Full Body Chills - Lady In Waiting

Episode Date: October 12, 2021

A story of those waiting for a better life to find them… and a story of those who seize it.Lady In WaitingWritten by Mackenzie LynnYou can read the original story at http://fullbodychillspodcast.com/ Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

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 Nikki Boyer, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of those waiting for a better life to find them, and a story of those who sees it. So gather round and listen close. Darla Jenkins thought she was beautiful. A real-life Snow White. Except, instead of an evil witch, Darla was fleeing from her meager existence. She convinced herself that maybe if her long, dark curls weren't so shiny

and her porcelain complexion a bit less flawless, she might have bagged a nicer husband. Maybe then all the other wives wouldn't be so jealous of her. But never mind that. Beauty was her cross to bear. Though her birthday wasn't till November, four days ago, Darla decided to give herself a new one, July 11th, 1996, the day she left her husband of seven long years. She waited until he left for work, then packed her bags as quickly as she could and hit the road. Next stop, Hollywood. Darla was going to be a star.

Her little Camry hugged the interstate like an old friend, twiddling a cigarette in one hand and steering with the other. She let her mind wander. She thought back to childhood evenings spent with her daddy. How he would come home from work disheveled but happy. How he would put on his favorite records and waltz around with her in their threadbare living room. He'd always bow before her and ask, May I have this dance like Darla was a princess?

The memory brought a lump to her throat. What would Daddy think of her now? Did he think his little girl had abandoned him? He wouldn't have understood, she thought. Not now with his mind starting to fade. As the sun began to set, the tank teetered on red. Darla pulled over, checking the map she stole from the drugstore back in Arkansas. If her guess was right, she was in Oklahoma now. Oklahoma was a good ways away from her old life in North Carolina, but still not nearly close enough to California. Wind whistled through the wheat as she gazed out. Darla had spent one too many nights driving and sleeping in her car. She couldn't last another night of it. Luckily, the map showed a small town down the road, one by the name of Marpleton. Darla's car sputtered into the Marpleton gas station.

There was no convenience store like she had hoped. Instead, it was a mom-and-pop operation, complete with an attendant sitting outside. He was solo and sweaty, and Darla wanted nothing to do with him. But as he sidled up to the car, she rolled down the window with a wide smile. How much? He asked in a high-pitched, throaty voice. Darla handed him a few dollars and cooed, Whatever I can get for this. She leaned forward, making sure to give him a view down her shirt.

He looked desperate enough, she thought. Surely a glimpse of her charms would sweeten the deal. Instead, he gave her just what she paid for and not a penny more darla wanted to stamp her foot who did he think he was couldn't he see that she needed help what a loser once she pulled out of the station darla looked around town marpleton a single road running down the center and that that seemed to be it. On one side of the street was the gas station, a bar, and a diner, and on the other side was a grocery store and a Salvation Army. All the other buildings looked empty.

Hardly anything seemed to be open, or in business for that matter. Darla spotted a motel around the corner, with a grungy neon sign that spelled M-O-L, with a smaller sign underneath that read V-C-N-C-Y. The place looked beyond trashy, but it was either this or sleeping in the Camry. Darla yawned. She needed a good night's sleep. California was still states away, and there was no way she was getting there tonight. She parked the car and grabbed her suitcase from out of the trunk.

Then, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, she walked inside. The lobby reeked of smoke and sweat, with mold tucked into the corners. Its furnishings consisted of a torn leather chair next to a haphazard stack of old newspapers. Darla approached the desk clerk, but nearly jumped when she saw him. By the looks of him, the man behind the counter

could have been the gas attendant's twin, but it wasn't the resemblance that shocked her. No, it was the dead crow on top of his head. Darla squeaked, startled, and the man laughed, showing teeth as yellow as the weathered newspapers. Oh, don't let old Rich scare you, pretty girl, said the man, patting the crow. Shucks, I made him into a hat. He ain't gonna buy it. In the back of her mind, Darla heard her mama's voice loud and clear. Run.

