Right now, your bloodstream is digesting a little medicinal cocktail, consisting of two neuro-blocking paralytic agents and a steroid for independent breathing. School records indicate your smartness. Girl. So I take it you understand this.

He waited, arched an eyebrow. I blinked once. Just tell me who you are, I thought. Why am I here? You're in the basement of a hospital. He said. Oh, look, your roommate is waking up. Hello, Matt. You're looking well. He left me, his hard shoes echoing and clumping over to the other. caught as he passed out of sight. Turning my head took time and effort. I heard him go through the

same fingers and toes drill with Matt, my roommate, as he had done with me. By the time I was able to look at them, the doctor, or lab technician, or orderly, whatever the hell Gregory was, had the restraints off him as well. He stood between us, clapped his hands. He was, clapped his hands together just once. Well, now that you're both on, here's what's what. I'm going to tell you something that's going to be unpleasant for you to hear. I've been told I have to. Miss Markham says it's only decent.

A basic kindness. To allow you to prepare yourselves in whatever way best suits your psychology and belief system. She's very grateful to you both. I had no idea who this Mrs. Markham was, specifically, but the family was one of the richest in the county. There were whole apartment complexes that bore that name, townhome communities as well. It was everywhere. As for Gregory, he seemed almost jovial, a master of ceremonies setting up his big reveal.

He was practically jaunty as he rolled the surgical table between us and brandished a hypodermic needle in each hand. You're going into storage. This is more, kids. He said. One of you is going to die tonight. Shear shock stopped my breathing. Had he just said? I'd hardly begun processing the idea of going into storage

when the casualness of his pronouncement of death set in. There's no way to explain the dread. That word just isn't big enough to describe. the horror, the confusion, and the outrage that came with it. But I found the same feelings reflected back at me in the wide, petrified stare of my fellow prisoner, Matt. A morgue, I thought, forcing myself to breathe again. They do autopsies here.

And those cabinets are for dead people. Later. Gregory said, hiking the sleeve of my gang. gown up to the shoulder. We'll let one of you go. You'll have no memory of any of this. You'll wake up in a normal hospital room, a little beaten up from your accident,

totally disorienting. But eventually you'll be fine. 50-50 car right now, which one of you that will be. We have some tests yet to run, but we won't take long. We don't actually have much time. He fixed a small plastic vacuum tube to the back of the syringe.

Tied my arm off at the bicep with a blue rubber tourniquet. He didn't bother swabbing me with alcohol. He drew blood, first from me, then from Matt. Then he came back to me. He wheeled me across the room, toward the wall of cabinets. I wanted to scream. We stopped at the wall. He opened one of the drawers to my left, where my head was tilted, where I could

see seven feet of cold metal tray slide out over squeaky steel rivets. We call these cadaver coolers. He said. There are refrigeration units, but don't worry. We unplug them out, your scone. I'm doing this to me. He transferred me easily enough. Just a few tugs on the blanket underneath me,

and my inert form went from cot mattress to steel tray, hardly any effort on his part at all. I only weighed 116 pounds. I guessed Matt would be a tougher job. I blinked my eyes repeatedly at him, a quick sequence of two at a time, over and over. No, no, no. He put his hand over my eyes, made shushing noises. Shlid me in, slammed the door at my feet.

Through the steel, I could hear him whistling, his hard shoes receding as he went for Matt. It was all I could hear at first in the cadaver cooler, hitched, irregular, close, all around me. At some point, I realized it was only me. I don't know how long I was in there. Time was meaningless, unless I wanted to guess the seconds by the kids. count of my own breathing. It only became worse when I started to get some feeling back at the tips of my fingers and toes. Being able to lift my head an inch and a half in the steel upon which it rested, only brought my forehead into contact with more steel. Being unable to move, to feel, to see,

being unable to speak, to beg, to shout. The frustration and terror pulsed in my blood like a swarm of centipedes eating me from the inside out. In my heart and mind, I couldn't stop screaming, but all I could hear was the breathing, my breathing, which grew louder and louder in my ears as the air around me seemed to thicken with spent carbon dioxide. And yet, boxed in as I was, even as the panic tore at me like ragged fingernails, a part of my brain dislodged itself.

