The Green House on Bowman Street
00:05 Like you. You know that. Thanks for tuning in. Gather around now. And gather close. There was this doctor over at St. Agri's who would kill his patients. Oh yes. It was madness.
00:22 Aren't you afraid the light take might get you? I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. Abravely. I want more of it. I snout. Totally lost it. He had no... Idea what was on those tapes.
00:38 It was like a song. Ollie and the Outcast. So gather around. Beasance. Close. Has anyone noticed an increase in bots recently? I feel like the dispatch used to have more evidence-supported stories. But the past few weeks have been horrible.
01:15 Either these users are AI Slap or idiots, because why have I seen the same cryptid encounter 10 times now? I am so bored of people not actually using this forum for how it was intended, and since you guys feel the need to trash the dispatch, I've decided to take matters into my own hands and write something of value. As a long-time user, I feel like I'm obligated to do something about this dying community. This isn't something I was ever really planning on doing because there isn't much happening in my hometown, but I can't just let the clankers destroy this place.
01:52 A few years ago, I found this forum. Back then, it was the perfect mix of horror and urban exploration. People sharing stories and creepy photos, posting links to their coordinates. It was a horror-filled geocash. An archive for the Erie. The community kept track of where cryptids moved about, and you could search for threads based on the setting or location or the type of story. I still think about the guy who went Spalunk.
02:22 and got lost in a haunted mine. There was something endlessly exhilarating about imagining myself in some eerie underpass or decrepit hospital, searching for something inexplicable. In a short time, the dispatch became my community. I had screen friends who had message me as soon as a post went live. We would read the thread together and scrutinize a narrative, sometimes questioning the unsuspecting user who had read.
02:51 user who had written it. But like I said, there seems to be way more slop on here than before. We saw that happening in real time. When I joined, contributors had to have proof, or their posts wouldn't be pushed through the algorithm. And for good reason. I'm grateful for the platform and all that it's brought me, friends and something to occupy my thoughts. But I hate seeing lazy posts hog up the feed. Now it's become an echo chamber. And whenever we're the forum idols someone recycles an old post. New location, new characters, but virtually the same. Just another light taker, another subway stalker, another Uber delivery gone wrong. Back in the day, a new post was special. The O.P. was a hero, a tiny celebrity, giving a couple
03:45 of hundred randos a reason to indulge in their weirdest hobby. I haven't seen an original post. in ages though. I really thought someone would come forward. Now, content farmers keep ripping off each other and getting glory for it, which is ridiculous. I hate to say it, but yeah, I was a little jealous of their hype. I knew I could tell a better story. If this trash was getting upvotes, then I could go viral. Yeah, I wanted to be the person who was bringing people in, give the fan something hot and fresh off the press. The trouble was that the trouble was that there really wasn't much happening in my town. At least nothing obvious. We had the usual slum spots and empty storefronts, but nothing with crazy lore.
04:31 No ghost haunting the graveyard, no crypted in the trees. Our dark and mysterious points of interests were populated by the high school of punks, used for smoking and head thrashing. Some had been marked by the football players for their post-game parties. They were all overhight. None of it looked like dispatch material, no cultish layer, no monster tunnel. It was just my hometown, Midwestern, quiet, and mostly beige. Mostly beige, except for the greenhouse on Bowman Street. The greenhouse was only a few blocks from mine. Literally, if I looked out my window, I could see over the pastures and beanfields to its pointed peak.
05:18 rising over the edge. It's called the greenhouse because, well, it's green. Or at least it was. Now the peeling paint is sunbleached, faded, like something you see on a tree and drought. But regardless of its age, the old house on Bowman Street kept its nickname. Story goes, it belonged to the Bowman family. Their house used to sit at the end of the road, majestic and solitary. But as our little village became a little town, the Bowman sold part of their land to some developer who built up the street and everything around it. The Bowman's lived in the house for a while, but at some point they migrated to the sticks, away from noisy neighbors.
06:02 By the time the house were closed, no one knew who lived there anymore, if anyone at all. Nestled into the back end of a cul-de-sac, the lean and narrow two-story house became a fixture of the street, something you might see every day but never think about. It was as familiar and uninteresting as our public library. It was an old Victorian farmhouse, a dime a dozen where I'm from, and if it wasn't for a few broken windows and the overgrown yard, you might not think the house was abandoned, just a little neglected. It looked unassuming, but it smelled disgusting.
