Full Body Chills - Roses For Josie

Episode Date: October 18, 2021

A story about a secret stalker and red rose bouquet.Roses For JosieWritten by Laurie Faria StolarzYou can read the original story and view the episode art 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 Ashley Flowers, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story about a secret stalker and a red rose bouquet. So gather around and listen close. Josie Bennett is someone I've known my entire life. We grew up going to elementary school together, and even lived on the same block. We weren't best best friends, but we were friendly enough,

walking to and from school together at least a few days a week, playing basketball at the park on occasion, and going to each other's birthday parties. As we got older, though, things changed. We grew apart. I wasn't exactly sure what had prompted the change, but sometime around middle school, Josie became distant. And it wasn't just me who thought so. Others were saying it too, that Josie wasn't going out anywhere except for school and that she'd say no whenever invited out to lunch or the movies. Apparently, she stopped going to her dance classes too, even though the family had paid through the year. And soon, she even stopped going to school, opting to homeschool instead. My parents were friends with Mr. and Mrs. Bennett and knew the full scoop,

but they wanted to respect Josie's privacy, so they never told me what the deal was. They just encouraged me to keep reaching out without pressure, just to let Josie know I was there if she ever needed me, which is exactly what I did. I made a point to send her a text or leave a quick phone message at least once a week, and by high school, we'd established a steady rhythm of texting back and forth every couple of days, which seemed to be her preferred form of communication. Sometime around our junior year, she told me she suffered from social anxiety disorder, a case so severe that it made it hard to leave the house. But eventually, she had to leave. Her parents were splitting up, the house was being sold,

and her younger sister Paula was going off to college. Around that time, Josie got an offer to move into her aunt's one-bedroom cottage. The tenant who'd been living at the cottage had recently moved out. The place was empty and surrounded by acres of land. It sounded perfect, except for one thing. It was a two-hour drive from home. But Josie loved the idea of starting anew, getting away from her everyday surroundings and moving to a smallish town where life moved at a slower pace.

And actually, things weren't great in the beginning. Josie loved the cottage. She said it was like the setting of a storybook, so green and peaceful, with a babbling brook that ran alongside the property and a front porch where she could sit and read. With no neighbors right on top of her, Josie felt comfortable enough to go outside. She made a huge rose garden and kept a bunch of birdhouses. But as much as the remote location provided a tranquil advantage, it had its disadvantages too.

There was no one to people watch. On a dead-end road, not many cars or bikes ventured her way unless someone was lost. And aside from the postal carrier who'd come once a day, she'd rarely see another face. After a while, Josie started to get a bit lonely. That much was clear from our regular phone conversations. I was worried over what kind of effect this would have on her mental state.

Well, maybe a month later, I got a call. In the middle of the night, I woke up to my phone ringing. Josie was FaceTiming me. I answered and immediately was bombarded with a babble of words. Slow down, I said, trying to snap myself out of a dream fog. It was nearly 1am. But Josie was hysterical. Her eyes red, her face blotched. She just kept repeating, he's going to come for me, he's going to come for me. Who is? I asked. Tell me what happened. One night, while Josie was surfing around online, she came across a website dedicated to helping users find the perfect match. And while she wasn't a stranger to dating sites, this one seemed different.

For one, there was a huge emphasis on providing a detailed psychological profile. For another, she couldn't find any reviews of the site to see if it was any good. Still, she liked the sales pitch, that there was someone for anyone, that we custom order things like couches and sneakers, so why shouldn't we do the same for our partners? So she started the psychological profile. The questions were easy at first, asking about hobbies, entertainment preferences, educational background, generic interests. But soon, they got a bit more personal, covering topics like politics, religion, family, past relationships. As she was answering, these cute little message bubbles would appear on the screen saying things like, We know this is hard, but answer as honestly as you can.

And the more authentic you are, the closer you'll get to your perfect person. So she kept answering. And answering. And answering even more. Even when the questions got totally bizarre. Like, have you ever cheated on a partner? Would you if guaranteed you'd never get caught? Have you ever been violent?