I receded, growing smaller, disconnecting. I was losing consciousness. I could sense it happening by slow degrees, my darkened world slipping away, growing distant. My breathing quieted to background noise. And I found myself, perhaps as a defense mechanism, perhaps for no reason at all. Going back, back in time, back by hours or days, there was no way to know.

To the car. The early morning hours are quiet on Clifton Road. The only sound is the engine. A lullaby thrum in the soft dark. I yawn and smile. Mom says I'm too old for the babysitting gig. That night should get a real job. But Friday nights are the Samson twins.

Easy peasy. Those boys worshipped the ground I walk on, and I'd spent the last two hours asleep on their couch. It was past midnight when their folks got back home. And that meant a $15 bonus. There's 65 bucks in my purse, the best money I've made all week. But Clifton is a twisty, dangerous road, a 40-mile-per-hour series of inclines and dips that forces you to pay attention. There aren't many lights, and the trees crowd in on either side.

I turn on the radio, try to force myself more awake by sheer willpower. I wish I had stopped at the Starbucks on Rouse. one. A little one in the morning hazelnut Java would have been just the thing. The headlights come from out of nowhere. I'm cresting the hill just before the railroad crossing, and there's no way to have seen or anticipated the other car before it's right on top of me, half in and half out of my lane. I jerk the steering wheel hard right out of reflex. Not thinking at all, and plow the little Ford Fiesta straight is the only lamp post this side of Route 1. The front of the car paves in with the sound of an aluminum can crumpling, only amplified a thousand times over.

I alerge forward, but then I'm instantly thrown back by the force of the airbag, which breaks my glasses right down the middle. I can still hear the tinkling of broken glass, the steaming of the craft radiator, when the initial shock subsides and the freshly deployed airbag begins to deflate. I taste blood in my mouth, and it occurs to me that I'm not dead. I might even be okay. A bloody nose. Bruises for sure. Probably a pair of black eyes, but I'm basically unhurt. I'm trying to scramble out from under the airbag when I realize the rubeck. rack has rendered the driver's side door immovable. I'm uninjured, but trapped.

I uncliff the seatbelt, worm my way over to the passenger side and sit up. I take my first unobstructed lungful of air since the impact. Get my first look at the damage. I'm fine, I tell myself, taking in the front of the car through the windshield. But Mom is going. to kill me. The hood of the car is a tented ruin, the radiator sending up steam like the stuttering gasps of a dying person. The windshield starts to spiderweb and crack even as I peer

through it. I try the passenger door and find it as intractable as the driver's side. Go through the window, I tell myself. Get out. But I've never been in a car accident before, and I'm still a little dazed. I can't find my glasses anywhere, and my face feels like I've been punched, which I suppose is actually true. I wipe blood from my nose and reach for the rearview mirror to check myself. It comes off in my hand, and I can't help but laugh. That's when the flashlight shines in through the passenger side. I push the button and, miraculously, the window actually descends, letting in the night air. The face of my rescuer, however, is an absolute shadow.

Give me your purse. It says, it's an adult's voice. It's a man. Is it a cop? I start to say something to question. Shut up and give it to me, bitch. He cuts in, and suddenly I'm staring. down the reflective black barrel of a gun.

Right now, before I paint the dashboard with your brains. I almost fumble the stupid thing in my efforts to appease him, but I managed to get it into his other hand, quick as I can. And just like that, I'm crying. And I keep crying, even when he withdraws the gun, because I'm scared. And I've just been in an action. And then this happens, and I don't understand any of it.

Shut up. He says, his voice is calm. He's never raised at once. He's going through my purse as I cover my mouth and try to stay quiet. You're no good to meet dead. Maybe no good either way. Just make it through this, I say to myself, stay alive, Amber. Everything else is just details.

