Creepy - Welcome to Bedside Manor Part 1

Episode Date: January 24, 2022

Oh Jack...***Written by Jack Townsend with narration by: Owen McCuen, JV Hampton VanSant, Cole Burkhardt, Alicia Atkins, Nate Dufort, Megan McDuffee, Michelle Kane, Jimmy Ferrer, Heather Thomas, Nichole Goodnight and Joe Stofko***Check out Jack's other podcast The Snake's Paw at: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-snakes-paw/id1438590701***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Steve Blizin of Black Crow Audio***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.

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cold at the moment. So, you asked for it, you got it. This is the last tales from the gas station story that we haven't narrated, and it's an absolute monster that we've been working on since November. That's also why there hasn't been an Uncle Henry's story in a while, but don't worry. That's next on the major production docket. And this story is guest produced by Steve Blizzin, because let's face it, it wouldn't be a gas station story without him. As it stands this last story by Jack Townsend clocks in over four and a half hours and consists of 12 parts. So we've decided to break it all up, running two parts a day all week. If you'd rather just hear the whole thing straight through, it's currently available to all

our patrons. And if you just need more Jack Townsend in your life, and who doesn't, I can't recommend his own podcast enough, The Snake's Paw, available anywhere where you listen to podcasts. It's everything you've come to know and love about the creator of the gas station series, and more. So here you go. The last of the gas station's stories as we know them. It's time to welcome you all to Bedside Manor.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simple. Complete fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents

Tales from the Gas Station. Welcome to Bedside Manor, Part 1. Written by Jack Townsend, with performances by Owen McCune, Megan McDuffey, Nate DuFort, Nicole Goodnight, Joe Stofco, Michelle Kane, Jimmy Ferrer, Cole Burkart, Alicia Atkins, and J.V. Hampton Van Sant. The following story was written by Jack Townsend, author of the four-volume book series Tales from the Gas Station. Now available on Amazon, Kindle, Audible, and everywhere else books are sold.

To learn more about Jack's work, visit his website at gas stationjack.com. We were a thousand miles from home when the car gave up the ghost. To be honest, I was surprised we made it as far as we did. My old Nissan had been on life support for the better part of the last decade. Now that it was dead, I almost felt relief. Like the machine could finally be a piece in the great afterlife parking lot in the sky. Of course, that relief was easily outweighed by the newfound panic of being stranded in the middle of an unfamiliar nowhere.

Jerry was under the hood, doing everything short of dark magic to keep the engine running again, while I paced the road with my cell phone over my head, hoping for a single bar of connectivity, and feeling about as useful as male nipples. This certainly wasn't the highlight of our cross-country road trip, but it wasn't the worst moment either. That particular honor fell upon the roadside marsupial petting zoo. To be fair, this was taking my mind off all those things I'd left back home. home, which was the entire purpose of the surprise vacation after all.

That's what my friends called it. A surprise vacation. Their delicate phrasing conjured a much kinder image of what turned out to be a low-key kidnapping. I got home from my overnight shift to find them all waiting for me in my living room, intervention style. My roommate, Jerry, the mastermind behind it all, had two go-bags waiting by the front door on a map plotting our impending road trip to see the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life. Jerry had been prone to these spontaneous, well-intended, but highly irresponsible gestures for as long as I'd known him. At least this time, he didn't try to gift me a stray animal he found.

Normally, I would simply say thanks, and shut it down before things got out of hand. But I wasn't in the proper headspace to fight back. I'd just gone through what could only be described as a traumatic event. Some people close to me died, and there was a major misunderstanding with the new sheriff. But that's probably a story best saved for another day. Suffice to say, my friend saw I was going through a rough patch and thought it would be good medicine to get me far away from everything for a few days. They made sure my shifts at the gas station were covered until the end of the week,

just long enough for things to settle down and go back to normal. I couldn't blame them for not. understanding what was really going on. Hell, I only had a tenuous grasp on it myself. But the doctors assured me everything would be fine now, just as long as I stuck to the plan and took my medicine. After a few long days filled with tourist traps, roadside attractions, cheap motels, and car farts,

it looked like we'd finally reach the end of our adventure. We're a few states shy of the West Coast, but low on money and even lower on time. The trip was as close. to success as we were ever likely to get. And the car's breakdown was the final straw. I decided to give Jerry a few more seconds of vacation before breaking the news to him,

which was why I was taking so long looking for cell service when I knew there was none to be found way out here. When I finally got back to the car, Jerry popped his head out from under the hood and said, Okay, try the engine now. I turned the key to the sound of stubborn silence. Nata, I announced. Really?

Fuck a doodle. I bypass the ignition switch. It's not the battery or the starter. Spark plugs are good, fuses are good, wiper blades are new, blinker fluid is full. Maybe it's out of gas? I offered,

exhausting the full extent of my vehicular knowledge. Nah, it's still got half a tank. He slammed the hood shut and said. Well, I'm going to go make friends with a tree. When I get back, I'll start taking the engine apart. In the meantime, You should build a fire and find something to cook. We may be here a while.