06:43 It was that old rotting wood smell out. after it rains, mixed with sweet, summer hot garbage. The closer you got, the more unbearable it became. Not really ideal for any hangout, which is maybe why the property had been left untouched. In hindsight, it really was the perfect setting for the dispatch. I mean, maybe there was something more to that smell. Maybe the house on Bowman Street had its own ghosts. Either way, I was determined.
07:15 to find out. It was actually easier than I'd expected. I was able to walk straight up to the house without anyone so much as flicking on a porch light. Something good to come from a small town, I guess. No one was awake this late at night. No one would really care either. To be honest, the hardest part about getting inside was bearing the smell. My nose hears were melting. but a little smell wasn't going to stop me from getting this story. I had taken up lock picking as a minor hobby. I can't tell you the number of posts I've seen that reach a dead end only because the OP doesn't know how to use a bobby pin.
08:06 The greenhouse was old, and so was the lock. I had it open in a matter of minutes. As I turned the handle, rusty hinges, gritted, their teeth. Pushing past the door, I felt like Indiana Jones. The ancient tomb let out a billow of dust which fell on my feet and carried with it a second shock of that musty odor. I already knew this was going to be good. I stepped into a foyer marked by decades of crime. Just to be sure, I tried the old can lights. Nothing, which was to be expected.
08:51 my phone would have to do. I recorded everything, and I've attached that recording, but I have at least, to this post. You're welcome. Rinkled wallpaper and rotten bassboards were stained with age. To my left, there appeared to be a kitchen, and to my right there was a living space.
09:19 A long, dark hallway stretched out in front of me. That's where I went first. Each of my steps groaned throughout the house, irritating the silence and driving up dust. I could feel the air tickling my lungs. Fat flakes trickled before the beam of my light like moths. Through the haze, everything inside looked untouched.
09:49 No footprints, no graffiti, no beer cans or bottles. No one had been here for years. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just an experience. I was trying to find my story, but there was still plenty around to draw my eyes. Framed photos adorned the walls. They were mostly decorative, artsy, photos of nature and epochsied flowers. A frilly red rug, dusted white carpeted the hallway.
10:24 It was in desperate need of vacuum. and a short sofa with country pillows waited by the entrance. Down the hall, there were stairs leading up. The steps were all wood, with green and yellow splotches of rot. The walls seemed to bear hug the stairs, making the climb more like a squeeze. They led me to a studio loft. The room was small and smelled like a... an attic or dirty socks. The bed took up most of the room. It was wedged into the corner and
11:07 dressed with a plain white spread that was unmade and had long since turned into an awful shade of jaundice. Tetris into the remaining space was a working desk. It was glossy and almost sticky to the touch. A forest of books stood around the edge. Classical science. Carl Zimmer, world geography, and a heavier-looking textbook on the history of herbology. There was also a wide-framed photograph. It caught three people as they scaled a cliff. They posed to the camera, waving. These clearly weren't the bowmen's. The photo was too new. I have no idea where it was taken, or when exactly, but with a silver pen, someone had signed the photo, the Stamets team, alongside the message upwards to glory.
12:06 The rest of the loft was littered. On the floor, next to more books on flowers and a dirty ashtray, there was a used coffee mug sitting on top of some old newspapers. They were local, dated 2012, over 10 years ago. It seemed like someone else had lived here, after the Bowman's. I searched the dead. asked for more clues and found a cigar box plus a fancy zippo. I don't smoke, but I pocketed the lighter. It was an artifact. Further proof of my expedition. I went through a few more drawers.
12:45 The first one was full of random junk, notepads and pens, scribbled paper, scissors, a pair of glasses, a physical protractor, and weirdly enough, a whole stack of hotel key cards. Looks like I wasn't the only one who kept mementos. Along with your average holiday inn, there were a few foreign logos. Some were Asian, others European. I opened the bigger drawer underneath, and my hand flew to my nose. There was a dead rat, laying on a nest of torn-up file folders. I instinctively backed away, but leaned in for a second glance.