He's going through my personal things, tossing them carelessly to the ground as he loots the contents of my purse. He unclips the little change wallet and takes out the money I just made. But then he puts the money back. And that's somehow scarier than if he had kept it. He holds up my driver's license. The only part of his face I can. can see in the dim glow of the flashlight is his smile. But I do see his badge. He's a cop after all.

It's too bad. He says. Too bad for you, Amber. But for me, looks like payday came right on time. He leans in through the passenger window, leading with his gun hand again. But there is no gun. There's a white cloth. He presses it to my face, even as I try to claw him off, even as I scream through it, understanding what it must be. It's damp. It smells funny. It's chloroform, I realize. I'm being kidnapped. And then, there's nothing. I'm gone. When I return to myself, to the present moment inside the metal tomb. tomb of the blackout box. It was to the sound of Matthew Shane Tracy yelling his head off,

and to the noise of him bucking and kicking from inside the box directly above me. I could feel it too, vibrating through the steel, all of his futile thumping and hollering and bleeding and cursing. A goddamn idiot, don't let them know you're back. I tried to make the words. I figured that if I could hear him, he'd be able to hear me. But all I could manage were whispers and hisses, still strangled by whatever medicinal cocktail we'd been given. Perhaps Matthew had been given his earlier, or he was just stronger than me, could still hardly move at all. His cries muffled through the metal. Heavy hands and feet thundered against the metal ceiling above.

me. I choked on the stale, rotten air. It was the closest I had come to hearing myself since the car accident. Please, P. No idea what sick, twisted agenda Gregory was harboring, but it wouldn't do to let him know anything we could possibly keep secret or no good. Either Matthew couldn't hear me. I could hardly hear myself, or he didn't care. But eventually, He exhausted himself. As he fell silent, my body began to prickle with sleep needles. It would only be a torment I knew once I got my mobility back. I'd probably end up losing my shit completely, same as he had.

Still, it was hopeful. Voices, through the other side of the cabinet door at my feet, muted by distance and the steel barrier that separated us. male and female i recognized the first as gregory's it should be him he recovered first stronger constitution the female voice was older much older and carried with it an air of limited patients currently under duress they received the same dose my dear he only outweighs were by seventy-five pounds leave these things to the doctor won't you now bring them my own I want to have a look at them. The heavy shoes over hard tile again. I braced myself when they stopped right at the foot of the cabinet,

closing my eyes and willing myself to appear fast asleep. But he drew the top one out first. The tumult that followed was swift but terrible. Metallic clang and a fleshy thunk. More screams and curses. Promises of violence from matters. that were quickly silenced by a series of crunching blows that he must have taken full in the face. I couldn't imagine what could have hit him to make that awful sound, unless it was a sledgehammer.

Moans, crying, soon muted to a wet, raspy gurgling. Something tied off, probably a gag of some kind. Through it all, Gregory had not spoken a word. But now, with his stronger prisoner once again subdued, he found his voice, breathy, and exhilarated. You just had to make me do that, didn't you, Matt? It just had to be this way. It's going to put you to sleep before this next part, you know. But did you stop to think about that?

Did you ever stop to think how much it's in your best interest to keep me happy tonight, Matt? Oh, no. I thought I could move my legs if I tried. Instinctively, I wanted to kick, to thrash, to remain still as death, much as it might drive me crazy. I had to suck it up and... ...out in the room, a fresh series of blows. They were even heavier, if that was possible. Punguaded by a crunching noise that could only be breaking bones. Thick cracks that were unbelievably clear. over the sound of Matthews stifled, inarticulate agony. I was grateful I couldn't see what was happening out there. Hearing was bad enough, closed in as I was.

The noise was surprisingly loud, but I never would have imagined they would have heard it. Heard me, clamor just outside of my metal prison abruptly stopped. Bring her out, Gregory. The woman said. I want to see them together. before you ruin him the shoes again the sound of breathing labored by toil coming closer and closer the latch at the foot of my prison box unlatching said to myself play dead no matter what they do he slid me out transferred me back to the cot chuckled

could he tell line them up together the old woman said place their possessions out on the table where I can reach them. Siddate the boy. He's suffering most terribly in case you hadn't noticed. Then leave us for a few minutes. But, Miss Markham? Gregory started. She'll be good for me.