That plan isn't going to work. Relax, dude. It's just an expression. I'm not really making friends with the tree. If anything, I'm about to give it a good reason to be mad at me. I meant we can't set up camp here hoping for a miracle or a friendly passerby. I mean, what are the odds a good Samaritan would take the same shortcut we did? I wasn't trying to be mean, but he was the one to discover this brilliant,

alternate route between highways over an hour ago, and in that time we hadn't seen a single car besides our own. Our path had been nothing but acre after acre of farmland and trees, and of course that one enormous house back at the top of the hill. All right. What's the plan then? Did you clock that spooky house we passed about a mile ago? He laughed. How could I not? It was so extra. It wasn't wrong. The place stuck out like a pink bikini at a morgue. Mormon funeral. Unlike the traditional farmhouses and double-wides that decorated most of our

adventure through the back roads of the American South, this place was a certifiable mansion. A mix between Greek revival and Gothic architecture, including spires, columns, and even a widow's walk. I wouldn't have been surprised to see a gargoyle or two hanging out on the roof, and I would have bet my last dollar the place was haunted. One thing was for certain. It was a sort of place I'd love to avoid at all costs. I think we need to go there, I said, regrettably. Jerry eagerly agreed. As he relieved himself by the side of the road, I went to the car's trunk and collected

a few necessities for the walk up the hill, a bag of trail mix, bottle of water, and some sunscreen. I wasn't expecting this to take very long, but not very long, was exactly enough time for me to burn. And poor preparation, I kicked my ass to many. many times lately. Jerry must have had a similar thought. He came up next to me and reached under our bags, pulling the baseball bat from its hiding place. What's that for? Protection. Duh. There could be wolves out there. No, dude. No weapons. I don't want to

show up at a stranger's home looking any more suspicious than we already do. Oh, good point. He tossed the bat inside and slammed the trunk shut. I thought we had everything we needed. I thought we were being smart by leaving the weapon behind. In retrospect, it was the first of many bad decisions. It took half an hour to get to the top of the hill. Another five just walked up the winding driveway through the meticulously manicured lawn.

When we finally reached the enormous double doors, I was too exhausted to feel nervous anymore. Jerry knocked, while I fished, unsuccessfully, for cell reception. Who do you think lives here anyway? Some kind of supervillain? King of the farmer folk? The monsters?

If I had to guess, probably the kind of people whose family used to own people. The door opened, and I quickly remembered how to feel nervous again. Can I help you? The old woman croaked in a voice that sounded like paper tearing. She was a little over four feet tall and dressed like a Victorian-era doll. With gray hair tied back below a cloth bonnet, bristly nose hairs, skin the color of canned meat spread, and the thickest pair of wireframe glasses I had ever seen magnifying her pupils to the size of quarters. To put it bluntly, she was difficult to look at.

I nearly dropped my phone, but Jerry didn't even flinch. He just tipped an imaginary hat and said, Hello there, ma'am. My name is Jerry, and this here is my associate, Jack. We hate to be a bother, but our vehicle broke down just up the street, and we were wondering if it might be possible to... I wasn't expecting any more company. Are you sure?

sure you have the right address. Jerry and I share to look. No, ma'am. I was just saying that our car stopped working out of the blue. We were stranded on the side of the road, and Jack is a nervous Nelly, so we decided... All the guests have been accounted for. She said, her voice registering somewhere between a creaking door

and an angry drill sergeant. You must check your invitations, please. Jerry took a breath and rubbed his hands together. Is there someone younger we can... talk to? Jerry. Relax, dude. I don't even think she can hear us.

I pushed him out of the way. Stepped up to the feeble old woman and looked into her enormous magnified eyes. Excuse me. We need to use your phone, please. She tilted her head up and back down, presumably giving us both the once over. Then she turned around and said, Follow me this way to the telephone machine. Local calls only.

No long distance, please. As she disappeared into the bowels of the ancient manner, I hesitated. A familiar feeling washed over me. One I could neither trust nor ignore. A feeling of dread and an unshakable sense that something was wrong here. Only this time it felt stronger. It felt realer. Before I could comprehend what was happening,

Jerry had already marched past me into the dark entryway, leaving me all alone with my paranoia. I took a breath, then plowed ahead after them. This short elderly woman spoke in a dry monotone as we followed her past the entryway into an enormous great hall that wouldn't have looked out of place on the first-class deck of the Titanic. I was only halfway listening, but I picked up enough to understand that she was reciting the house's history like some sort of tour guide. The home was built in 18-something-something by Colonel Someone-some-one. Began as a plantation. I knew it.

Then served as a hospital during the Civil War. or, as she worded it, the War of Northern Aggression. As her words droned on, the interior of the manor was busy telling its own story. The hardwood floors with century-old claw marks. The enormous painting hanging over the fireplace depicting a man with side burns and an I dare you two grimace. The suit of armor, bearskin rug, crystal chandelier. I half expected to see a diamond billboard sign reading.

we have old money, so fuck you. The air smelled of tobacco and old books. Voices muffled from far away transferred through the walls. There's a jovial nature to them, some laughter even. The place was alive with people. At least, I hoped that's what I was hearing. At the base of the grand staircase was a thin door. The woman opened it,

for feeling a much less impressive set of steps leaving down into a basement. She descended, and Jerry followed. I considered the wisdom of staying put, keeping the exit in sight just in case one of us needed to make a break for it. I looked over my shoulder to make sure the door was still there. Not that it would do much good. If things went south again, I knew I wouldn't make it very far on my own.

When I turned towards the basement, it was already too late to tell them to stop or wait. I looked back at the exit. I was stranded. It's remarkable, really. that even with my attention being pulled in such opposite extremes, I somehow managed to notice a shelf of books against the wall by the fireplace. Even more remarkable, how I gravitated towards it, almost unwillingly,

how time stood still, how I forgot where I was for only a moment. And in that moment, I must have pulled a book out and began reading. It had been ages since I let myself relax and get lost in a good story. What the hell am I doing? I was going. Time whips snapped back into place around me. How long have I been standing here? I was already a chapter and a half in.

