Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep72: Episode 72: Canadian Horror Stories

Episode Date: March 10, 2022

We open tonight’s podcast with a collection of original stories by Manen Lyset, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and read with the author’s permission:  https://www.reddit.com/user/manen_lyset https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8jblkr/canadian_paranormal_encounters_panic_at_manic5/  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8jkzyz/canadian_paranormal_encounters_vision_in_the_rare/  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8jwfma/canadian_paranormal_encounters_the_spectres_of/  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8l9pt5/canadian_paranormal_encounters_last_ride_of_the/  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8ls3du/canadian_paranormal_encounters_the_man_with_the/ Next we have ‘The Saskatoon Frezing Deaths.’ Please drop by my collaborator Dr. Moxmo's channel and give him a listen:  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjykITYV4gfj05sVnEFxG5w https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/4v0sgz/the_saskatoon_freezing_deaths/ We round off proceedings with ‘Swallowing Dark Spirits at the Gin Mill.’ https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/9uzeqn/swallowing_dark_spirits_at_the_gin_mill/  BTW, this place is real!  https://twitter.com/GIN_MILL_GASTRO 

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.cai. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Margaret Adwood once said, the Canadians are fond of a good disaster, especially if it has ice, water or snow in it.

You thought the national flag was a leaf, didn't you? Look harder. It's where someone got axed in the snow. Something similar to what we might hear in tonight's collection of stories, all by the wonderfully talented man-only set. Later on, we have the Saskatoon freezing deaths, And we round up with swallowing dark spirits at the gin mill. But before that, we have a collection of five short stories coming under the umbrella of the Canadian paranormal encounters.

Now, as ever, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. Now, we all know everything on no sleep is true, but sometimes, it's hard to believe someone when there are a 15-year-old girl one week and suddenly a 45-year-old father of three in the next. That's why I wanted to do something different. Over the past couple of months, I've been putting out feelers to friends, family, colleagues, and even strangers to collect and share real paranormal encounters they've experienced here in Canada.

It's been a little tough going because I tend to be pretty shy out there in the real world. and it can be awkward to our strangers if they've ever seen a ghost, but I was really surprised by the positive reception and people's openness to discussing the topic. Turns out, if you ask around, almost everyone has had some sort of paranormal encounter or another they're willing to share. They're not all super interesting, though.

So, with their blessing, I'll be relaying their stories to you in this series entitled Canadian Paranormal Encounters. Okay, quick note. I typed up these accounts in the third person because, well, it felt weird to write in the first person, given they happened to other people. I know it's not the norm, but, well, makes more sense to me.

The first story comes from my mother's cousin, Jean-François, who worked at one of Quebec's largest hydroelectric dams back in the early 1970s. He was hired by he. He drew Quebec as an engineer, and his job mainly involved patrolling the Manic Five powerhouse, checking the valves, maintaining the turbines, making necessary repairs, that kind of stuff. He was never alone at the facility, but the workforce was fairly small, so he'd often go hours without seeing anyone else.

So, before I begin his story, I just want to put things into context. If you already know how hydroelectric dams work, feel free to skip this, but if you don't, here's the short version. Number one, a big old wall on a river, in this case the Manikugan River, to create an artificial lake. Two, build a powerhouse with turbines nearby downstream. Three, funnel water towards the top of the powerhouse, and use the awesome power of gravity and water pressure to spin the turbines, which generates electricity. Four, harness the almighty power of electricity. Five, dump the water back into the river at the bottom of the powerhouse. The cool thing is, if the river has a good enough flow and is long enough, you can build

multiple hydroelectric dams on it and keep juicing that same water for all its worth. Hence, the name of the powerhouse Jean-François worked at, Manic Farns. Manick for the river, and five for the dam number. Technically, due to circumstances I'm not going to get into here. Manic four was never built, so? Manic five is actually the fourth dam on the river, but that's not really important here. So, explanation over, on to the story. Manic five had only been running for a few months when Jean-Francois was hired,

and he drew Quebec was having trouble staffing the powerhouse. He figured it was due to the dam's remoteness. It was about three to four hours away from civilization, with only one lonely road to and from. The distance made it impractical to commute, so the staff would spend the entire week at the facility and swap out with a second crew every other week. On the phone, Jean-François recounted the first time he drove up to the dam. He described it as a massive concrete beermoth, peaking out from an ocean of trees. like the outer wall of a castle that didn't exist.

It had a weight to it that went way beyond that of its building blocks and the water it held back. He felt like it was watching him. The wall was the only thing between him and a flood of water that could wash him away forever. A guardian, a tombstone. The powerhouse was so close. If anything were to bring the damn wall down, he'd have just enough time. to know death was coming, but not enough to run. I guess you could liken it to living under a volcano.

He was paranoid the dam wouldn't hold. He inspected it every chance he got, searching for fissures and leaks, but never finding any. Intellectually, he knew it was built tough and wouldn't break, but he couldn't shake the nerves. It was like looking out over a ravine, and knowing there's only a guardrail between you, and certain death. How strong is that guardrail? Do you take it at face value that it had hold?

He barely slept his first week there, keeping his ears open for any sign of impending doom. But at first all he heard was the ceaseless drum of water rushing through the turbines. Then one night, as he was staring at the cold concrete ceiling in the makeshift dormitory, he heard a dripping noise. Any deviation from the norm naturally struck a chord of terror within him. It was kind of like bracing to feel the iceberg hit, and then hearing a light scraping along the hull. Where there's smoke, there's fire.

Already drenched in sweat, Jean-Francois got up to investigate. The powerhouse was full of crisp-crossing concrete corridors, making the source of the sound difficult to pinpoint. With nothing but a flashlight in his shaky, hands. He walked up and down, straining his ears to differentiate between echo and source. It was only once he'd reached the lowest floor, but the sound became loud enough for him to confirm he was headed in the right direction. He swept his flashlight left to right, until he caught something shimmering on the floor. As he approached, he realized it was a puddle coming from under a door

where they'd been planning on installing a security of this. Now, if it's not obvious enough, water inside a hydro dam full of electrical equipment. Yes, it's not a good thing. He scurried to the nearest supply cabinet and slipped into these really thick rubber boots for insulation. He returned to the door and found the puddle had grown. Not a good sign.

Unsure what he'd find inside, he cautiously opened the door, imagining a wave of water waiting to sweep him away. He found the room empty, but for a large puddle of water in the middle of the room, slowly spreading towards the corridor. This was a relief, because it meant it was likely just a leaky pipe and not, well, you know, a tidal wave of doom. So there he was, in the room, searching for the source. He checked the walls Nothing

He checked the ceiling Smooth as silk He crouched down and inspected the floor To see if it was bubbling up through a crack Nothing He felt a droplet Hit the top of his head Okay

He figured He'd probably roared out the ceiling too fast He backed away and aimed the flashlight up Squinting to find the source He heard a few drips But couldn't see movement or water clinging to the surface He looked back down to the puddle And saw a droplet splashing into it

This is the part of the story Where Jean-François's voice began to falter I could tell Even so many years later It still freaked him out There was this distinct uncertainty in his voice as though he was both afraid to say what had happened out of honest fear and out of fear of ridicule. Silence hung on the phone for a few moments, and then he continued.