But Darla shook her head and mustered her courage. I need a room, she said. I reckon. He answered, smile unwavering. For how long? Two nights. The man's growing smile forced Darla's courage to fade. Why, sure, he said.

We've got a pool in any room of your choosing, because as you can see, we ain't exactly overbooked. He laughed. Darla fiddled with her luggage, desperate to leave. As if reading her thoughts, the clerk opened a drawer and fished out a key linked to a thick wooden slab. A crudely sketched five was painted on the side. Darla went to grab it, but the clerk pulled back. She looked at him, wide-eyed and annoyed, half a second away from demanding a manager. This place may be cheap, but it ain't free. Right, of course. Darla summoned an innocent look before handing over her credit card, relieved that it went through. She signed the receipt and guestbook, then snatched the room key out of the ragged man's hand and hurried away.

The door to room five had a gummy lock. It took Darla several attempts, fumbling with the clunky key, until, finally, the door opened. She ran in and slammed the door with a sigh. The room smelled musty. She turned on the light to see singed carpet, faded floral wallpaper, nicotine yellow blinds, and a single painting. She closed her eyes in an effort to escape her dismal surroundings, but the incessant dribble of the bathroom sink dragged her back. She tried to open the windows to air out the room, but before she could, a knock sounded on the door.

A shadow moved behind the blinds, then back to knock again. Securing the latch, Darla opened the door but the width of a toothpick. It was the desk clerk. Do you need any towels? He asked. Darla shook her head. No, no towel, thanks. She shut the door, only half regretting the lie.

She hurried to the window to ensure the man was leaving, but as he walked away, he stopped. He turned and looked back. His broken teeth were shaped into a parabolic grin. Darla held her breath. His voice rang out again. Hate to see me go, but love to watch me leave. He cackled. Goodnight, doll.

Darla closed the blinds and triple-checked every lock on the door. She wished the room had a chair so she could prop it up against the doorknob like she'd seen them do on TV. But all she had was her suitcase. It wouldn't stop a prowler, but maybe they'd trip over it or something. Darla sat on the edge of the bed and the light flickered above her. She tried to reassure herself that no one would actually try to get in. Most creeps like dead bird guy at the desk were harmless. Gross, but harmless. A crash. Darla jumped, wildly scanning the room until her eyes fell on the sound of the noise. The painting.

She heaved a sigh of relief. Darla picked up the portrait and turned it around, checking to see if the hook had come loose. Everything looked intact. She managed to get the painting back on the wall, and for the first time, she took in what she saw. The painting showed a young farmer woman out in the middle of a field carrying a bundle of wheat. That field, Darla thought, looked a lot like the boring scene that surrounded her. A burgundy shawl curled around her thin shoulders, and

her dark hair hung stick-straight and brittle. Hardship wore heavily on her face. She might have been beautiful, Darla thought, in another life. Maybe one where she was happier. Somewhere else. Free. Darla thought of herself running away, on the road to that somewhere else, free. Darla thought of herself running away on the road to that somewhere else. California. The name tickled her heart. Darla looked at the pitiful portrait and frowned. Then she met the woman's gaze.

The artist depicted such a depth to the woman's eyes, so real that they seemed to follow her as she moved. Darla shivered. She left the painting behind and got ready for bed. In the bathroom mirror, she caught her reflection and winced. Oily skin, gaping pores, dark circles, the works. As soon as she got to Hollywood, Darla was going to march right down to Rodeo Drive

and get herself a real facial. She deserved it, after everything she'd been through. She brushed her teeth and washed her face with the last of her off-brand Noxzema scrub. Then, just as she was toweling her face dry, Darla thought she heard something. Arming herself with a plunger, she crept towards the door and peered into the bedroom. But she didn't see anything.