I closed a book and inspected it. The basilisk stare. It was an Agatha Christie mystery I'd never heard of before. Strange? I thought I'd already read everything she'd written. How did this one escape my radar? All at once I became aware of an unsettling present. an unsettling presence, a looming shadow.

The same feeling you get when a cop car starts tailing you on the interstate. I put the book back where it belonged, then turned around and confirmed my suspicion. I was no longer alone here. The young woman was silently watching me. For how long I don't know, but I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and say she wasn't Edward Cullinning me this entire time. She wore a light blue formal dress, one that could have. have been plucked straight from the 19th century, complete with a hoops skirt and white elbow-length

gloves. She's about my age, assuming she wasn't a ghost or a vampire, of course, with piercing blue eyes and black hair and ringlets framing a heart-shaped face. In her hands, she held an open book, the cover worn down enough to obscure the title. She didn't say anything. She didn't smile or nod. She just stood there, quietly staring. I thought this behavior was a little weird until I realized that I was guilty the same thing.

I managed to get out the words, oh, and hi, in that order. She turned her gaze momentarily to the bookshelf, then back to me. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. You're like me, aren't you? I didn't answer right away. I didn't know how to answer. Part of me, deep down, wanted to say yes. but I couldn't understand why.

Instead I tried, What do you mean? When she spoke again, her voice had a little more heft. There's something wrong with you. The way she said it carried no malice. It was an innocent statement. I gave an honest response. Yeah.

How did you know? Her next question made the hairs on the back of my neck standard attention. The weird stuff. Does it follow you, too? I looked around to make sure we were still alone before answering. I don't know yet. This way, please. The old woman had returned.

Despite the word please, I could tell it was more of a command than a request. The girl with a piercing blue eyes stepped in front of me, shelved her book, and walked away without another word. This time, when the old woman descended the stairs, I was quick to follow. The sooner we got a call into the mechanic, the sooner we got a call into the mechanic, the sooner we we could leave this place forever. The underground room smelled exactly how I expected an underground room to smell. Musty and damp. A single bear incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating our surroundings.

A broken grandfather clock against a far wall, industrial washer and dryer combo, cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling, and an eight-foot-tall taxidermied polar bear that begged the question, how the hell did they get that thing down here in one piece? Jerry already had the receiver the cord of telephone between his ear and shoulder when I walked in. His hands held a yellowed phone book. All righty, thanks, bud. Yeah, you too.

He looked at me with a strange expression. His mouth formed a smile, but his eyes were saying, You're not going to like what I have to tell you. What is it? He put the phone book on the table, created a receiver, and took a deep breath, then answered slowly. I've got good news and... And bad. You know I hate this game, right?

The mechanic knows exactly where we are. He's sending out his truck for a toe. But... But... He won't be able to get to us until morning. Then we try someone else. Yeah, about that. He's the only mechanic in the entire county.

Oh, did he tell you that? He's the only mechanic listed in the phone book. He... What? How's that even? impossible. I stepped over to the table and picked up the book. I immediately opened the page for mechanics. If I weren't so paranoid, I might not think anything about it. But the fact that it fell open directly to the exact spot I was looking for registered less serendipity and was a red flag

big enough to propel a sailboat. I sighed once I saw that he was right. A single entry under Mechanics, Comma, automotive. I put the book away and said, that's fine. That's fine. We can make it through one night in the car. We've survived a lot worse. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the old lady began speaking. I honestly forgot she was still there. If this is what it must be, I will not begrudge any travelers the safety of shelter for one night. There is a spare room available on the third floor, the Woodrow Harper Suite.

Oh, no. We couldn't possibly accept such an imposition. Jerry made a noise that sounded like a quack and said, Yes, we can. What are you talking about? She insisted. It's no imposition at all. My family has long been blessed with the fruits of fortune. It's only right that we extend our hospitality to those in need.

However, there is one condition upon which I must insist. No, really. It's okay. No, really. Did you say sweet? The bad feeling in my gut was growing stronger by the second. Jerry? Do you mind if I talk to you in private for a moment?

He followed me to the far corner, below the watchful eyes of the dust-covered bear. I don't like it. There's something wrong here. Something about this place doesn't make sense. For a flash instant, I thought I saw something crawling up the wall next to us. But upon closer inspection, I realized there was nothing there. My mind has a tendency to play tricks. Jerry didn't bother with the inside voice.

Yeah, I know. It's creepy as fuck, but grandma over there hardly strikes me as a murder cannibal. I'm reasonably certain that if push comes to shove, we can take her. I looked over my shoulder to see if Grandma had hurt us. If she had her, her face didn't show it. I turned back to Jerry and continued, It's not her I'm worried about. Then what is it?

I took a second to try and find the answer, but realized I didn't know. Instead, I shrugged. Hey, it's cool. If you're getting bad vibes, we can piece right out of here. But let me ask you this. If your gut is correct, if something is wrong, do you really think we'll be any safer waiting it out in the car? He had a point. Whatever was triggering my nope radar could possibly follow some mile down the road.

But if we did go back to the Nissan, at least I'm at least I'm going to the car. I could spend the night with the baseball bat in my hands. The old woman's patience must have finally run out. She turned to the stairs and called over her shoulder. Follow me this way. I will show you to your room. Jerry read the look on my face and tried to pump the brakes. Actually, we're just going to rough it in the car tonight.