He told me he panned the flashlight back up very slowly, and that's when he saw it. There was a droplet hanging in the middle of the air. It slowly curved inward in a jay-like shape, cooled, and then fell into the pit. hung. Jean-Francois swears it was as though it was following the curb of someone's cheek all the way down to their chin. He stood in stunned silence, as another droplet emerged out of thin air, somewhere between five and six feet in the air. Drip. Drip. He ran out of there so fast he almost lost one of his boots. He ran back to the dormitory and shook one of his colleagues awake. Exhausted, confused and more than a little grumpy. He reluctantly followed him back down,

not even ten minutes later. The puddle was gone. But in its place were wet, bare footprints walking all around the room, up the walls, on the ceiling, and finally, leaving out the door and disappearing halfway down the hall. Jean-François said he refused to go back to that section of the house after that night. But he heard others also found puddles leaking out from under that door. They ultimately built the security office in another location and converted the space into a storage room, but even that wasn't enough.

The room was later sealed off with concrete, under the guise that there was some sort of flaw in the foundation. But they say, even today, they sometimes find puddles under the now sealed wall. I heard this story from a librarian after a tour of the rare book collection at the Library of Parliament. This was actually what spawned the idea of writing about real Canadian paranormal encounters. But since it was kind of spur of the moment, I didn't have anything prepared and didn't take notes. So what I'm trying to say is, please forgive me if I can't remember a little inconsequential details like the exact exact same. floor number. I didn't take down the librarian's name either, so I can't follow up with her to

verify those details, but they don't affect the story, so I hope that's okay. What happened was the tour group and I were in one of the library sub-basements, maybe two or three floors down, where they keep the rare books. We were there maybe 30 minutes in all, and every 10 minutes or so, the lights would turn off, leaving only two emergency fluorescence open on either end of this really long room. The librarian said it was nothing to worry about. You just had to move a bit to trigger the motion sensor, so the lights would turn back on. It was some sort of combination energy saving measure, as well as to help protect photosensitive materials. No biggie. As I stood there in the dark, I remember thinking how eerie the broom looked.

with row upon row of old books and boxes and displays hidden under blackout drapes. You know that thrill you get when you sit around a campfire telling scary stories? That feeling was creeping up on me. That's why I lag behind once the tour group moved on and helped the librarian pull the blanket back over a display she'd unveiled for us. And then I blurted out the question that started this all. Got any ghost stories? I was expecting a laugh or a dismissive wave of the hand.

I was not expecting the apprehension on her face, or the way it looked like she was trying to swallow cement, as she gaged whether or not I was serious. I almost chickened out and rejoined my group because of the whole social awkwardness thing, but I've been trying to come out of my shell, so I've forced myself to mumble a half-baked explanation about being into horror and how old buildings usually have

stories to tell, or something like that. I forget my exact words, but whatever I said, it swayed her and got her to share something she'd experienced a few years prior. It was after hours, and she was alone in the rare book collection, working late to bank vacation time. The library had been doing a bit of reorganising, and she was hard at work sorting a box of books that had just been transferred in from storage. The rare books aren't actually organized in the same way a normal library would organize them. No Dewey Decimal System or anything like that. And most hadn't even been registered in their electronic system yet.

Yes, I can just feel you librarians reading this cringe. So, it was a really slow-going process. During the tour, she had mentioned it's not uncommon for them to find books they thought lost or destroyed. And come across books they didn't even know they don't. The room is organized like so, a long central aisle sectioned by support beams and large wooden glass displays for the most impressive rare books. Doors on the far ends of the room, motion sensors for the lights next to each door, and rows of compact bookshelves on either side of the central aisle. If you've never heard of compact shelving units, they're basically these big metal bookshelves on tracks. Instead of the typical shelf, gap, shelf gap, and so on and so forth, these bad boys are all squeezed together with only enough room for one gap at a time.

It almost doubles storage capacity, but the downside is, if you need to consult a book in a row without a gap, you have to move all the bookshelves between it and the current gap by manually turning these three-pronged hand-cranks on the side of each bookshelf, like you are opening a submarine. hatch. The librarian had been working in a row on the left side of the room when the lights automatically turned off. Since the motion sensors only pick up movement in the central aisle, she stretched her arm out and started waving blindly. When this didn't work, she stretched further, her torso now in the aisle. And that's when she caught movement from the corner of her eyes.

It was just really. a passing second, but she saw someone in old-timey clothing on the right side of the aisle walk by before they disappeared behind one of the support beams. The lights flickered on. Now, normally someone in old-timey clothing would have been extremely odd, and a sure sign it was time to get their hell out. But the Library of Parliament actually has a changing room one floor up from the rare books collection, full of costumes of old Prime Minister. their wives and other historical figures from a discontinued program where they'd walk around Parliament, acting out scenes for visitors. She figured a colleague was playing a prank on her, so she dashed around the support beam to try and scare them first.

The aisle was empty. She walked up the aisle and peered towards the bookshelves, but, like I said earlier, they're all squeezed together, and the gap on the set of bookshelves on the right side of the room, was on the very end, so there was nowhere for someone to hide. Convinced she'd imagined the person, she went back to work. After all, she figured if someone had truly been walking down the aisle, the lights would have turned back on immediately after turning off. She'd barely placed another book,

when she heard the grinding shriek of old metal coming from the right side of the room, the distinctive sound of a hand-crank being turned. It was accompanied by the slow scraping sound of a heavy bookshelf moving along its track. She slowly and nervously peered out, expecting to see her new colleague turning the crank, but instead found the aisle empty again and the noise silenced. Now she was getting thoroughly freaked out. She retreated back into her row of books and anxiously tried to get back to work. No sooner was she out of sight, however, than the noise picked up again. This time she inched her way very slowly out of the row and peeked out from behind the bookshelf.

The hand crank was moving. It was moving slowly, but it was moving. She couldn't understand what she was seen. Those hand cranks can't move on their own. It takes a bit of elbow grease to get them spinning. It's not something that, say, the wind can do. She stood there in shock for a moment, and then summoned the courage to take a closer look. With great trepidation, she crossed the aisle and walked to the shelving unit

just as it clicked against the other, forming a new gap. She heard a thunk. and peered into the row, only to find a book on the floor leaning against the wall. She described her mental state as being in a kind of haze at that point, like she couldn't wrap her head around what was happening, so she just did what seemed logical at the time. In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea,

but she walked into the row and picked up the book with the intention of putting it back in its place, before she could however she saw someone standing at the foot of the gap blocking her exit he was wearing old clothes just like she'd seen before but she couldn't recognise his face there was something about him that filled her with dread

and she only realised much later it was the fact that she couldn't see his lower body he stepped aside and disappeared for from sight, and suddenly she heard the squeal of the hand crank, and it was moving fast. The bookshelf began sliding towards her rapidly. She screamed, dropped the book, and ran out just as the shelves were starting to squeeze against her. The aisle was empty.

No sign of the crank turning phantom. Suddenly, a hand crank on the left side of the room started spinning wildly, closed. closing the gap on the row she'd been working on earlier and crushing the box of books she'd left inside. She booked it out of there like a bat out of hell. Out the nearest exit, up the first of the flights of stairs. She heard footsteps behind her, but she didn't look back, up, up, and finally she was on the main floor, where the night janitor was mopping. She tried to explain why she looks so scared. But he checked downstairs and said there was nothing amiss. She says she's never seen anything since then and never goes down there after hours, but sometimes.