13:29 The rat might have been a few days old, and had fur that looked waxy and stiff. Something like mold crusted its face. I waved my phone light closer and saw what looked like maggots combing through its hair. Disgusted, I closed the drawer with my foot. There was nothing else to see here. A few extra photos hung on the wall, scenic shots. like you'd see on postcards. Then there was some kind of award
14:04 from an academic journal for excellence. It was bestowed to a Dr. Tanner and Dr. Bryce. But that was truly it. I mean, I could have spent hours going through every book and every scrap of paper, but the bedroom slash office wasn't giving me anything. The dead rat was gross, but that's not why you're here. That's not why I was there.
14:32 So, I left and went back down the slimy stairs. There was a moment when my foot hit the final step, and I heard this kind of... The sound reminded me of our county fair, and of the hot air balloons they'd launch off the ground. It was this sudden rush of fire or wind. And for a second, I thought maybe some of the... the ceiling had caved in, because it seemed like a cloud of dust had suddenly kicked up.
15:13 Maybe there were more rats running around, except you'd expect to hear more scratching or scurrying, and there was none of that. There was only that one short burst of noise, which after a few moments had completely died down. That's when I realized it was more like, Like an AC unit? Somewhere something must have switched on, a vent or fan or whatever. That would explain the noise and the stale air swirling around me. Well, not quite, because that overlooks one key fact. The house was dead. As in, there wasn't any power. Maybe there was a generator or solar panels?
16:06 But think about that, would it still be working after however many years? It didn't make sense. So, I was going to make it make sense. I flashed my light around, looking for anything that might have been disturbed. I watched through the main foyer again, taking note of the old farmhouse floor, and the thin layer of grime that was everywhere. I hadn't noticed before, but it was like the whole house had been sprinkled with baking flour. It was a time capsule, and I wondered, when was the last time someone was in here?
16:53 I took a left turn towards the living room. When I heard it again, that airy, wispy, I turned around and towards the source. There was nothing in the kitchen, as full. far as I could see. But then again, there was so much dandruff in the air that I couldn't be sure. The kitchen was a deep, rectangular room, with long counters spread between different appliances, an old gas stove oven, a farmhouse sink, and an empty space where a fridge or freezer would have been. Right now, there was nothing but a bare hookup. Everything looked turned off. Along the external wall there were several cabinets, the sink,
17:44 and two windows stained with so much crime that they might as well have been painted over. On the other wall there was the oven, a pantry, and even more cupboards. I was drawn towards the sink and one of the cabinets. The noise had been muffled, which made me think that the source wasn't within my line of sight. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find. A broken pipe, maybe. My mind was on Stephen King and the ghost children crying through a drain. A pile of rags, some cleaning sprays, and a half-filled wastebasket were all that I found.
18:23 I checked the other cabinets, too, but they were more of the same. No ghosts, no wolves. None of the plumbing so much as rattled. Weirdly, though, for an abandoned house, there was still quite a bit of ferns. food. It was all expired and none of it was edible. Many bags and boxes were torn up and chewed through, ripped apart by rats or whatever else was crawling around. I was about to check the oven when my ears spun the other way, the pantry. For the third time, I heard it. The sound had come from there. Rising dust billowed beneath the door as exiting air crept through.
19:11 the cracks. In my mind's eye, I still couldn't decide what was inside. The heavy wheeze was like a furnace, but less mechanical. It had the texture of a rubber pump. Slathered with paint, the door was much thicker than it looked, and I had to pull with all my weight to break it loose. Right away, Two things happened. One. As soon as I opened the door, I nearly fell backwards. I was leaning that way already, pulling at the door, but that's not what tripped me over.
19:59 It was the darkness. The pantry was not a pantry. It was a staircase. I stared into the basement, but couldn't see anything. All that dust had bleached the steps like a snowy blizzard. My phone light reached 10 or 15 feet, but that was it. The bottom steps were beyond that. Then, the second thing, as I eased forward, I was instantly hit with that smell.
20:39 I thought I'd gotten used to it. I thought it was the house. Just old foundations and a stench of stale air. But it was worse than that. It was musty, ripe B-O, like someone's sweaty gym shorts, soaked in swamp water and left out to air. It was thick. It was strong. And it was coming from down there.
21:12 Now, I've been on this forum for a while now, and I know what a dank and dark basement usually means. And so do you. It's the start of something good. I knew it at the time, and I can say it now. This was a God-tier pull. Believe me or not, but buried in that basement was every dispatcher's dream. The actual supernatural. and proof of the afterlife, or something like it.