No need to show us any... Oh, look, she's already gone. We hurried up to stairs behind her. When we'd all reemerged on the ground floor, she started towards a grand staircase. But Jerry and I took a different route, heading straight for the front door. Just before I could reach the handle, the lights flickered and a booming noise filled the room, freezing us in place.

The sound of a distant explosion lingered for a couple seconds and dissipated. If I didn't know better, I would have thought it was a sound like thunder. I broke free from my deer in headlights moment and opened the door to see the sky outside turn murky black. Waves of thick torrential rain rocked the trees on the horizon like hands ran. waving goodbye to the world. I've been through enough tornadoes to know what bad weather looked like, but this? This was something different.

A bolt of lightning cracked open a tree on the other side of the room. A half second later, the noise washed over us. I instinctively stepped back and shut the door. Jerry laughed. I guess that settles it, huh? Looks like we're hunkering down for the night, whether we want to or not. It appears the looming tempest has finally reached us. Once again, the old woman snuck up on me, only revealing her presence when she spoke.

I turned to her. She showed no signs of concern, no smile or frown. No emotion at all, really. She just stood and waited for me to say something, which, after finally finding my voice again, I did. You said there was one condition to our staying the night? Yes, as you have undoubtedly discovered by now, this is no ordinary bed and breakfast. A typical reservation is made a full year in advance. The experience of spending a night in bedside manner is quite valuable in more ways than one.

If you will be present, I expect you to behave as legitimate guests. That means engaging in all of the evening's activities, exploring the various mysteries, and staying in character. Above all else... She raised her voice to emphasize the next part. You must not let any of the other participants know that you did not pay for a room. Is this understood?

Clear as mud. Excellent. Please follow me to your accommodations. Her explanation was way too much for me to digest all at once. Activities? Bed and breakfast? Character? She continued to speak as we followed her up to Grand Staircase, further from the safety of the outside.

Bedside Manor contains 13 bedrooms, five for guests, three for family, and an additional five for the servants. At one point, it was considered quite progressive to allow the help to live within the main quarters, but Eustace Bedside saw it as an exercise in practicality. Keep your friends close and your workers closer. I hung back a few steps and caught Jerry at a safe whispering distance. That storm really came out of nowhere. It's a cloud burst, he said with a shrug. They happen.

I got sunburned walking up the hill. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Good thing we got here when we did, huh? He wasn't taking the hint. Yeah, I said resigning myself to the situation. Good thing. The old woman reached the top of the landing and waited silently for us to catch up. When we were together again, she continued the monologue,

explaining the soared history of the generations of bedside like it would somehow be relevant to the plot or something. I wasn't really paying attention. I just assumed Jerry was listening and could fill me in later. Before we knew it, we were standing beside a reddish-brown door with a mercury knob and a brass nameplate above the frame that read, Woodrow Harper, 1846 to 1857. Do you have any questions for me at this time?

Is there a Wi-Fi password? Bedside Manor offers a full experience in the immersion of a simpler time. We have neither computers nor television machines. Save for emergencies, the telephone will not be available to anyone during the course of their stay. I asked the next question. And what did you say your name was? My name is Margaret, Margaret Bedside. But you may call me Maggie.

Thank you, Maggie. She offered us the key, as well as a strange apology. So sorry. I'm afraid there's only one bed in the Woodrow Harper Suite. I took the key and replied, That won't be a problem. She looked like there was something she wanted to say but didn't. Instead...

I'll leave you two to get cleaned up. Please feel free to use anything you find in the armour. Dinner begins at seven sharp. There will be a chance for social mingling at six. I expect to see you both there. With that, she turned and shuffled back towards the stairs. Room was, in a word, magnificent. There was a king-sized bag complete with its own curtains,

a separate sitting area by the bookcases, even a crystal chandelier. I tried to keep a calm voice. Jerry, what's your understanding of this situation we find ourselves in right now? Isn't it obvious? Not at all. Dude, check it. This is one of those murder mystery themed bed and breakfasts. He could barely contain his excitement.

I've always wanted to try one of these. Come again? He started exploring a room like a kid in a candy shop. It's like an escape room mixed with the dinner theater. Look, here's what's going to happen. Someone's going to die tonight, and then we get to spend the weekend playing detective. The reason everything here looks and feels so creepy is by design.

Oh, Maggie's probably just an hour. This is going to be awesome. He rushed into the bathroom, then excitedly called out. Jack, they got a bidet and toilet paper. How fancy do you feel right now? Because I'm feeling monocle fancy. I approached the window overlooking the front of the property. At the rate, the surprise storm was churning along,

it couldn't have had much longer to go. Eventually, the sky would have to run out of water, right? You are aware we can't stay here. here overnight, aren't you? We don't have any of our stuff. We don't have clothes. I left my medicine in the car and I can't afford to skip another dose. Not after what happened last time. I thought about the moment earlier at the bookshelf, about the lost time, and then I thought about the girl with the blue eyes. Jerry soon interrupted my train of thought, returning to the main room wearing a silken bathrobe around his neck like an oversized scarf. Yeah, I haven't forgotten

about that. I tell you what. When the storm clears, maybe we can pull an Irish goodbye. But in the meantime, let's see if this wardrobe comes with his own complimentary Narnia partle. He opened the double doors to the armour, took a step back, and whistled. What is it? Hey, Jack, what size suit do you wear? I don't know. Medium? Why? I crossed the room to see the piece of furniture held two complete tuxedo suits, formal wear, with tails and top hats, no thank you, shoes and bow ties. Exactly two sets. At a glance, they seem like they'd be pretty close to Jerry and my sizes. The pull-out drawers beneath the suits contain socks and underwear. The bathroom contained two unopened toothbrushes. Jerry showered up first. When he was done, he tried on his clothes to find

they fit perfectly. After my own shower, I wasn't even surprised that mine fit like every piece had been tailored specifically for me. Coincidences abound. But even Jerry, I had to admit, this one was a little too lucky. Everything about this room felt like someone had been expecting us. By 6 o'clock, this storm had barely waned. If this went on for much longer, my knee sound would be underwater before we could get back to it.