When she's at the door to the rare book collection, she'll hear the sound of the hand-crank turning, even though the room is empty. I was out to lunch with my colleagues the other day, and I asked them if they'd ever experienced anything paranormal. When they asked why I was asking, I started to explain my project, but you know how conversations with the larger groups of people go?

Tangents come in like tides and drag topics away to a watery grave. Someone said something about writing back in college, and then someone else made a joke about construction and, splash, there goes my Sandcastle. As we were walking back to the office,

Dan crept up. up behind me. Boo! He was cheerful, as he always is. He gestured to come closer, so I got on my tippy toes to bridge the distance. In a whisper, he proceeded to tell me he had a story

for my little project. It's a creepy one, he said, but you can't tell a soul. Kind of defeats the purpose, I replied. He laughed and said I could share it. just not with anyone at work. He is hoping none of our colleagues go on Reddit. Well, no one's going to believe you anyways, he said.

We just reached the office by that point, and we were running a little late, so he told me to come get him during break time. A few hours later, we were sitting by the fountain in the atrium, and he was telling me this story. Dan had been out with friends one evening in Ottawa about a month. ago. He was, admittedly, a little tipsy when this happened, but nowhere near blackout drunk. He was a couple of beers in when one guy suggested they migrate to a pub a couple of streets down, where they made better wings. Being a wing connoisseur himself, he enthusiastically approved of the

change in venue. The group paid their bill and staggered out the door. They were at the intersection of Sparks and Metcalfe, headed down Sparks towards Bank streets, I've personally walked that stretch of road a million times, and I can tell you from experience, it's only a five-minute walk. Well, eight, if you're a little drunk, ten if you're really drunk, and have a limp. Between points A and B, there's just one other intersection, and that's Sparks and O'Connor. Point being, it's a very short, very easy distance to transverse, sober or otherwise. Plus, since Sparks is a shopping street close to anything but foot traffic, it's also.

pretty safe. Dan was lagging behind as the group arrived at the intersection of Sparks and O'Connor. He said he never actually saw the street sign, but there really was no other intersection it could have been. Like I said, there's just one street between Metcalf and Bank, and that's O'Connor. His buds crossed the street just as the pedestrian light flashed red, and he got stuck on the other side. He wanted to run over, but there was a car roaring its side. engine impatiently, so he waited and pulled out his phone, sending his friends, and I quote here, dank memes, you know, so they wouldn't miss him during his short absence from the group. In the corner of his eyes, he noticed the white flash of the crosswalk signal activating and

sprinted across the street while fumbling to turn off his data plan. When he finally looked up, now on the other side of the intersection, he was stunned to find his friends weren't there waiting for him. Thinking they'd gone ahead, he peered farther down the street to find them, and instantly felt his stomach drop. The whole stretch of Spark Street was completely empty, not just devoid of his friends, but also of any other pass-a-by one would normally find meandering around at that hour. His stomach's second bottom, a secret trap-door bottom only he knew about, gave out, as he realised, he couldn't recognise any of the buildings either. Some buildings were larger, some shorter, some wider, some narrower.

Where there had been a patio with chairs earlier that very same day, there was now a large man-made hole and digging equipment. Instead of the Tim Hortons where he got his coffee in the morning, there was now an abandoned-looking store taking up the place of two Tim, Tim. Hortons. The gym was no longer a gym. It was an empty space obscured by scaffolding. None of the streetlights were on. All of the businesses look vacant. Less closed for the night vacant, more abandoned for 20 years vacant. At first he thought it was construction rearing its ugly head again. They're building a light rail transit system in the area right now, so it's not uncommon to come to work one morning to find your street block.

locked off for construction, then go home that evening and find a big hole at another intersection. Construction explained the change in scenery, but not his missing friends. He looked around for any sign of them, listened for any drunken laugh, but got nothing. He poured out his phone to text them, but he somehow lost his signal in the middle of downtown Ottawa, where even the crappiest service providers reached. What else could he do, but keep him? Keep walking, hope to rejoin them on Bank Street. It was just one block.

Just one block away. He quickened his pace, but as he did, more buildings came into view, replacing the ones he'd passed. There were far too many buildings for the small stretch of road he was on. Long passed where Bank Street should have been. There were bistros, gift shops, restaurants, none of which he recognised, and all of which were empty and abandoned. Some of the signs had fallen off. Some of the awnings were torn in, too,

and some of the doors were wide open and hanging off their hinges. He glanced behind it, and he could only see more buildings stretching out into an infinite void. Confused, he stopped and asked himself the questions you'd expect someone in his situation to ask. How much did I have to drink? Is this a dream? did someone spike my drink?

As he pondered these things, he noticed something in the window of the nearest storefront. From the look of the empty and crack displays, it seemed it had once been a jewelry store, though there wasn't even the smallest trinket left. Square in the middle of its large, store-wide window was a figure standing in the darkness, black eyes shining like a cat's in the night.

Dan felt the cold grip of fear wrapping around his throat as he tried to avert his gaze, but found himself incapable breaking his stare. It was only when the hairs at the back of his neck started to prickle from an increasing fear, something was standing behind him that he managed to turn away. When he saw the dozens of silhouettes staring back at him from the storefronts on the other side of the street, he wished he hadn't turned at all. They were everywhere, behind every window, standing at every door, sitting on every rooftop, indistinct and uniform, melting into one another's shadows, except for those big black eyes,

locked on him and him alone. Dan sprinted down Spark Street, trying to get away from the spectres, but with every step, they seemed to get closer. No longer content with the just standing. standing behind the windows. They began appearing on terraces, benches next to statues. They'd moved without movement, like animations in a flipbook with batches of missing pages between the actions. The street went on and on. The figures coming closer and closer until he could feel a breath at the back of his neck. Panting breathlessly, Dan closed his eyes, swallowed hard and ran blindly. the honk of a car horn made his eyes shoot open.

He stopped so abruptly he nearly gave himself whiplash. The car drove by, momentarily illuminating the street signs. Bank Street, Spark Street. He turned around, and there was the Tim Horton's, the gym, the usual stores were their normal wares in the windows, and more importantly, his friends. What the hell meant? How'd you get that?

I thought you were behind us, one of them said. They all are pretty confused. He tried to explain what happened, but they were a little too drunk and way too loud to listen. So he just followed them to the pub and ate his wings in peace. Here's the thing. I couldn't tell if Dan was being serious or not. He had this big old grin on his face the whole time,

like he always does. But I admit, He was a little more strained than usual. I don't know if what he said is even possible. I think about it every time I need to walk down that part of Spark Street. I usually wind up going one block farther down to avoid it now, just in case. Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick.

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If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2,600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. Bed-MGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. This story comes straight from a friend of a friend of mine, which are words that normally sways one's legitimate straight into the big red and bullshit section. but I asked that you pull that arrow back. I did my homework and, suffice to say, there's a reason I split this story into two parts,

both shared here. This tale started with a friend of a friend, but there was also another witness to the events, and I tracked that person down to corroborate what happened. In doing so, I got more than I bargained for. We're headed west for this one, all the way to Alberta, to hear about the last ride of the night.