Mrs. Markham assured him. Yes, dear? No response. You'll be just outside the door, won't you, Gregory? Now, be a love and fuck off. The caught moved, the rusty screech of wheels, drowning out the sound of Matthew's wet. ragged breath. I caught a whiff of something foul in the air, a hint of ancient rot with a dash of

airborne shit, and I knew that she was nearby. Through barely slitted eyelids, I caught a glimpse of her, but only from behind. She was in a wheelchair. Her raven black and steel gray hair was cropped up in a bun, the back and shoulders of her bright green dress slightly hunting. To, I noted, the hand that pushed the cot, the GMU class ring that read, School of Nursing, with the year 2020 engraved over the top. Gregory, it seemed, was still in college. The cot halted next to Matthew. I didn't make eye contact to see his face. It was enough to see the bloodied set of brass knuckles that had been left at his feet. the sullied surgical mallet next to them. And far worse to behold, however briefly, the compound fracture at both shins, the impossible angle his legs were bent at the knees.

I closed my eyes completely again and focused on keeping my breathing regular and slow, regular and slow. I listened to him set our things out on a nearby. table as ordered. He then said, putting you down. Shortly after that, he departed. I prayed, however nonsensically, that I would neither see nor hear him ever again. Whatever else happened, maybe he wouldn't be a part of it. The door shut behind him with a most disgruntled click. I know you're awake. Mrs. Mark. Markham said. You cannot deceive me, child.

Don't worry. I'm not here to cause you any pain nor discomfort. I only wish to thank you, and to explain a few things that I know must be troubling you. Next to me, as though to remind Mrs. Markham of his presence, Matthew groaned again. But it was a weaker sound, hardly more than an exhalation.

He was fading fast. I wanted to turn my head from him, but I didn't dare. Mrs. Markham was wheeling her way over to us now. She didn't stop between us. She came to my other side, ignoring Matthew completely. Her hand touched my face. Her skin felt like paper, and she smelled like death. I'm not going to be able to keep this up, I thought.

I'm going to gag. I'm going to fucking puke. She drew my face away from Matthew and toward herself. I didn't resist. I kept playing dead, but my breathing was becoming more rapid. I felt my face twitch. There was no way I was fooling anyone anymore, but I kept my eyes shut.

I shut them tight. This close, her very words smelled of hard alcohol and peppermint. There is a reason why Gregory inflicted those injuries upon the boy, Matthew. He should have been anesthetized first. Most unfortunate, but there was a reason. Shall I tell you what it was? I didn't answer, but I started to cry, unable to help myself.

I cried just as I had in front of the officer at the scene of the accident, helpless to stop even as I kept my eyes stubbornly. Shut. Both of you were in terrible car accidents, Amber, simply awful ones. It's very important that this be made true, be made convincing. The work on the vehicles has already begun. For you, this will include broken hands, a punctured lung, and a concussion. You'll actually be quite a lot more complicated in terms of getting it right than Matthew was. But you'll feel none of it. I'll see to that, I promise. I heard a bottle be in gulment. I heard her drink. She went on. If you're the one who must actually die, that concussion will have to be upgraded to a

fractured skull. If it's meth, it'll be simple trauma and blood loss. I'm still waiting from the doctor to hear which of you it will be. He'll be here anytime, you know. He'll put you to sleep, and then later on you'll either wake up or you won't. I'm very sorry if it's you, truth be told. You seem so sweet, and you're so scared. I can tell, you know. I don't blame you. This whole experience must be frightfully unpleasant.

Another drink. The bottle being set on the table behind her. A zipper coming open. Something in her hands or on her lap. Look at me, Amber. She said. Please, honey, don't be afraid. Open your eyes.