Carefully, she searched the room, checking the only closet and peeking under the bed. Nothing. She sighed, just further proof that she needed a few nights rest before getting into LA she couldn't bear to be seen like this freaking out over nothing just as she turned to go into the bathroom Darla noticed the painting it was crooked she straightened it out and took a step back on second thought she didn't like it anymore. Why did the painter make the woman so sad and ugly?

Maybe, Darla thought, if she had been painted to be beautiful, the picture would have gone into a gallery and not some crummy motel that probably rents half of its rooms by the hour. Whatever. Darla wasn't going to end up like that. She was going to California. She was going to be somebody. Darla turned out the lights and climbed into bed without looking at what might be on the sheets. No matter how hard she tried, though, Darla couldn't ignore the dripping faucet. She tossed and turned until finally she flipped the lights back on and stormed into the bathroom. She attempted to wrap a stiff hand towel over the faucet head, but the water continued to drip through the tattered cloth.

Giving up, she came back out, to find that the painting was crooked again. Her gut twinged. Something felt wrong. But she ignored it and fixed the painting. Without a hammer, she couldn't rehang it properly. She'd just have to straighten it the best that she could and let it be. This time, when she pulled back to look at the painting, she could have sworn that, in in the background the wheat was swaying darla blinked rubbed her eyes and then blinked again the painting was still she shook her head and returned to bed as she lay back down darla reassured herself that nothing lurked in the shadows. Monsters don't exist, she thought. At least, I don't think they do. Stop it, Darla muttered. You're not a little girl anymore.

She twisted and turned in the scratchy sheets, trying to shake off the dread. In the bathroom, the faucet continued to drip. Darla groaned and rolled onto her side. Was it her imagination, or were the drips getting louder? She peered at the clock. 1.13 a.m. Unlike sleep, which refused to come, visions of shadowy predators and skeletal desk clerks lurked in her thoughts. Darla pulled the blanket over her head, refusing to open her eyes. She was overwhelmed, prickled by the sensation that she was not alone. She tried to focus on her daydreams, the things that she wanted most in life, like the California sunshine, a rich husband, a big house, her name on the guest list at fancy parties. It was going to be just like she'd always imagined.

The faintest creak. Was it something in the walls? Or someone at the door? She squeezed her eyes even tighter. Another creak. Darla stayed stock still, but her heart was beating wildly. She heard it now. Under the drips, creaks, and groans of an old building,

she could hear footsteps on the carpet. I'm dreaming, she told herself. Everything will be okay. Everything will be... The mattress tilted and the bed springs squeaked. Darla's eyes flew open, but all she could see was darkness. The mattress moved again, softer. Something approaching her from behind. Moist air tickled the back of her neck, breathing.

Time stood still. Even the faucet wouldn't speak. Then there came a whisper. I saw the way you looked at me. Darla opened her mouth to scream. Then silence. Silence. Motel owner Weedle Weedy Smith was at work in early that following day. He was in by six to unlock the doors and set out some expired cereal for complimentary breakfast.

Once he was done, he took to his desk for a morning nap, but was awoken mere moments later. Standing before him was the girl from last night good morning sir she said i'd like to check out of my room weedy leaned forward and offered a smile well shoot sugar i thought you were staying for another night she placed the key on the table between them oh i wish i could but i have a long drive ahead and really must get going. Weedy paused, squinted, and thought, Was her hair always that straight? Perhaps it was the burgundy shawl that made her shoulders look thinner. Ah, but never mind.

He nodded and took the key. Well, safe driving. If you ever round these parts again... I know just where to find you. The woman turned to leave, a skip in her step. As she sailed off in her little Camry, she waved one final goodbye. Up on a wall in Motel Room 5, there hung a curious painting. Before a field of wheat and sorrow stood a beautiful woman, or at least, she thought she was beautiful. For Darla Jenkins

sought only to escape her meager life, to trade it all for fortune and fame. But now, she was trapped in a world far from her own. This series was produced by Ashley Flowers and David Flowers. This episode was written by Mackenzie Lynn and read by Nikki Boyer. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original and full on our website. Full Body Chills is an Audiochuck production. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?