According to the internet's, West Edmonton Mall is the largest mall in all of North America. It's so large, in fact, that it has a whole goddamn amusement park in it. That amusement park is known for three things. Being awesome, being awesome for being inside a mall, and an accident in 1986 that led to a bunch of people biting the bullet

after a rollercoaster car derailed and smashed into a concrete post. Yep, that went dark quick. Right, my friend's friend, Alex, was at the mall earlier this year when he heard the amusement park figuratively calling to him. It was getting late, most stores were prepping for closing, but since there were pretty much no lines at the amusement park, he figured he had enough time to go on a few rides. He bought tickets and got on every single attraction without delay

Except for the time it took for the current ride to end And there few passengers to disembark There came a call on the speakers announcing it was time for the final rides of the night A few of the smaller attractions were already blacked out And their operators busy sweeping Alex checked his tickets and saw he had just enough to get on the mind bender a medium-sized roller coaster that took up an entire section near the back of the park. He hurried there and arrived just as one of the employees was about to chain the entrance to the waiting line.

Wait! He yelled. The employee looked sour. He figured it was kind of like getting to a store a minute before closing. Technically, she couldn't turn him away, but she was just satisfied in feeling a bit bitter about letting him through. He handed her the tickets, and she closed the gate behind him, before moving on to her cleaning duties. Alex ran through the line to join up with the group, getting on the last ride of the night.

But as he arrived, he found he was alone. The ride operator looked at him nervously, and mumbled something about the ride being closed. Alex replied that he'd been let through, and what the operator said in response threw him for a loop. You don't want to get on the last ride of the night. Not alone. He didn't want to be rude, but he'd already spent his tickets, and God damn it, he was getting on that roller coaster. He insisted.

The operator insisted right back. Alex was getting a little heated by that point. What was the operator trying to achieve? If he wanted to go home, it'd be quicker to let him on. Finally, the operator relented. and opened the metal gates to let him on. Alex sat at the very front. Despite the operator warning him, it was safer at the back.

He rolled his eyes and thought to himself, Man, what's this guy's problem? Alex sensed something was wrong almost as soon as the coaster began to inch its way up the steep incline. With every click of the gears, he felt his scarf tightening around his neck and came to the horrifying conclusion it had somehow been dragging as he got on

and must have caught in the rails. He saw visions of himself getting beheaded, final destination style, but as he shut his hand up to try and remove his scarf, he remembered he put it in his bag earlier. There was nothing around his neck, yet he could feel an ever tightening pressure around it. The cart stopped abruptly at the very top of the incline

and then sped down so fast it knocked the wind out of him. He tried hard to catch his breath as the coaster spun around the bend, but it was like trying to suck air through a straw. His head was aching, his throat burning, and the cart was fast approaching a loop to loop. As he descended, the corners of his vision started to blacken. Alex can't remember what happened after that. The next thing he knew, he was taking in a deep intake of air like the first gasp after a dive

and could feel firm hands clasped on his shoulders. He opened his eyes and found the ride operator standing over him while he was slouched in his seat like a drunken grandpa in his armchair. He was dizzy, confused, and his head felt like it was about to split open. The operator was very kind and patient with him, helping him to his armchair. his feet and asking if he was all right. Words felt like cotton balls lodged in his throat. They melded together and came out in incomprehensive mumbles. The operator escorted him towards the ride exit, passing by the booth with the ride photos. What the hell is that?

Was all Alex could muster when he saw his photo. Any other words came out jumbled. What? The hell is that? The operator leapt over the counter, shut the monitors, and then ushered Alex out without another word on either of their parts. Alex stood at the entrance of the dim mall, at storefront after storefront pulled down their metal grates and locked up for the night. The words, what the hell is that, played out in his head as he tried to make sense of what he'd seen on those monitors. The after-imagined of his photo felt like a blow to the head. He was on the ride, unconscious, but not alone. Something, some sort of pale form with pure white eyes, was standing in the seat behind him,

hands tight around his neck when he got home that night and looked in the mirror. He found the distinct marks of fingerprints around his lap. throat. And that was Alex's side of the story. And on the phone, he sounded convinced that's how it really went down. I, however, felt the need to do a bit of extra digging. It's not that I didn't believe he believed what he was saying, it's that his account came following a sudden loss of consciousness, which slightly dampers the reliability of his statements. I've passed out twice in my life and both times it was immediately preceded and followed by this weird dreamlike state. So, while I don't discount his account, I wanted to do my due diligence and see if anyone else

could back it up. Did he imagine the phantom in his photo and tightening around his throat? I wanted to hear from the other witness, the operator who'd warned him not to get on the ride. He had to know something. Turns out the guy's name is Tyler and he was a lot harder to track down than I initially thought even though this happened only a few months ago most of the evening employees at the amusement park of students which means there's a pretty high turnover rate

not to mention the operators rotate rides so I was looking for a needle in a haystack that might not even be in that haystack anymore thankfully one of the employees I emailed Big shout out to Emily, by the way, was super helpful and offered to ask around for me. It took about a week, but she got me in touch with Tyler. And this is his side of the story. According to Tyler, who'd been working at the amusement park for a couple of years,

what Alex saw on his photo that evening was true. And it wasn't the first time something similar had happened. It's always the last. ride of the night, and only when a single rider was on. Thankfully, those conditions were met very infrequently, but the times they were met, he was told to keep quiet, escort the customer out and delete the evidence. The first time it happened, Tyler honestly thought it was a joke, you know, some sort of hazing ritual, or maybe a weird mystery customer test thing. Then he saw the very real marks on that victim's throat and immediately called the manager. After the victim had been

escorted out, he was told never to mention it again. It kept happening on his watch. To the point he got pretty good at handling the situation and started requesting that ride. Why Scar some 16-year-old kid working their first job when he could handle the pressure, he became close with one of the managers. and one night they went out for drinks. One thing led to another, and he found the guts to ask her about the ride. From the get-go, she made it clear he was never to tell anyone else about it,

and that she'd deny it if he did. He agreed, but, well, I guess he's gone back on that promise now, eh? Anyways, she explained that only two years after the 1986 accidents, late in 1988, some teenage, punk thought it'd be a fun idea to mess with a safety harness by putting his bag under his shirt, so when they snapped the harness in, he could remove the bag and have some slack. For the record, this was not on the same ride Alex had ridden on. It was one that didn't have a loop-de-loop, so while doing this was in no way a smart idea.

It wasn't, well, clearly suicidal or anything. Security cameras showed that when the ride took off, The kid pulled the backpack out and stood up in his car. You know those signs that say keep your legs and arms inside their vehicle at all times? They're there for a reason. There are all manners of gears, pillars and support beams all over roller coasters and if you stretch out too much, you could hit them. Now, imagine someone standing on the kind of ride designed to be sat in.

The teen was fine at first, but somewhere in the middle. middle of the ride, his head struck an overhead beam, and he fell unconscious in the car. This is where the incident from 1986 I mentioned at the very start comes into play. See, apparently one of the night managers saw what happened and immediately ran to the coaster's unloading platform. You'd think he would have wanted to help, that he could have called for an ambulance, but instead he told the ride operator to shut the gate, and keep a lookout. Another incident at the amusement park so soon after the first could have shut it down,

and they would have lost their jobs. They brought the unconscious kid out at the back into the break room, and just kind of waited for a bit. Thankfully, the kid regained consciousness not too long after, and they sent him packing with a big old lump to the noggin. They didn't think about it, until they saw on the news a few days later that that very same kid died of a blood clot in the brain.