Can you give a specific example? Have you ever sought revenge? If so, what was the outcome? And also, what's the most malicious thing you've ever done? Does anyone know about it? More than once, Josie thought about exiting out of the site. But she'd already invested so much time, so she kept on going, eventually opening up about her anxiety.

My home has become my safe space, she wrote. But it's also my prison, if that makes any sense. And sometimes I wish someone would just steal me away, free me from these self-made bars. As soon as she hit send on that answer, she wished she hadn't. That wasn't what she meant. The words hadn't come out right. Plus, it was now after midnight, three hours of questions later. She wasn't thinking straight. She was just about to close her laptop when a message popped up on the screen.

Not another question, this time a statement. We've found the perfect person who will make your wish come true. Josie's skin went cold. She closed her laptop, a sickly feeling deep in her gut. Just then, her cell phone rang. She peeked at the screen. It said private caller. So she let it go to voicemail.

But the person didn't leave a message. Not two seconds later, the phone rang again. The words, private caller, flashed across the screen once more. This time, Josie answered it. Hello? across the screen once more. This time, Josie answered it. Hello? There was silence for several seconds, but she could hear someone there.

The subtle sound of breathing. Who is this? She asked. Your soulmate. A male voice answered. Your soulmate. A male voice answered. Your perfect match. Josie's whole body shook. She hung up, but the phone rang again.

With trembling hands, she clicked to answer. What do you want? The soft purr of his voice made her skin crawl. To make your wish come true, he said. Would you like that too? Instantly, she ended the call, then FaceTimed me. I was concerned for her, sure, but I also knew Josie all too well. She had a wild imagination, always looking over her shoulder,

thinking the random guy on the corner looked like one of the suspects on America's Most Wanted. Even in our text chats, it wasn't so uncommon for me to be putting out fires, so to speak, because of something that had triggered her. Which was fine. I mean, I got triggered sometimes too, and so I stayed on the phone as she double-checked the doors and windows. Can you tell me the name of that website? I asked her.

But that was part of the problem. When she went back through her browser history and opened the site, she got a 404 error code. It appeared to be shut down. Don't panic, I told her. He doesn't know where you live. She hadn't provided her physical address, only her cell phone number. But you should definitely report the site to the police tomorrow morning, I told her. Finally, Josie started to calm down. I made sure she had the phone number of her nearest neighbor and she promised to call me if anything else came up. The following night, something did come up. My phone rang around 2am. I sprung up in bed. I think he's here, she blurted as soon as I picked up. Wait, what? The guy from the website, she explained. He's at the front door.

What? I repeated. I mean, it sounded so bizarre. But Josie's voice was riddled with tears. I think he's picking the lock. Josie! My heart tightened. You need to hang up and call 911. Do you hear me? Where are you at in the house?

Under the bed, she muttered. He's coming. He's already inside. I could hear the whine of a door and the creak of a floorboard. He's coming, she repeated, keeping her voice low. What's your address? I asked. I didn't have it in my phone. Part of me wanted to hang up and call her sister to get the address, then call 911, but I didn't want to leave her. Are you still there? She whispered. I'm here. Is there something within reach that can help you? A spray? Something sharp. Can you sneak out the other way, maybe through the back entrance?

I see his shoes, she said. Bored boots, dark brown wrinkled leather, yellow laces, black stitching. I had no other choice. I disconnected and called her sister who phoned 911. When the police got to the cottage, they found Josie huddled beneath the bed, trembling and crying. They checked out the house, but there were no signs of forced entry

nor proof that anyone had even been there. Josie hadn't taken any pictures. The website seemed non-existent. And when she went to show the police the previous private calls, they were no longer there. There was just a series of unknown callers which appeared to be spam. Josie was frantic, and I couldn't blame her. No one believed her. Nothing made sense. Had she accidentally deleted those calls? And what about the boots she described? She'd been so specific about the color