On the hour, jazzy instrumental music began wafting up from the first floor, an old-timey phonograph drawing us all together to the Great Hall for the night's mandatory socializing. An older man with a walrus mustache and gold-rimmed steampunk glasses sat in a leather armchair by the roaring fireplace with the tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. He paid us no mind as we reached the bottom of the stairs. A bevy of voices drew my attention to where a pair of wall-sized pocket doors had been opened, expanding the great hall into an adjacent room, a parlor big enough to dance in, we're one so inclined. I whispered to Jerry.

All right, before we get started, I want to make sure we're on the same page. We don't know what to expect, and we're not supposed to be here. I think we need to tread lightly. Like a slug and a salt mine. Got it. I almost believed him, until he smacked me in the chest and exclaimed, Hey, they got booze, my favorite liquid. With that, he went straight for the pocket doors, and I tailed as best as I could.

Leaving the great hall for the parlor felt like stepping into a different world. Judging by the decor, this was either a lady's parlor or the room where they put children when they got too excited. The furniture, standing in stark contrast to the deep mahogany of the previous room, was pink and pastel. The ceiling was painted with a mural of clouds and terrifying cherubs. Every flat surface contained arrangements of dead. or dying flower bouquets. It looked like it had been decorated by an alien with no concept of humanity who researched women on Wikipedia for ten minutes before getting to work.

Jerry crossed the parlor to the spirits table below the life-sized painting of a nude Venus. I took note of the other visitors. Everyone here was dressed to fit the time period. Whatever that was supposed to be. The women had their hair and updoes and wore voluminous skirts to exaggerate their proportions. The men were all in bespoke tuxedo suits. Honestly, male fashion hasn't changed that much in the last few centuries. A dark-haired boy of about 13 or 14 surveyed the bar from a safe distance,

while a middle-aged woman with short gray hair kept a watchful eye on him. A couple, man and woman, sit in the corner of the parlor, making silly faces and taking selfies with a table statue of a baby with wings and horns. I made a mental note to avoid them for as long as possible, lest I be recruited to take photos. The girl was also there, the one with black ringlets and piercing blue eyes. She briefly looked our way when we first entered, then quickly pretended she hadn't. At her side was another woman, taller, probably a year or two older than me.

They looked remarkably similar, though the older one's hair wasn't quite as dark. Her eyes not as blue, her skin not as pale. Like they were made from the same ingredients, but different recipes. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume they were siblings. The older sister was the most anachronistic part of the evening, with black lipstick, a butterfly tattoo on her exposed collarbone, and a smartwatch cuffed around her wrist. When she noticed this, she immediately gave me the universal,

What the fuck are you looking at? Glare. Without asking, Jerry put a glass in my hand, then set to work pouring and mixing another. I brought the cup to my nose and took a whiff of something that smelled like jet fuel. So, what's our cover story? How about this? I'll be a fireman scientist.

and you can be an astronaut detective. Oh, or you can be a sexy fireman detective, and I'll be the guy who invented Juggings. I assumed we'd tell the truth, more or less. Leave out certain details, of course. Oh, man. Honesty's so boring, though. Haven't you ever wanted to be someone else for a night? I wasn't exactly sure how to answer, but I didn't get the chance.

Good evening, gentlemen. We both jumped. somehow Maggie was there, standing directly behind us. Unless she teleported into place, I have no idea how she managed to sneak up on us yet again. Oh, cheesy cross, lady! Jerry exclaimed, clutching his chest. Someone should put a bell around your neck. She showed no reaction other than launching into another deadpan monologue.

I trust you are paying close attention. The social hour is the most important part of the evening's experience. This is your best chance for first important. Clus essential to solving the mystery of bedside manner may only appear once. You would both be wise to cooperate with your fellow investigators. Furthermore, I have it on good authority that not everyone here tonight is exactly who they claim to be. She cracked an unnatural smile. Besides yourselves, of course.

Just as suddenly as she appeared, she slinked silently away. presumably to share the same message with the other participants. Once we were alone again, I asked, what do you make of that? I don't know. But then again, I haven't really been following the narrative here. What exactly is the mystery of bedside manner? I think maybe that's what we're supposed to find out?

Like, maybe the mystery is what is the mystery? A little too meta for my taste. Jerry slimmed his entire drink in one go, handed me the empty glass, burped. And took the full one out of my other hand. Maybe the murder is supposed to happen before dinner. That's why she wanted us here, so that we're all suspects. Well, that's silly.

