Full Body Chills - I Keep Finding Bloody Knives

Episode Date: October 3, 2023

A story about a morning routine that’s cut short. Written by Ryan C. Major. You can read the original story and view the episode art at fullbodychillspodcast.com.Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuckBrought to you by FX's American Horror Stories. Four Episode Huluween Event Streaming October 26th. Only on Hulu.

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hi, listeners. I'm Margot Seibert, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story about a morning routine that's cut short. So, gather round and listen. Close. And listen close. There's no better way to describe me than as a creature of habit. My morning routine is near ritualized. Out of bed by 5.30, use the bathroom, quick shower, and then by 6.15 coffee is brewing.

I grab the newspaper off the porch, then breakfast. Two sunny side eggs, a single piece of toast, and half a grapefruit all on my plate as I flip through the news. Almost a decade strong, and nothing has ever derailed my morning routine. That is, until eight months ago, when I found the first blood-caked knife. I was enjoying the smell of coffee as I made my way to the front door and stepped outside. The day was unseasonably warm, and I remember lingering for a moment to breathe it in. Then, stooping down, I scooped up the news. But as I did, I heard a sound, like metal scraping on bricks, and when I lifted the paper out of the way, I saw it. Roughly five to six inches long, sitting on the top step, a knife covered in dry, flaking blood.

Immediately, panic set in. Who, why, and what do I do? Stacked my thoughts while even more worries piled on top. Had I touched the damn thing? What if my fingerprints or DNA were on it? I didn't think so, but round and round I went. Of course, I called the police, and within ten minutes of my frantic report,

three cruisers were parked in front of my tiny piece of suburbia. They combed my front yard and back, and later requested to search the inside as well. I agreed without hesitation, and as they marched all through my home, two other officers peppered me with questions. Do you have a security camera or alarm system? No. Does the weapon belong to you? No. Did you touch the weapon? I don't know. Maybe when I picked up the paper. Have you found any other unusual items on your

property? No. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against you or anyone who would like to hurt you for any reason? No. Have you seen anyone in the neighborhood lately that seemed out of place? Not that I can recall. The questions went on for over an hour, but after finding no other evidence to collect, the interviewing officers gave me a card and said they'd be in touch. I was instructed to call them if a similar incident or anything unusual occurred, and I assured them I would. The officers departed, and I attempted to get my daily routine back on track, but with little success. At work, I was so preoccupied by the newspaper knife conundrum that I ended up requesting the day off. I explained the situation to my boss, and they kindly agreed,

even telling me to take the next day off as well so I could come back fresh. I took up their offer, but rather than recuperating or trying to move on, I spent the next day and a half scouring the internet for stories of bloody knives left on porches. When I couldn't find anything locally, I expanded my search until I cleared every news outlet in the entire tri-state area. But still, no luck. I returned to work two days later defeated, but without problem. As best I could, I wrote off the bloody knife as an anomaly.

And while it still lingered near the front of my mind, I tried to stay focused on finally reviving my precious routine. But before I could settle in, my cell phone rang. Illuminated on screen was the investigator's number. Hello? When I answered the phone, the officer reintroduced himself. From his tone, I could tell this wasn't going to be your average checkup call. Sure enough, what he shared slammed my heart against my chest. The knife they recovered had tested positive for the presence of human blood. I had known that was a possibility, of course,

but being certain brought back that same sick sense of panic I felt the moment I found it. The officer asked if I would travel to the department and submit myself for DNA collection and some additional questioning. I agreed, and we ended the call. In short, the DNA collection and follow-up chat were uncomfortable at best. Now, I can't remember the whole conversation, but it was clear from the get-go that they were suspicious of me. For what, I could only guess, though a bloody knife says a lot on its own. As the questioning intensified, I felt certain I would be cornered into making some kind of false confession. But, to my relief, after two hours of non-stop hammering, they told me that I could leave. In a less than

friendly manner, the original investigator reminded me that they would be in touch. The next few weeks were rough. My weight dropped rapidly. I could hardly sleep at night. And my workplace performance had slipped to a point where my manager expressed concern. She was kind and understanding, but made it clear if I couldn't regain my focus, my position could be in jeopardy. She said I should take a two-week leave to get things back on track. This time, it wasn't a request. She said I should take a two-week leave to get things back on track. This time, it wasn't a request.

Only minutes after our meeting, my cell phone rang again. Hello? I answered and was met with the investigator's voice. He informed me that after a hurried DNA test, the blood on the knife matched no known victim that they could assess. I was confused, but more relieved than anything. In some way, it felt like a glimmer of hope. Like I could finally put this matter behind me as a simple, maybe innocent prank. That night, I fell asleep feeling more at ease than I had felt in weeks.

When my work leave ended, I returned with a new sense of stability. There were no more calls from the police and no more late nights worrying. Over the following month, my work returned to normal, my mental health was blessedly healing, and I felt like my reasonably optimistic self again. It had never occurred to me before how normal and satisfying my life had always been. This speed bump had made me grateful for all the little things I had going in my favor. And then I found the second knife. It had maybe been six or seven weeks since it all began, but just like before, I scooped up the morning paper, heard the horrible sound of metal on brick,

and felt my heart sink into that familiar pit. The new knife was a bit smaller, maybe four inches, but like the last one, it was covered in dry blood. Instinctively, I fished my cell phone out of my pocket, but my hand froze over 911. For longer than I'd like to admit, I considered just picking up the knife and throwing it in the garbage. The last time I suffered this ordeal, I kept only a thin grasp on my sanity. How could it possibly go any better this time? I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic bag with the intent to bag the knife and dispose of it. But I stopped myself. Tears began to well