They knew if they just called an ambulance, he would have been okay. Tyler says the ghostly figure is that kid's vengeful spirit, trying to get back at the manager and ride operator who let him die. So, guys, if you're ever in the West Edmonton Mall at night, and you want to go on the roller coaster, just make sure you're not alone on the last ride of the night I've got to say for some reason this next story really shook me

which is kind of odd given I was twice removed from the events what I mean by that is I didn't even hear about it from the source I heard about it from his widow I really hesitated on sharing this one with you guys since I couldn't interview the person it happened to but it was too creepy not to share it. So here it is. There's a man with a hat staring at me from the sidewalk.

Ashley, Jonathan's widow, remembered him speaking those exact words. It's not that they were so striking, or so outside the norm that she committed them to memory, but he spoke them every time she saw him over the course of an entire week. That's just the streetlight, she'd reply patiently as she fluffed his pillows and gave him his meds. Streetlights don't wear hats.

It was a game, she figured. She didn't know what he expected from the exchange, but it had to have been some sort of game. He'd been diagnosed with dementia not even a year prior, after she started noticing little things, like him trying to eat using the wrong side of his fork. his condition had degenerated rapidly. She caught him cussing out a coat hanger once, and cowering in fear at the sight of their eldest son. She could usually, if not shake him from his delusions,

at least to calm him down. And when it came to the man with a hat, there was no emotion, no wild look in his eyes, just a flat statement of fact, as though he were testing her, or maybe himself. mistaken an object for something else was one thing but no amount of books and research could have prepared her for the day Jonathan changed his tune

the man with a hat is on the grass now she tried not to let her apprehension show on her face there was nothing in the yard that could have been mistaken for a man in a hat no streetlight no bus no fountain nothing she wasn't afraid of the idea of the man in the hat but of the fact that it was a sign his condition was deteriorating even further. At her age, it was tough to take care of herself and him, so when he said that, it reinforced her fear

she was going to have to place him into a care facility, and that meant she'd be left in that big house all alone. Ashley couldn't bring herself to do it. She wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as she could, so she just calmly told him there was no man with a hat in the yard and she continued to tell him this over and over and over again. The man with a hat is by the garden now, he said a few days later. She told him there was no man with a hat.

When the imaginary man moved from the garden to the foot of their back porch, Ashley stopped correcting Jonathan and simply pulled down the blind. He can't mistake anything for a man with a hat if he can't see outside, she figured. Ashley checked on Jonathan a few hours later, and his usual monotone comment about the man in the hat suddenly became laced with fear. The man with a hat is on the bottom step. He couldn't see outside. The blinds were still pulled, which was proof enough he was making it up.

As the day progressed, Jonathan became more and more distraught. The man with the hat is on the second step. The man with the hat is on the third step. When she wasn't in the room to hear him say it, he'd scream it at the top of his lungs until she came and acknowledged she'd heard him. One night, he woke up screaming that the man with the hat was at the window. She was shaken Not sure how to handle her husband

He kept repeating it over and over And over again like a broken record And with the hat is at the window At the window At the window at the window The man with the hat is at the window At the window at the window The fear in his cataract eyes was real

But the man in the hat Couldn't be She opened the blinds and showed him the empty window, but he insisted he could see him and that he was staring back in anger. She sat at his side, trying to soothe him until he fell asleep, and, come morning, she made an appointment with a nursing facility. The man with the hat is in the room, he told her, as she tried to spoon feed him breakfast. He hadn't been eating much, not since his imaginary friend had reached the backboard.

She didn't like to leave him alone, not in his condition, but they needed groceries, and none of their kids could come over to watch Jonathan. Ashley checked on him one last time before she left. He was trembling, eyes locked on the wall in front of him. The man with the hat is at the foot of my bed, he whispered in a stressed hush. She promised she'd be back soon and put the phone on his bed. side table. Her son, the smart one, had rigged it so that if she called, it would pick up automatically and go on speaker. Like a long-distance baby monitor, she explained. Ashley hadn't been gone for even half an hour when she got this terrible feeling at the pit

of her stomach, like something was wrong. She fumbled through her purse, trying to find her phone, and then called home. The call connected, but before she could even even say anything, she heard her husband screaming. The man with the hat is standing over me. His words were followed by a guttural, almost animalistic scream. The line cut abruptly, and when she tried to call back, she got a busy signal. She abandoned her shopping cart and drove back home, speeding the whole way there. Jonathan was already cold by the time she arrived. The paramedics soon whisked him away And the hospital pronounced him dead

Of a massive coronary heart attack Unrelated to his dementia Now Ashley doesn't believe the man with the hat was real per se She was quick to dismiss the idea of him being a ghost or a demon Or anything of the sort When I pressed her And asked her what she thought it was She looked out of the window

And went quiet from it You know how animals know when they're about to die? She asked, not giving me time to answer. My cats all found a warm space to die when their time came. Maybe they can see death coming. Their bodies

know its time and it makes them see something so they know to get ready. Maybe every living thing has their own version of a man in the hat. Most of us can't see it. Maybe that's what the Reaper is. not a monster, not an entity to come take you away,

but a vision, a sign we see on the highway of life, letting us know it's time to get off at the next exit. I stood outside of the gin-mill pub in Toronto, wondering if I was at the right place. It was dark inside and the door was locked. Had I come too early? Liam, an old colleague of mine, had asked to meet me there after he'd learned I was in town for business.

It was starting to get cold, and I was growing impatient. He'd said eight, haven't he? Well, it was half-past, and still no word. Just as I was about to leave, I spotted a chalkboard with the pub's logo in a little alcove next door. It listed the night specials with an arrow pointing to a black door I hadn't noticed earlier. Not that it wasn't there the whole time. It was just innocuous,

and my attention had been on the glass door of the glass door front. I tried the handle, and the door opened to a staircase leading to the second floor. I began climbing the steep, narrow steps, boxed in by concrete walls, which blanketed me in goosebumps. My ascent up the creaky steps was punctuated by the sound and sense of a cold breeze coming in from the slowly closing door below.

I helped but feel a little apprehensive as I neared the top. But I was pleasantly surprised when I turned the corner and saw the pub. It was warm, not just physically warm, but warm in its colour scheme and atmosphere. From a grey and black staircase, so the reds and browns and ochres of wood, bricks and stone hearth. The transition was like driving through a snowstorm in the dead of night, and then finding the comfort of a grandparent's home. Above the bar were hanging lamps that looked like old-timey streetlights, adding to the inviting ambience.

I was alone, except for the bartender, a tall young man with short brown hair standing behind the wooden bar. He greeted me with a nod, and then motion for me to sit as he finished wiping the counter, What can I get for you? he asked. I glanced at the menu, but I already knew what I wanted. There had been one name on the chalkboard downstairs that had caught my attention. A campfire special, I requested.