How are we supposed to be investigating the murder before it happens? The call to action isn't supposed to precede the inciting incident. This story frames all out of whack. Or, maybe not. Maybe I just haven't been paying attention. Honestly, real life's gotten so strange lately that it's made fiction of it. obsolete. Jerry sipped his drink, smacked his lips, and said, I stand corrected. That's a little too meta for my taste. I waved at the room with my empty

glass. You don't find any of this weird or suspicious? Everything is weird and suspicious. That's what makes it fun. Look, I know you're nervous. I know you're used to situations getting out of hand real fast, but we're on vacation. All of that is behind us. Let's just go mingle with the nerds who actually paid for the murder mystery package, pretend we're normal 1800s aristocracy or whatever, eat the rich people food and drink the rich people booze and have a good time. If shit hits the fan, take our free suits and duck out. Damn. He didn't realize it, but Jerry just slipped up and showed his hand. This trip may have ostensibly been about my own mental health, but he was right. We were on

vacation here. I spent so much time on high alert waiting for the next shoe to drop that I completely overlooked the fact that Jerry had experienced his own fair share of tragedy. When our friends died, when I would believe what really happened, when we had to swallow the official cover-up, he was right there with me every step of the way. Maybe I was being a little selfish, overreacting to a few ominous coincidences. Maybe Jerry had the right idea. After all, what could we panicking do all the way out here? Or nobody could help us or even hear a scream. Okay, I'll try and dial back the paranoia a couple notches.

But can you please promise me one thing? Sure, anything. What is it? Don't leave me alone tonight, okay? Okay, I promise. Hello, gentlemen, greeted the man as he approached. He was one half of the selfie couple, tall, well-built, with some light scruff around his smile.

His blonde hair was combed back into a sort of mullet style that surprisingly didn't not work for him. He offered his hand, the one that wasn't holding an empty glass, and introduced himself. Tobias Kincaid. I shook his hand. Jack, but that's my real name. I don't know if we're supposed to be in character for this part, or...

Tobias is my real name. Blame my parents. Jerry took his hand next and Kurtz's. Oh, Jeremiah Cumberbatch, oil prospect, and saloon salesman at your service. Tobias gave him a friendly laugh. You know, I've never actually done one of these things before. I'm not exactly sure of the etiquette. All I know is that I'm glad there's an open bar.

He spoke with the air of confidence of a politician at a fundraiser. The kind of cool guy is saying for it that I could only dream about. His other half, a slim woman with long red hair and green eyes, came up behind Tobias, put an arm around his waist, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Who are your new friends? She asked in a voice that contained a faint accent I couldn't place. Gentlemen, this is my wife, Bridget. She flashed us a perfect supermodel smile and a canned.

How do you do? Bridget, meet Jack and Jeremiah. Jerry launched into a greeting with a strange accent of his own. Well, met, my lady. If it doth pleaseeth the court, call me Jerry. My joke, tis a lovely party, isn't it? I attempted to nip this in the bud before he gave everyone a tension headache. Jerry, you don't have to do the old-timey voice. Nobody else is doing it.

Doesn't I? He gets, governor. Now you're just doing cockney. Bridget laughed politely and said to her husband. It looks like you may have finally found someone to indulge in your vice alongside you. Jerry was quick to respond. I don't know what you guys are talking about, but consider me. very interested.

Tobias poured himself a glass of scotch, took a sip and said, As fortune would have it, our suite came with a complimentary box of Monte Cristo number threes. Rarely does life afford us a rainstorm, fine scotch, good company,

and quality cigars all at the same time. It would be a pity to waste such an opportunity. Can I tempt either of you to join me for a smoke? I would love to, but as misfortune would have it, I recently quit smoking tobacco. Oh, you traded your addiction for chewing tobacco.

Seems like a lateral move. I answered for him. You picked up the emphasis on the wrong word there. I see, said Tobias with a nod. How unfortunate. Jerry squinted and asked. You're not a cop, are you, Tobias? Tobias and Bridget shared a hearty laugh.

Man, this couple really liked laughing. No, no, nothing like that. Just a boring old research consultant. Jerry turned to Bridgett. What about you? No, just a boring old housewife. Well, gentlemen, Tobias said, holding up his glass. Here's a toast.

To new friends. The four of us clinked our glasses. Jerry and Tobias drank while Bridget and I watched. Shortly after, the couple excused themselves. Jerry stared hard as they walked away. Man, those two are out of the same. Absolutely freaking gorgeous. They were also lying, I said.

I couldn't explain how or why, but I knew they were hiding something. Jerry didn't seem to hear me. It sucks that the beautiful ones are always taken. You know, the concept of monogamy was created and perpetuated by the ruling class as a means of societal control. I'm sure he was saying something he thought was deep and or philosophical, but thankfully fate sent as an interruption. As Bridget went to speak with a woman with the short hair, Tobias branched off towards a great hall. The young boy, the one who had been wall flowering under his mother's gaze, took the opportunity to slip away, bumping it to Tobias in the process. It was quick,

but not quick enough to escape or notice. The kid just lifted Tobias' wall like a pro. Jerry took a step forward. Wait, what happened to salt in a slug mine? We don't want to cause a scene here. It's cold, dude, I'll be subtle as fuck. I had absolutely no desire to see what subtle as fuck looked like in practice. As soon as you marched in, I fell back and looked for a shadow to fade into until the whole thing blew over. Maybe we'll get lucky, I thought. Maybe Jerry will say or do something just embarrassing enough that we can use it as an excuse to leave the party early. But not embarrassing enough to get us kicked out into the rain.

In front of me, I saw the bookshelf. That's when I realized I don't know it. again. I'd zoned out. I'd lost time. I had to face facts. It was starting to become a pattern. My doctor was so optimistic that we'd finally nail down the perfect prescription cocktail to keep my brain on track. I pulled out my phone to assess the damage, quarter after six. Nothing too bad, just a few minutes. Surely I couldn't have gotten into too much trouble in this little time. I let myself relax, look back at the parlor, and tried to retrace my steps.