21:48 I took the first step down, and I could physically feel the wooden slab, dip beneath my foot. I worried placing all my weight would break it in half and held onto the railing as an extra crutch. With each step down, my phone light strained thinner and thinner. It wasn't just the air. It was the light itself, as if I'd turned the brightness down to its lowest settings. I paused around the fifth or sixth step to check my screen. My settings were still the same, but I noticed that my phone battery had completely crapped out. Before I set out, my phone was at 80%.
22:35 But now, it was down to 20. There was definitely something going on down here. No way my phone just drains that fast. I tried feeling for cold spots or static in the air, the typical signs of the paranormal. But the basement was kind of hot, not cold, which in some ways was even weirder. The further I went down, the more I was in it. A thick and steamy soup. By the time I reached the bottom floor, I had to hold my shirt up.
23:12 over my nose. The stench was invasive, and my breathing was feeling sharp. With all the dust moving around, the basement came together like a torn up Polaroid, and I collected it in pieces, scanning my light through a slow, swirling snow globe. From what I could tell, it was unfinished. The ceiling was a pattern of metal pipes and boxy vents, but also loose tarp. The same plastic wrap draped some of the walls and carpeted the floor. It looked like someone was setting up for a construction project, or pest control. In front of me, there was a long table laid out like one of our chemistry labs at school. Beside a stack of three-ringed binders was a something like a giant cut-up cube of ice.
24:13 One of the folders was lying open. I only glanced at it. Blocks of texts were paired with overblown pictures of grainy, black splotches. The ink spots grew bigger with each iteration. The loaf of ice was actually glass, a rack of little square slides. And next to that was a microscope. I had the idea to piece. peek inside, but before I did, I noticed something else. At the other end of the room was an
24:49 oddly placed cabinet, or at least it was shaped like a cabinet. It was bulky and tall and framed in something like bony wings or a thick, thick spider web. I had taken a few steps forward when my foot caught on the plastic tarp. I had stepped on a root, like from a tree stump. Looking closer, I saw that it had torn through the plastic sheet. It spread like a knotted vein, twisting and branching across the floor, wrapping up the pipes like Christmas lights, and around the vents, along the walls, along the ceiling.
25:40 and converging on that strange-looking box. I could see it now. If what I stepped on was a vein, then this was its heart. A double-stacked freezer. The doors were cracked open and leaking with mold, mold that grew into vines and snaked throughout the room. I had never seen anything like it.
26:10 Not in real life, not on the dispatch. It was like something from outer space. Little shop of horrors, but way more rancid. The closer I got, the more my throat began to tickle. I knew I had to look inside. There was no way I couldn't. My phone was now down to 15% and so I had to be quick. I had to record what was in there before it dropped out.
26:45 Now, I'll get ahead of all the critics before anyone calls me fake. But sure, I get it. I mean, how convenient is it that as soon as I enter the basement, my video cuts off? Well, I'm telling you now it was recording the whole time. It was still recording when I found that freezer. It wasn't until after I opened it that everything went wrong. Coming closer, I could see more of that plant growth. And there must have been something hardwired in my brain.
27:26 In the same way you know to avoid poison ivy, there was something about this fungus that made me flinch. The sickly vines had the color and sheen of rotten grapes. glued around the door, it sprouted from a leathery, thick moss. I wrapped my hand in the sleeve of my shirt before reaching out. Pulling open the door wasn't so hard, but the sound it made, just hearing it tapped on my spine. It's what I imagine it would sound like if you popped a six-foot cyst, or plunged a pipe that had been clogged for years with backwash.
28:08 Smelt like it too. I'm not sure what I expected. A talking flower? A magic rock? Maybe some sort of machine? But I ripped open the sticky membrane to find entire shelves caked in black mold. Strings of slime and protovines netted the interior. Despite the mess, I could tell that this freezer wasn't used for milk.
28:47 Instead, it held rows and rows of tiny petri dishes, most of which were overflowing with that same black mold. It was getting harder and harder to contain my excitement. Now, there wasn't just a spooky house, but a secret lab, A weird and alien plant. Who knows? Maybe the start of some crazy government conspiracy? More than that, though, I had physical evidence.
29:21 I thanked the dispatch gods in FEMA that no one cleaned the fridge. Because now, I had something that would boost our forum to front page news. But there was something wrong here. I mean, more than just an old house. with a moldy basement and a freaky science project, like, why was this still here? Why was any of this still here? The petri dishes, the lab equipment, I mean, some of this was valuable.