I didn't know what it was made of, but the name was alluring. The bartender nodded and turned on his heels, while I fiddled with my phone to see if Liam had messaged me back. no texts no calls no message wasn't like him to run late but i suppose he might have gotten caught in torontonian traffic i looked up briefly and saw the bartender manning a miniature blow-torch or whatever it is you call those instrument chefs used to make creme brulee he was roasting a marshmallow on a toothpick which he then delicately placed along the rim of what i think was a champagne fruit full of a dark liquid. He set it in front of me and I reached over to taste. As soon as the liquid touched my tongue, I felt a chill run down my spine. It might be more mysterious to say it was some sort of sixth sense, a warning for what was to come, but the chill was very literal. Someone had opened the door at the foot of the staircase and the cold night air had raced

against and beat the person to the top. I swished the liquid in my mouth, trying to identify its components. It was smooth, a bit bitter like a green apple, and thin. Gin, with a hint of lemon, maybe. I could only guess that the black hue came from activated charcoal. Well, whatever it was, it was delicious and perfectly balanced.

The creek in the steps drew closer, and closer, until the sound turned into footsteps on floorboards. I felt a shadow on me, and more out of instinct than necessity, I turned to look. Liam, he looked older than I remembered, older than the two years span that separated us from our last interaction. It was something in the way his eyes were sunken in, and how his smile lines had turned into deep gouges, as though they'd been drawn over repeatedly for emphasis, like striking out an item on a to-do list. His skin was dry and pale,

nothing like his normal oily complexion, and something else was off about him. It's hard to explain, but it was as though he were surrounded by his own light source, which stood in stark contrast to the light in the room. I don't mean he was glowing. He definitely wasn't, but the yellows and reds in the room seemed incapable of penetrating him.

Imagine watching a television show when seeing a black and white character suddenly appear on the screen, with no one acknowledging the difference between them and the world in colour. Or, I suppose in this day and age, the better comparison would be to imagine putting a Sienna filter over a group photo, but for the filter to have skipped one. person. Just one. Even though I wanted to question his appearance, I didn't ask him about it.

Instead, I complained. You're late. I'm late, he answered. I look down at my drink. If it were at all possible, I could have sworn the darkness had become even darker. The liquid had turned as black as the night sky outside the window, with swirls and of deep ebony stretching circles from the sides to the center, like a spiral galaxy. I poured the marshmallow from the toothpick and dropped it into the drink, hoping it would offset the darkness. Instead, it only added to it. My phone beeped from a text message, but before I could check it, Liam put a hand on my shoulder and sat down next to me. Thanks for coming. I shrugged. You looked like he could use a drink.

Allow me. I turned to the bartender, but he was gone. The counter stretched all the way to a brick partition, with a broad archway dividing the seating area from the back room, so I figured he snuck out on a supply run or something. No one in their right mind would leave a bar full of drinks alone with two strangers for too long. Little did I know.

The first I'd seen of him would be the last. I'd see of him, and yet, every once in a while, I'd glance at the counter and find a new drink waiting for me. Guess I'll have to wait for round two. I said, apologetically, before I sipped from my glass. The sweetness of the floating marshmallow had seeped into the drink, adding a new layer to the taste. It reminded me of burnt caramel coffee and its rich, creamy, almost woody flavour.

I could feel Liam's stare locked onto me. There was thirst in his eyes, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what kind. Have you ever watched someone die? Liam's question made me swallow down the wrong hole. I coughed. I can't say that I have. Liam leaned closer. Have you ever wondered what it feels like?

to die I finished my drink and as soon as I put the glass back on the counter my fingers brushed against another there were two drinks waiting for Liam and I and I might have caught those red flags if I wasn't so preoccupied

with Liam's bizarre line of questioning I try not to think about that did you know you can feel it happening Liam spun a finger around the rim of his glass. You can feel the moment the light fades from your eyes. It's like a veil falling. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear my phone ringing. Um, good to know, I answered, nervously reaching for my drink. I was no longer sipping from it anymore. I was a guzzling down mouthfuls. I got a

even explain why I was so scared. Liam's serious expression? His grave tone. The way the light refused to touch him. I didn't know. Something just felt wrong. Liam continued. It's cold, numb.

Your brain shuts down the pain receptors one by one. They go in sectors, like a city blacking out one block at a time. Death is the moment of panic when the light fades. That split second of worry, stretching out for an eternity. I started on my third drink, begging for the soothing effects to kick in. But instead of a nice buzz, I felt dizzy. A bit deep for me, man, I said, hoping I could shut down the strange conversation we were having. How's work?

and in the empty panic we seek out friendly faces that's what having one's life flash before their eyes is about searching through a mental registry for people we know are in the afterlife people we think will ease away the panic and fear

oh great I thought he wasn't letting up he went on we're told that in death we'll reunite our loved ones. He paused briefly, taking a sip of his own drink. I didn't see him swallow, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it was empty. In a way, we do. In many ways we don't. Everything, every one, becomes muddled together, not just humans. Everything that

lives eventually dies, and they all go to the same place. I thought I heard my phone again, but the sound was warped. It sounded far, far away, like it was in a completely different room and submerged underwater. In my peripheral vision, I could have sworn the night sky was reaching through the window with tiny tendrils, but every time I looked properly, all I saw was a normal sky with flakes of snow gently wafting towards the earth. Liam inhaled and exhaled. Could you tell your mother from a blade of grass? If your mother's salt was indistinguishable from grass,

and then think how much grass there is. Every single blade was alive once. They're all there. Could you find your mom if she was submerged in an ocean of grass, and the grass and she were just blackness? I sighed. Listen, Liam, you're kind of freaking me out. They're all muddled together.

Is this some sort of Halloween prank or something? Because it's not funny. No one stands out. It's all just the mess. A wriggling mass of chaos, fear, panic. Soon, there's no you and them. There's just. just the mass.

There's everything and nothing folded into one. I stood up, but I felt like I was walking on the legs of a newborn foe. I gotta go, I stuttered. You will understand soon, Liam said. The unnecessary inclusion of the word soon push my discomfort over the edge.

The pub didn't look quite so inviting anymore. The warmth from earlier had been tainted somehow by Liam, his desaturation bleeding into everything. The lights were bluer, the wood grayer, and the temperature colder. I had to get out of there. I could tell Liam was still talking to me, but I didn't listen to a word as I bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I think he was still going on about the mass and darkness and chaos, but, well, I don't know. I felt instantly safer as I passed through the threshold. The world became vibrant again, or as vibrant as a dark, snowy night can be.

I checked my phone and saw I had a text message, one missed call and one recorded message. The text was from Liam, and simply read, Sorry, almost there. I played the recorded message. Liam's voice greeted me apologetically. He sounded lively, completely different from the dead pantone of the Liam I'd just spoken to upstairs. I can tell you what it said verbatim, because, well, I've listened to it so many times I know it by heart. Sorry, on the 401.

Damn snow. Traffic's clearing up. Should be there soon. I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting. First round's on me, okay? His car roared as he accelerated, and it was at that moment that I saw the chalkboard by the gin mill's door.

Liam's continued apologies faded into background noise. The white, chalky words, closed, family emergency, made me stagger backwards onto the sidewalk. Conveniently placed lamp post keeping me from falling into the street. I was trying to process everything, only vaguely aware of the screech of tires

and the sound of buckling metal coming from my phone. There was groaning. There was low breathing. And then there was silence. I looked up at the second floor window. I saw the faintest of blue glows coming from inside, like an after image on a table. television screen. And in that light stood a dark, vaguely human-shaped mass, staring back down

at me, and the light blinked out of existence. Have you ever had the displeasure experiencing minus 40 degrees weather? That's Celsius and Fahrenheit, because minus 40 is the point where the two converge. It's a temperature so cold that it's impossible. It's impossible for snow to fall. If you've never felt it, allow me to explain what it's like. Your eyelashes turn white with frost. Now start collecting humidity from your breath, forming icicles that make each lash stick together. Every time you blink, it's a struggle to reopen your eyes. Even if you try not to blink, The air is so dry that you have to, otherwise your eyeballs start to hurt.