I must have come out here to get away from all the people. I turned back to the shelf of books and noticed one right away, the one with the faded cover. The same book the girl with the blue eyes had been reading. I pulled it out, flipped it open to the first page, and read the title. The Mansion of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft. Strange, I thought. I never heard of this one before, and I was certain I'd already read everything Lovecraft had written. Something scurried between my feet.

I looked down, but it was gone and nowhere to be seen. Don't you stand there. Come on over and set a spell. That voice came from the older gentleman with a walrus mustache. You see it in the leather armchair by the fireplace smiling in my direction. I looked around, hoping he may have been referring to someone else. But there was only me in proximity. Sorry? Don't be afraid.

He laughed. The flames dancing and the reflection of his sunglasses gave the impression of a fiery-eyed demon. He showed teeth, then added, I don't bite. With some hesitation, I put the book back where it belonged, walked over, and took the armchair opposite his. This was inevitably going to be an awkward conversation. I've always found small talk to be like running through wet sand. Exhausting, and in most cases, completely unnecessary.

Hi. That sure is a nice fire, huh? He smiled in silence, giving me nothing to work with. My name's Jack. Nathaniel Pennyworth Chamonbury, the third. At your service. I knew you were there. I could hear you walking over. Tell me, is there something of interest on that side of the room? With the ivory cane he'd been resting in his lap, he pointed at the bookcase. That was the moment I realized the man's sunglasses weren't strictly a stylistic accessory. Mr. Chimondalay, it seemed, was blind. Just a bunch of books, nothing you'd be interested in.

I regretted the words as soon as I heard them come out of my mouth. Oh, I see. Nathaniel Pennyworth Chimondelay III said with a hearty chuckle. And what about over there? He pointed back towards a parlor. Is there anything in that direction worth experiencing? Go help a poor man out, will you? Describe what I'm missing.

Well, there's a bunch of people. People? Oh, how exciting. Young people are just more old folks like me. Well, there's Maggie Bedside, who I assume you've met. He granted an affirmation. Then there's also a mother here with her son. of about 13 or so.

There's this married couple, wife's redhead, the husband looks like McGiver. Not that you would know what McGiver looks. Never mind. There's also my idiot, genius roommate, Jerry, and two sisters close to my age. Wow. And not

one of those people strike you as more worthy of your attention than that shelf of books? Well, it's true what they say. Youth is wasted on the young. I wasn't expecting a soft lecture tonight. I squirmed in my seat and took a stab

at defending myself. Though I resented the fact that I would even have to. I've never been good at socializing. Truth be told, I'd rather stand in a corner alone than engage in meaningless conversation with people I don't even know or care about. Again, I regretted the words a moment too late. I hadn't meant to be honest.

He furrowed his brow and I quickly backtracked. Which is to say, I never know how to talk to strangers. Ah, yes. Better. That was exactly the right amount of honesty. What does a polar bear way? Excuse me?

I ask you a question. What does a polar bear way? I searched my memory for context and did some quick math. I guess in the neighborhood of 450 pounds? He chuckled jovially. Enough to break the ice jack. What? Well, that's what you say when you want to start a conversation.

Now, why don't you go and try it out on the girl? Which one? The one's staring at you right now. I turned to see the girl with the blue eyes watching from across the parlor. This time, it was me who turned away first. How'd you know she was looking over here? Oh, some things are so obvious. You don't need eyes to see him.

He smiled suspiciously. Wait, no. No, no, no. That answer doesn't make any sense at all. Seriously, am I supposed to believe that you could hear her staring from the other room? Now, I'm going to need you to explain yourself. Anyway, that's what I wanted to say. When it said, I shook my head for no good reason and said,

Oh, okay. I hate to be a body. But could I trouble you for one more favor? Mr. Shimondalay III held out his empty glass. Sure, I said, standing up and taking his tumbler. Brandy, if you don't mind. I'll be right back. Frankly, I was happy to have a task.

Anything to get me out having to talk to strangers. Huh. The mother said suddenly, stepping into my path the moment I passed the pocket doors. My name is Hope. God, this is getting ridiculous. Did I die and go to hell? Is this my eternal punishment? Hey, hey, hey, hey.

Do you know how much a bear ways? I'm not sure. Two tons? Oh my god, that would be horrible. Is that riddle part of the game? She looked almost as flustered as I felt. I'm sorry. I've never actually done one of these murder mystery parties before.

She reached out and put her hand on my arm like we were somehow already acquainted enough to be on a touching basis. No, it was... Never mind. I took a half step back and let her hand fall off of me. What's up? I wanted to ask for your help. See, I'm here with my son, Wolfgang. He's a very bright boy, extremely talented.

But he isn't the most outgoing. He's had a hard time making friends back home. And I was thinking maybe this weekend would give him a chance to come out of his shell. She raised a glass to her lips and took large swallow. She was full of nervous energy like a squirrel in a dog park, constantly looking back to the corner of the room where the boy was now sitting by himself. I was still trying to think of a tactful way to tell her I wasn't a good fit for a babysitter when she started talking again.

That other gentleman you were with, is he your... She blinked several times before finishing the question. Brother? Yeah, something like that. She laughed like someone had just... I just made a joke. Lean forward to put her hand back on my arm and said... Oh, good.

I wanted to make sure. I want my boy to see normal adults that he can look up to. I can assure you, we are not normal. Hell, we're barely even adults. She laughed even harder and squeezed my arm. You're so funny. What did you say your name was? Jack?