and even the stitching. Someone was there, I insisted. I had called Josie's sister right after the police left. Maybe, Paula said. Or maybe she just wanted you to believe there was. And why would she want that? I asked. Attention, loneliness. Living on her own in a new

place has been a major transition. Plus, you know how jumpy Josie can be. Also, why did the guy leave if he supposedly wanted to take her? A good question. One I couldn't answer. Look, I'm not saying she makes things up, but I am saying that sometimes her imagination gets the best of her. You know that. Admittedly, I did, though I didn't say anything to Paula. Did I ever tell you the time she was convinced an intruder was living in our basement? Paula laughed. Trust me, the police checked everything out. They know her quite well, by the way. She has them on speed dial.

Josie is fine. After the call, I didn't feel any better. I couldn't sleep. Nothing seemed right. I mean, yes, Josie could be jumpy and dramatic, but everything she described seemed so real, so detailed. So I did the one thing any good friend would do. I got in my car, typed her address into my nav, and started to drive. After about 30 minutes on the road, a call came in from Josie.

He left me roses, she said as soon as I picked up. A bouquet of them by my bed. I only just noticed. How did you not notice before? I said. In fact, I thought, how did the police not notice? Because there are a bunch of roses all over the house from the garden, but these are different roses. Different roses? Are you sure? I asked. Did you...

Is it possible they're just a different shade, or you just put them there yourself? Josie? Josie, are you there? Finally, she responded. Maybe you're right. Her voice sounded distant, distracted. I'm sorry to bother you. Josie, don't be silly.

You're not bothering me. She hung up without a goodbye. This was totally unlike her. When I got to her cottage hours later, it was four in the morning. I called her cell, but she didn't answer. She didn't come to the door when I knocked, nor when I rang the doorbell. I tried the knob and was surprised when it turned. I stepped into the living room.

The lights were on, but it didn't look like she was home. I called her cell phone again and heard it ringing. It was coming from another room. I moved toward it, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. Josie? I called. No one answered. I stood in the doorway to her room. The phone was there, on the bed. On her bedside table sat a bouquet of roses. Just as she had described, these ones were different from the others. As opposed to the bunches of yellow, pink, and white cramped around the house, these roses were long-stemmed and red, tied together with a delicate ribbon. I went to grab her phone,

but a rustling noise kept me frozen. A creaking followed. Had I left the door open? My heart clenched. I hid behind the bedroom door, just barely able to see. There was someone there. They wore darkish clothes, had auburn hair, and a bouquet of red roses. It was all somewhat of a blur because the only thing I could really focus on were the dark brown work boots with the wrinkled leather, yellow laces,

and black stitching. I grabbed my key ring ready to use whatever I had to fight. Only then it dawned on me to grab my phone and call 911. I fumbled with the code. The phone wouldn't read my face. Josie. He sang, drawing out her name. I'm back to grant your wish. A promise is a promise. I held my breath, trying not to panic. I struggled with my phone again, but dialed 911, then turned the volume all the way down.

How fast could they trace my call? How far were they from here? Almost as if responding to my thoughts, sirens sounded in the distance. I heard a sound like someone leaving and carefully peeked around the corner to find no one there. Minutes before my call, someone else had phoned the police. Apparently, a local citizen reported seeing a suspicious character lurking about the neighborhood. Meanwhile, Josie, completely spooked, had gone to her neighbor's house.

In her panicked escape, she accidentally left her phone behind and the door unlocked. The guy was gone. Only his roses remained. Police never found him, nor did they take the story seriously, even with my report.

It was days later when Josie moved back home. She lives with her cousin now. We don't often talk about what happened or how no one believed her. But just the other day, she brought it up, telling me how last Friday, a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses appeared on her doorstep. It included a card. There was no name, only a message.

I always keep my promise. This series was produced by Ashley Flowers and David Flowers. This episode was written by Lori Faria-Stolars and read by Ashley Flowers. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?