With each inhale, your nose hairs freeze and shoot needles of pain up your nasal canals. Your coat, no matter how thick or expensive, stiffens like a pair of jeans forgotten to dry at the bottom of the washer. You'll hear your clothes crackles. like a down comforter with every move you make. Any exposed skin starts to burn. Your extremities freeze, and no matter how much you rub your hands, your fingers go numb. You feel compelled to move around to try and warm up, but moving lets more cold air through the openings in your clothes. If you're lucky, moving will warm you up a bit.

But if you're not, you'll start feeling very hot. Too hot. A burning sensation will run up your spine and you'll start to sweat. This means you've reached your danger zone. The point where cold no longer feels cold and where you start shedding your clothes to avoid overheating. And that's how you're going to you're going to be. how you wind up dead.

No matter how thin your gloves, how little your coat seems to help. In minus 40 degree weather, they're essential. They're a barrier between you and the biting chill. They're the only things that can help keep you alive. So, why am I saying this? Well, I want to tell you about something that's been going on for decades in Saskatoon.

gruesome cases of human rights violations come to be known as the Saskatoon freezing deaths. Before I start my story, I wanted you to understand how truly horrible it must be for its victims. You see, offices in Saskatoon have a very very very important. Saskatoon have a very original way of dealing with drunken Native Americans. In the middle of winter, they've been known to arrest drunkards, drive them outside of town, stripped them down to their underwear, and tell them to walk it off. The police call this the Midnight Blue Tour. As you might expect, the victims die of hypothermia long before they can make it back home.

It's not known how many have died this way. A quick search of missing sisters, an unrelated issue where Aboriginal women have gone missing, assumed dead, will show you just how little the police and authorities care about the plight of Native Americans. Participants of the Midnight Blue Tour have allegedly been found frozen on the side of the road, and their deaths swept under the rug. However, from time to time, victims' bodies won't be found at all. Their footprints turn to drag marks leading to the forest.

But no blood or animal tracks are ever left to explain what was doing the dragging. The officers never investigate these cases further. You might be wondering where I fit into all of this. Well, my friend's uncle went, missing this winter. A few people came forward, saying they'd seen a cop throwing him into his squad car and driving off. But there are no records of him getting booked. Here in Saskatoon, we'd all heard the rumours of the Midnight Blue Tour,

but it was one of those things we never talked about. No one wanted to blab about the abuse of power, because we didn't want to be the next victims of it, you know? In any case, let me take you back to when Paul first knocked on my door with the news. That morning, I was getting ready to go to work when my friend Paul knocked on my door. As soon as I opened it, a wave of cold air came rushing over my bare feet. I was quick to let Paul in and close the door. My friend shuffled from foot to foot, rubbing his arms furiously to try and warm himself up.

I shuddered. Colder than my ex-wife's heart out there. I mumbled. What's up, man? Paul pointed to the kitchen. Coffee? I nodded. Oh, yeah.

Hold on. I'll go get a pot started. Paul kicked off his boots and shuffled to the living room. As I started the coffee machine, I could still feel the chill lingering in the air. The kitchen window was caked with so much frost that I couldn't even see outside. It was going to be one of those days. I hoped I'd managed to get my truck started. A few minutes later I found Paul covered all the way up to his nose in Nana's knitted blanket,

eagerly waiting for me to deliver the coffee. As much as he seemed to thirst for it, He barely let his hand escape the cover of the blanket to take the cup when I offered it. He pulled it under the blanket up to his mouth and drank a large sip. Jesus, Paul, you can't be that cold. Paul shivered. Car broke down a mile and a half back. Had to walk.

He said, still stuttering from the cold. I looked out of the window to my truck sitting alone in the parking lot. What the hell were you doing driving in this part of town at five in the morning anyway? He sipped his coffee, looking for my uncle. I got a call last night. He got picked up by the cops. I felt an instant sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The way he said it made it sound so much worse than what it should have been.

So you were going to bail him out? Paul looked me straight in the eyes. I knew what he was going to say. I knew what had happened to his uncle. He never made it to jail. Even though we were alone, even though we were in my house, I still found myself looking over my shoulder and lowering my voice to a whisper. These kinds of things were never discussed, ever.

ever. You think he took the midnight blue tour? Paul nodded. Yeah. He finished his coffee and held the mug out to me. I filled it, handed it back, and left the pot on the living room table. I had a feeling he'd eventually want a third serving. He continued.

Got a call an hour after they took him in. Thought maybe I could save him, but... He paused, eyebrows coming together. Too many roads in and out of town. I scratched my stubbly chin. Ah, shit. I whispered. My eyes wandered to the clock.

Paul's gaze followed. We both knew it would be too late now. Will you help me find his body? Ask Paul. I don't want to drag you in. of this, but like I said, my car. He trailed off. Yeah, of course. I answered. You warm up and I'll start the truck and call off work, all right? He nodded, but said nothing more. Soon after we were on the road with a thermos full of coffee and another full of warm soup. I was bundled uptight and then a

toddler going on his first snow-leud ride. And Paul had borrowed an extra scarf and hat. It was even worse outside than I thought. Even with the heat at maximum, I could still feel cold emanating from the windshield. I had to point the heating ducts right at the steering wheel to keep my fingers from freezing. Meanwhile, Paul held the thermos and stared off into the distance, a defeated look in his eyes. I couldn't blame him. We were on a minimum. We were on a to find the frozen remains of the man who practically raised him. All because a cop had a bit of a power trip and a burning hatred of Native Americans. You know which bar he was at?

I asked. Yarden flag him, he replied. Why? He'll probably be on that side of town then. I answered. He shook his head. I already checked all the roads. checked all the roads around there. I think he was dropped off farther away. I stopped the car

and reached into my glove compartment for a map. I had Paul mark off all the roads he checked already, and then we headed for the next one. We went up and down road after road, not finding a trace of his uncle. That is, until a few hours later. When we finally spotted a side of subtle breach in the wall of snow on a road on the opposite side of town. I slowed the truck to a stop, unbuckled, and jumped out to examine it. Paul followed behind. The cold January air sent an instant shiver down my spine. I suddenly understood why Paul had practically chugged the coffee earlier. Cold wasn't just a little nippy. It was downright assaulting. Even when you've grown up with the cold, there's really no way to prepare for minus 40 degrees.

I hugged myself as I inspected the three-foot-tall snowbank. There was an imprint the size of a human body. If that wasn't proof enough of his uncle's presence, then the bare footprints leading up to the indent sealed his fate. We'd found the right spot. Where'd he go? asked Paul, the hint of panic in his voice. Maybe someone picked him up already? Paul climbed the mound of snow and looked out towards the forest.

No, look. I followed him up the snowbank. It emitted crunching sounds beneath my feet, but didn't break. The cold had turned the usually soft and sticky snow into the conno. consistency of styrofo. I followed Paul's gaze and saw a path of fissured snow leading to the forest. This, I realized, meant Paul's uncle had been dragged into the woods, a prospect that pleased neither of us. Bear? I asked.