Her eyes widened, then she dropped a nuclear bomb at my feet. Oh, Jack Townsend, right? I've been looking for you. I gripped the glass in my hand and prepared to use it as a weapon. This was an all-hands-on-down-deck-5 alarm freak all the way out emergency. I could feel it. Something bad was about to happen, and I needed to focus on not letting the panic attack swelling up in my chest overwhelm my senses. I swallowed the festering terror before I could breach the surface, put on a smile,

and said in the calmest voice I could muster, Ah, how did you know my last name? Evidently, my normal act was passable enough. She took another sip of her drink and explained, I have one of your bags in my room. Wolfgang and I were walking the grounds earlier. When we returned, it was there sitting by the bed. A backpack full of clothes.

I hope you don't mind that I went through it. I promise we were just looking for some kind of identification. There were some prescription bottles with the name, Jack Townsend. I assume the servants must have delivered one of the other guest luggets to our room by mistake. She covered her mouth and said, Oh, that's okay for a say, right? Servants?

I mean, that's what they are, after all. I never know what I'm allowed to say these days. Excuse me. I said as I rushed past her, scanning the room for Jerry. I had all the evidence I needed now. It wasn't just a feeling anymore. something wasn't right. I didn't know what or how or who or why,

but I knew that this was a situation, and we were much better off not in a situation. It was time for us to go, to duck out, to pull an Irish goodbye. But Jerry, like my sense of calm, was nowhere to be found. Where the hell did he go? I told him not to leave me alone. Maybe somebody already got him, and I'm next. I tried to shake the thought out of my head.

I needed to focus. He probably just went to get a good seat at the dinner table. Yeah, sure. That sounds like something Jerry would do. There was a doorway on the other side of the parlor that I assumed would lead to the dining room. I dropped Mr. Cholome... What was his name again? Fuck it.

Let's just call him Nathaniel from now on. I dropped Nathaniel's glass off next to the bouquet of half-dead flowers, went through the door, and immediately realized that it made a mistake. It was in a hallway now. At least, a hallway is the best word I could think of to describe it. The space didn't go anywhere specific, just a long, narrow, straight corridor as far as I could see. Something about the pattern of the lime green and purple wallpaper, an upward slope of the checkered floor created an optical illusion when I looked at it for too long, giving the impression

that the space went on forever, leading nowhere. It made me dizzy. This house was impossible. If Jerry went off on his own, there was no telling. Holy shit! The girl with the blue eyes. She was right here next to me with that same intense look on her face. Who was she?

A character? A guest? A ghost? Was she even real? What? You're not supposed to be here. She whispered. What, you mean in this hallway?

Is that even what this is? A hallway? She said it's slower. No, I mean you're not supposed to be here, Jack. Her face told me she was being deadly serious. Yeah, I know. Where do you think you go when you're not here? Amazingly, I understood her question.

She was referring to my episodes, The Lost Time, those moments when I lose my connection with my body. I've wondered the same thing. Where do I go when I'm not in my body? And more importantly, who's running the show? and I'm not here. I understood the question, and yet I couldn't understand how I understood her question. I couldn't understand how Claire knew to ask the question in the first place.

Do we know each other? Have we met before? Claire shook her head no. But this place is going to bring out the worst in you. She warned. I almost introduced myself, but then I remember how she already used my name. Then I realized that somehow. I already knew hers.

Claire and I must have talked earlier. How else did she know all these things about me? How did I know she'd lost both her parents in a terrible accident almost a year ago? That she hated the cold as much as I did. That she was scared even if she didn't let it show. They're watching us. They're studying every... An urgent voice called out from the parlor.

Claire? Claire, where are you? A moment later, the girl with a butterfly tattoo rushed through the doorway. She stopped when she saw us. Oh. She said, casting a distasteful look upon me. Is everything okay out here? I waited for Claire to answer, but she didn't say anything.

She didn't even acknowledge the other person in the hallway with us. Eventually, I cleared my throat and tried to diffuse the situation. Yeah, everything's fine. We were just talking. They were both staring at me now. The old one's eyes felt like daggers. I tried a different tactic. Do either of you guys? know how much a polar bear ways?

The girl with a butterfly tattoo grabbed Claire by the shoulders and turned her so they were facing one another. In a soft voice, she said. Claire, will you please go back to the party? I'll be right in there, okay? Claire didn't answer. Or at least, she didn't answer her.

She turned back to me and said, Follow the smoke. With that, she shuffled back into the parlor, leaving me alone with the older sister. Hi. Jack. Lauren. She had the aura of a shark who smelled blood. Nice to meet you, Lauren. No, it isn't.

Lauren crossed her arms. Are you a vegetarian, Jack? Um, no. Good. Before I could process what was happening, Lauren had already grabbed my shoulder, pulled me toward her, and put a cold knife against my cheek. Now listen here, you little shit.

If you bother my sister again, I swear to Christ, I'll cut off your dick and feed it to you. Understand? I thought carefully about my answer, eventually settling upon a non-threatening, Yes, ma'am. She held the weapon there for a tiny eternity before releasing her grip and lowering the blade. I stayed perfectly still as she stepped backwards.

She never looked away from me as she folded up the butterfly knife with a while-rehearsed flourish, slid it back into her glove, put a finger to her lips, and back through the doorway into the parlor. A second later, I remember to breathe. Okay, I thought. That was almost definitely not part of the game. The preceding story was written by Jack Townsend, author of the four-volume book series Tales from the Gas Station, now available on Amazon, Kindle, Audible,

and everywhere else books are sold. To learn more about Jack's work, visit his website at gas stationjack.com. Music, sound design, and dialogue editing for this series was provided by Steve Blizzin at black crow audio.com. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the online. authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.