I didn't. And just like that, she lost patience with me. Her hand gripped my ear, fingers twisting into talons and squeezing until she'd drawn blood. I said, look! I opened my eyes. And at first, I thought they weren't working right. Mrs. Markham had yellow skin, not shiny, not radiant, not glowing, just the opposite of all three, in fact, but actual banana fucking yellow skin.

Her eyes were yellow too, minus the dull, sickly pastel blue of the irises. Her stomach was bloated, the fabric of her dress barely containing it, like the sack of a morgue. monstrous black widow spider. I understood now. I knew what I beheld. You didn't have to be exceptional in every way to recognize liver disease when it was this obvious. That's better, she said.

And now, perhaps, you understand what all this is about. She let go of my ear. She winked a yellow and blue eye me. She reached her hands under her stomach and fished around. The thing she held at her lap, the small object nearly concealed by the underbelly of her cirrhosis swollen spider sack, was my purse, zipped open up top. Just as the cop had done, she went for my driver's license. It was new that license. I'd been eligible for more than two years, but had been eligible for more than two years, but hadn't taken the test until six months ago. Now that I had it, if that was the thing that

had caused all this, for whatever unimaginable reason, I could only wish that I had remained a timid little pedestrian for my entire life. She held it in front of my face. Her jaundiced fingertip tapped the lower left corner just under my face and signature at two words next to a red heart icon that stood out suddenly stark under the bright white ceiling lights of the morgue. Organ donor. I opened my mouth, found my ability to speak had returned. Wait, I mean, but... She placed my license back in my purse and put the same fingertip over my lips. Red nail polish gleamed under my nose like newly drawn blood. You're saving my life, child, she said.

Now with drawing her hand and sitting back in the chair, her shoulders still scrunched as though all of her bones had been pressed inward. But one of you is, anyway, as soon as the doctor finishes with your blood samples and determines my best match, I'm so grateful to you both, and so terribly sorry for this ordeal. most regrettable. I insisted, not raising my voice, terrified that anything I did or said that was even slightly amiss might set her off again.

How? Mrs. Markham, don't you have, I don't know, family or something? Please, I'm only 18. Would you believe I'm only 40? She said. Anyway, how isn't so much. complicated. They said that money can't buy you everything, but I've got enough to try. She cackled, a laugh that echoed through the room, but didn't reach her eyes. Those remained

fixed on me, like she expected me to laugh with her. My family has done this kind of thing before. My own father pulled it off about 20 years or so ago. We know people, my dear. And with a little financial push, I've just come to the front of the transplant waiting list. My eyes started around the room, seeking options, seeking weapons. I thought I might be able to move now. The sleep needles had receded. It would be a gamble, I knew. There was no telling how ready for this my body really was,

and Gregory wasn't far away. A darkened corner of my brain whispered to me, you have a 50-50 chance if you just wait. And as for why, she went on. I don't just want anyone's liver, you know. There are many factors that come into play when it comes to organ rejection. I have a very rare blood type, you see. The very rarest, in fact.

Only one half of one percent of the human population has A-B-negative blood. But you have it, Amber. You're very exceptional. Has anyone ever told you that? How do you know my blood type? I almost asked. I thought the so-called doctor was still running tests. She beat me to the question.

Your whole family gave blood last year before Christmas. The information is purchasable. Strictly speaking, an identical match and necessary for a successful transfusion of this kind. All blood types are listed compatible with AB negative. But every little commonality helps. Game of percentage, don't you know? And this operation is not the kind of thing you can easily do twice.

I do not intend to fuck it up. Surely you understand. There were hypodermic needles on the surgical tray, right next to her forgotten whiskey bottle. There was the mallet on the cot with, Matthew, even the brass knuckles. Bit of a toss-up, really, she said. Female organs fail more commonly than male ones.

Did you know that? Mother Nature is a sexist patriarchal bitch, if you ask me. But on the other hand, young Mr. Tracy with the broken legs over there is a bit older than you, and he has a small amount of alcohol in his system. Typical college boy. So many factors. I will bore you with them all. No time to anyway. It's the test for human leukocyte antigen that's in play right now, I think, or something like that. So much medical mumbo-jumble. She reached again for her bottle, and I just couldn't stop myself. I lurched upright, or tried to. I grasped at her with both hands. Clearly in my mind's eye I saw myself do it.