Paul shook his head. I could tell he'd already gone through all the scenarios in his head. bear, wolf, serial killer on a snowmobile. He squinted. There's only one set of tracks. Maybe he dragged himself to shelter. Maybe he saw a cabin. He looked at me with big brown hopeful eyes.

I didn't want to tell him it was impossible. I didn't want to point out that even if he was right and his uncle had gone into the woods. He'd surely died of exposure long before finding a cabin. That's not what friends do. Friends help friends. Even when it's minus 40 degrees out, and all you want to do is curl up in front of a fireplace and hibernate until winter's over.

Paul still had hope. So, we'd press on. Let's check it out then. I said. The snow on the other side of the embanky, was about two feet high, but thankfully it had been so condensed and hardened by the frigid air that I could easily walk over it without breaking through. Paul and I kept a few meters distance from one another to even out the distribution of weight over the terrain. We hurriedly

approached the edge of the woods, whereas uncle's tracks came to an abrupt stop, exactly on the limit between the small field of snow and the first row of trees. By all logic, if the track stopped, then we should have found his uncle. But his uncle was nowhere to be seen. What the hell? He should be right here. Where'd he go? Snow was probably too hard for the tracks. Come on, he can't be far, said Paul, stepping in into the woods. While it was true that the snow cracked less inside the wood and out, I still saw it fissuring every few steps.

There was no way Paul's uncle, a man twice my weight and two feet taller than me, could have managed to walk over it without breaking it. Paul, however, didn't seem to notice. He continued on, distancing himself from me to cover more ground. He caught out his uncle's name over and over, even as his voice became raspyer and weaker. By now, I was already regretting having left the thermos in the truck. Even with my winter gear, I could feel cold snaps nipping at the skin around my eyes, and easily infiltrating my clothes. My lashes, now bright white, were winning a battle to permanently

glue my eyes shut. I tried hard to breathe through my nose to avoid dampening my scarf, but found myself panting to try and keep up with Paul, and, inevitably, a blanket of moist frost settled over the portion of fabric covering my mouth. It melted whenever I exhaled, but froze again when I inhaled. The sometimes soggy, sometimes frosty material, rubbed against my lips, irritating my skin. Oh shit. What the fuck? Screamed Paul. What the fuck? I heard an ear-piercing shriek that cut through the cold, dry air like a blade. His scream was dizzying, nauseating even. It caught me so off guard that I momentarily froze. Still, I was able to look up just quickly enough to catch a silhouette running away.

Before I heard this sound of snow breaking under the pressure of Paul's fall, a short distance from the figure. I ran over to him and helped him back up. Did you see that? He asked, panicked. Yeah, there's someone here with us. I replied. Paul shook his head.

That wasn't a person. Those words would have sent a chill down my spine if I wasn't already so cold. What are you talking about? Man, it. It. He swatted snow off his pants. It wasn't human, man. I turned towards where I'd seen the silhouette.

Paul turned whiter than rice in a snowstorm. I know what I saw. we need to go back right fucking now I'm telling you man we need to get back to the truck but

I started now he screamed he grabbed my arm and yanked me so hard I thought I was about to lose a limb Paul had this look of deep primal fear in his eyes

I followed him out of the woods partially because I couldn't break out of his vice-like grip and partially because he genuinely seemed terrified, and that, in turn, freaked me out. He didn't speak, not until we were safely in the truck, with the doors locked and the engine on. What happened? I asked. Drive! I started down the road, not too fast, thinking he'd come to his senses and asked me to turn back for his uncle.

The fuck is wrong with you! Paul shivered. Paul shivered, and I had a feeling it wasn't from the cold. It looked like my uncle. He murmured. It? The thing we saw, he snapped back. Look, I don't know what you saw, but I just saw some guy, honestly.

I replied. It wasn't a man. He whispered. Paul. What the fuck? What fuck are you going on about? He didn't answer. No matter how much I pushed him,

he wouldn't tell me what he saw. So, I drove us back to my place and escorted him inside. It was only when he removed his hat and scarf, that I noticed a stream of blood that poured out of his ears. Jesus Christ, Paul! What the hell happened to you? Paul sat on the couch and pulled Nana's blanket up to his chin. You rocked back and forth, though I'm not sure if it was from the trauma or the cold.

It looked like my uncle. You said that already. I groaned as I turned up the heat. Paul's teeth clattered together. Again, it was a toss of the coin to know whether it was from the cold or from fear. It came up to me, man. This thing, it was floating, hovering over the ground. Didn't you see it?

I shook my head. I just saw a silhouette. That's all. It wasn't a person. I saw it up close. He said, shuddering. It had this weird cloak on that. He kind of...

I could see it moving. Not the fabric, just the pattern of it. Like a nice sky with clouds and stuff. It wasn't normal, and I could see his face. It looked just like my uncle, but it wasn't him. He pulled over his shoulder, and then back at me. He had no eyes, just empty sockets, like some kind of monster. And his skin, oh shit, it was all black.

like rotten skin black like some fucking intense frostbite shit in his mouth mother oh fuck his lips were purple and his teeth

they were sharp all of them when he screamed at me I saw all the way down his throat they were pointy and sharp all the way to the back I stood stood there in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

Wait, he? I started. It, he corrected. It? screamed. I thought that was you. He shook his head. I remembered the disorientation I felt when I heard the shriek. There was something off about it, but it hadn't even occurred to me that the sound hadn't come from Paul.

The scream felt like I was being stabbed right in the ears with ice. It was like brain freeze, but full body brain freeze. I was paralyzed, man. Fucking paralyzed. But then he looked me in the eyes and just kind of shot away, and I fell. I took a seat, unscrewing the lid of the thermos. I wasn't sure which one it was until I took a gulp, but I didn't care. Coffee or soup, the warmth was what I wanted.

But it seemed like, no matter how much I drank, I couldn't cast away the chill. It felt like the cold was coming from inside of me. Fear was what I was feeling, not the bummed. lighting minus 40 degree weather, because somehow, deep inside of me, I knew Paul was right. I hadn't seen the silhouette clearly, but when I thought about it, when I replayed the moment in my head, I didn't see any legs touched the ground. Paul's uncle's body was never found. I don't think either of us expected it to turn up.

And, as expected, the disappearance was swept under the rug. So, why am I only talking about this now? Why am I in the middle of this hot summer day sharing a story about the dead of winter? It's because something happened this morning, something that left me sweating. A knot from the heat. This morning, exactly six months to the day that Paul's uncle went on a midnight blue tour.

Officer Mackay was reported missing. Drag marks were found next to his bed. Broken fingernails were dug deep into his wooden floorboards, and ten bloody, scratchy streaks, one for each finger, were found leading all the way down the stairs and out of the door. They continued down his gravel parking lot, forming rake-like grooves, led through the grass, and made it all the way up to the edge of the forest. That's where Officer Mackay's tracks end.

There were no animal tracks left to explain what was doing the dragging. Mackay is one of five cops to have inexplicably gone missing in the past 40 years. A lot of people know about the horrible things that happen here in Saskatoon, but no one ever talks about them. Those police disappearances are just another thing we sweep under the rock, just like the midnight blue tours.

And so once again, we reach the end of ten. night's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.