up in my eyes, and I retrieved my phone again and dialed the police. This time I called the investigator directly. He picked up and through my sobs, I managed to explain what I'd found. It would be an exercise in redundancy to explain the second process as it was nearly identical to the first. There was the search, the questions, the DNA test, follow-up questions, and even the failure to find a DNA match. The only difference here were the undercover surveillance units placed on my street. Two nondescript sedans were parked at either end of my block with hidden cameras installed. This comforted me, as I felt perhaps they thought someone else

was doing this. As an extra precaution, I went to the local big box hardware store and purchased a home safety system with door alarms and cameras. With a hefty subscription fee, I opted to have all of the surveillance film archived via cloud access. I spent the remainder of the day installing the sensors and cameras, as well as adjusting the angles to cover all sides of my home. Pulling up the new security app on my phone, I was satisfied that no one could get on my property without being seen. This time, my life didn't fall into pieces. However, I was obsessive with the surveillance cameras. It became my new routine every night to watch the front door for at least 30 minutes before heading off to bed. But after two months

of no activity, no bloody knives, and no mysterious stranger, the two police vehicles on either end of my street were moved. Four days later, the third bloody knife appeared. Just like the others, it was tucked directly under the newspaper, but my newfound paranoia had altered my routine to grasping each end of the plastic bag and lifting it. No metal on brick this time, but there sat the knife. The blood was mostly dry, but there were a few spots that hadn't quite hardened into the rusted color I had become accustomed to.

It must have been used more recently. Without a second thought, I ran inside and logged onto the surveillance app. Scanning through the video, I tapped down the load bar to try and find when the knife had been planted. I continued tapping through the video, landing at 4.30 a.m. Suddenly, the screen went static. I hit the rewind button until a view of my porch came back and let it play. As the grainy nighttime video played, I could see that it was 4.18 a.m. Nothing was moving. There was no knife on the brick steps. I scoured my phone screen looking for something unusual when a sudden movement caught my eye. A man, or maybe a woman, emerged from between the

privacy hedges in my neighbor's yard. They walked slowly and smoothly across the street, traveled up my walkway, and stopped at the foot of my porch. I couldn't see their face as they were only staring at the steps, but the figure wore heavy work boots, carpenter pants, and a dark hooded sweatshirt. Yet even with the hoodie, I could tell they were almost skeleton thin. They stood frozen like a narrow tree. But after a few still moments, a gloved hand slid out of the sweatshirt and produced the knife. The figure kneeled and placed the blade gently beneath the newspaper and then lifted its head toward the camera. I couldn't see their entire face, but I could just barely make out a thin, wide smile.

It's hard for me to explain, but strangely, it was almost too wide, like the skin around the mouth was ready to tear. The figure stood up, maintaining eye contact with the camera, and blew a kiss in its direction. Then they turned and disappeared back into the hedges across the street. Pulse raising. I tried to rewind the tape and watch it again, but now it was nothing but static.

I kept rewinding further back, but all of the footage, everything, was gone. What? I called the app's tech support, and they reported that no footage from that date had even been uploaded. I had no evidence. This can't be happening. After a half hour of pacing, I still hadn't called the police.

The last time I did, I was almost pinned for murder. How could I be sure they wouldn't try it again? Everything about my story was just too convenient, too impossible to believe. I'd seen the damn video myself and even I had doubts. At least I'm pretty sure I saw it. I couldn't have imagined it, could I? I decided not to call the police. With a thundering heartbeat, I put on a pair of gloves, retrieved the knife from the front porch, and rolled it into the newspaper.

And then I carried it inside. If I wasn't going to dispose of the knife, and if I wasn't going to hand it over to the police, then my only option was to hide it. In my basement, there are holes in the cinder block walls that lead to an inaccessible crawlspace. They were holes that were easy to miss. Holes where something could be lost and forgotten and never found again.

So, in one of these holes, I ditched the knife. The clang of the knife as it fell out of sight was an immediate relief. It almost felt like I could move on. And for a few weeks, I did. I went about my life pretending as though nothing had happened. I restored my morning routine. I went to work. I came home. And I reminded myself that this was a better alternative than being framed for a crime I never did. But only two weeks after the last knife appeared, a new one took its place. This time, I didn't hesitate. With a newspaper bag still in my hands, I scooped up the knife and brought it inside.

Into the crawlspace went knife number four, just like knife number five, four days after that. I tried replacing the security system, and then I tried again. But knife after knife, there's been nothing but static. Nothing but an eerie stranger who disappears from the footage as soon as I try to catch them. I've lost track, at this point, of how many knives I've hidden in my crawlspace. I've reconsidered calling the police, but as the pile grows bigger, so do my doubts.

With less than any proof to my side of things, and a stash of bloody evidence concealed within my house, there's only one way this could end. I've given up trying to catch this knife-ditching psycho. The security cameras don't work at all anymore, and I'm sure as hell not going to wait by my door for some terrible, thin smile to come knocking. My mental and physical well-being is gonna shit i've lost so much weight that my ribs are poking out my body hurts constantly and it feels like my skin is shrinking freezing all the time i'm almost always wrapped up in a hoodie or blanket. And sleep? What is sleep anymore?

Still, no matter how many I get rid of, no matter how hard I try, those damn knives keep showing up. Eventually my crawlspace is going to run out of room. What am I supposed to do then? Maybe I should just pick them up and ditch them somewhere else. Another town, maybe? Another state? I feel like I could just put them on someone else's porch during the night. Maybe I can make a routine of it. Somehow, I feel like this would make me feel better.

The thought even makes me smile. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by Ryan C. Major and read by Margot Seibert. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?