And fail. I had just enough strength to roll onto my side. Nothing more. My arm hung limply over the side of the cot. Mrs. Markham wheeled back from me, expelled a short bark of a laugh. And I don't blame you for that either, my dear. Oh, no, not at all. You don't want to die?

Neither do I. Maybe you'll get lucky, little bitch. Behind her, the door opened. The man who stepped through it wasn't Gregory. He was older, cleaner cut. His bearing was cold. His face blank. He was wearing scrubs.

Behind him, a coven of subordinates followed him inside, also wearing scrubs. It was the doctor. For one of us, it was time. We have a decision then? Mrs. Markham asked. The doctor nodded. Close call. He said.

But yeah. Help me. I pleaded with them. I only need one, I told myself. Just one of them needs to listen, to give a shit, to care. And finally, there at the very end, I found myself able to finally scream. He looked at my arm, at the track mark Gregory had made without cleaning the inner elbow. His gaze drifted over to Matthew.

He shook his head in distaste. Fucking goon. He muttered. Then, to Mrs. Markham. Do you want to know? He asked. We need to get you into prep, ma'am. This has to be done before the next shift change,

and that's only eight hours away. Put her under first, she said. I want that bitch to go to sleep and dream about the question. The doctor remembered to swab my arm clean, at least. His attendance wheeled Mrs. Markham out of the room, toward whatever room they used as prep and the surgical theater. I could do nothing but cry as the remaining. members of the team circled me like vultures.

Don't do this to me. I begged them. He put the needle in, not listening to me. And then, from under the scrubs, his phone went off. Seriously? I thought. It was almost funny. But the doctor checked it before unsnapping the rubber tourniquet from my arm.

Eyebrows arched. A question, not an accusation. He let out a sigh. That's it. He said to his team, but he kept his voice low. Then what he's going through, talk about timing. The tourniquet came off. He leaned in close.

I was already starting to drift off when he whispered. You're going to be fine, young lady. And you won't? but the world was graying out. Remember any of it. When I came to in the hospital proper, my memory was foggy, but not dead. It took some time to get it all back. When intern Gregory popped in with a nurse I didn't recognize to check my casts and my pupil size,

and to tell me that my mother had been contacted and would be here any time, It was his class ring that triggered the start of my remembering. I wanted to strike him, but both of my hands were broken. I was sick to my stomach too and still dizzy. I kept my mouth shut. I couldn't let the hospital staff know. There was no way to guess who among them I could really trust. Over the coming days, I was able to learn, however,

that there was a certain patient named Matthew Shane Tracy just down the hall from me who was also alive and also recovering from a car accident. From the same car accident, on Route 1, not Clifton Road. We'd gone head on into each other to hear it from the staff. Matthew didn't remember his truth, And I didn't tell him either. Not then. Not yet. He'll know soon enough. And as for Mrs. Markham,

she had died tragically on the operating table before they'd even gotten her own rotten liver out. She had gone into prep and never woken up. It seemed that, once paid, the people who had been in on this monstrous little scam together, with the possible exceptions of Gregory and the cop who had first pulled me over, had decided they didn't need Mrs. Markham to live, and who could blame them? With her dead under the knife, there would never be any tearful bedside confession before her

eventual death, no chance for their crime to ever be discovered. Certainly Matthew and I wouldn't tell. So far as they knew, we could. But I have an idetic memory. I'm exceptional in every way. I sat on all of it until I was well out of the hospital. Only now, and only to the real police, and to my mom, was I ever going to talk about any of this. I'd write it down first, get my facts straight.

I'd pray people wouldn't presume this was all paranoia, brought on by the concussion. I'd hope they'd at least investigate. I hope that the first cop who reads this is a good cop. If not, I could be in trouble. It's a chance I'm willing to take. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us.

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