29:53 There was a question I didn't think to ask, but it was on the tip of my tongue now. And as I pocketed one of the samples, it suddenly hit me. This feeling I had, but now, never knew how to put into words. The entire house was falling apart. It was old and dusty. And judging by the state of things, the previous owner must have either died or moved out many, many years ago. But the furniture, the photos on the wall, it's almost like they never left.
30:35 I felt a rush of hot air on the back of my neck. A cloud of dust swirled up around me and then all at once, my phone shut off. I think that's when it happened. I was still mid-recording and with 12% battery when the whole room went dark. Whatever happened, whatever killed my phone must have caused the video to short out, totally erasing those last few minutes. Because when I went to go to that. the check later, this moment wasn't there. So believe me or not, but I'm telling you the truth. I know what I saw, and what's down there is still down there. I couldn't see the stairs. I couldn't even see two inches from my nose. I fumbled around with my arms outstretched,
31:41 and then I remembered the lighter. I tore through my pockets until I had it and flicked it on. In some ways, the flame was even worse. In the dark, at least, it felt like I could close my eyes. I could escape. But the inch of light forced me to see just how tiny and alone I was. I started backwards, but soon realized I was going the wrong way. I couldn't find the table or the roof.
32:18 I had stepped on earlier. But I knew if I'd just found a wall, I could feel my way around and towards the exit. I did find a wall. I felt the crusty plastic sheeting, which rippled with my touch. And holding the lighter extra close, I traced the edge of the room.
32:42 In some places, the opaque curtain was like a moth-eaten sweat, sweater, with vines stitching through the holes. I followed one of the tendrils as it spread like a crack in the wall or a river downstream, flowing and merging with more and more limbs as the one branch grew in size and thickness, and then the wall stopped. It came to a corner, or rather a bend, a fold in the plastic sheet. gave way to an awkward mound. I couldn't tell if part of the room had caved in or what.
33:26 The debris had totally displaced the lap tarp and stuck out like a massive tumor upon the wall. It was nothing, though. I just had to work my way around the mound. My little light shivered on its damp surface. It wasn't quite mud, and it wasn't concrete. In fact, it was more organic. Slowly, I realized it was more of that mold with its overstretched latex quality. The roots here were a nest of worms tying into knots.
34:10 Some of the branches stuck out more than others. Some had ridges or points. And some seemed to stretch and frame the moss like a... a fleshy tent. There were even a few spiny branches that looked like vertebrae. And when I drew the flame up its spine, it ended on a viscous and bloated bulb. It was a human eye. I remember dropping the lighter and panicked like mad to pick it up.
34:45 I flicked the switch so hard and so many times, I ended up burning my thumb. When the flame came back on, I was face to face with that dead glare again. It was unblinking, staring straight and up, looking less like an eye and more like a peeled orange, swollen in size, the color of a zit, and sprouting with tiny white hairs. I'm telling you, it was straight. out of the thing. I didn't even see their face at first. There was only that one eye. Everything else looked broken and so overgrown with mold. Where the other eye should have been, there was only an ugly pit full of tangled roots. After that initial jump scare, I settled down
35:45 a bit. I mean, my heart was still a drum roll, but at least I wasn't fighting for my life. There was no doubt in my mind at the time that this guy was dead. Who they were or how they died, I had no idea. Well, that's not true. I had some idea. They were the owner of the house, the doctor, or whoever. I mean, I couldn't be so sure since the mold totally melted their face, but as for how they died, that part was obvious.
36:17 Dude got turned into human mulch. These plants infected him or something. As I was thinking all this, I noticed this kind of hissing. It reminded me of a stovet top burner with the dial turned down, unlit and leaking gas. It was so quiet that I couldn't tell where it was coming from. But then, I noticed that something was moving. around the dead guy's chest.
36:52 Two massive lumps I mistook for mold started to grow. It was so slow, though, that I wasn't sure what I was looking at. The round sacks were as black as coal and strangled by so many roots that I nearly missed the ribs snapping out of place. A pair of lungs uncomplately exposed. They were huge, inflamed, encrusted in so much mold that the outer organs looked like scorched wood. My jaw hit the floor once I realized this guy. The lungs had swelled to three times their size, and I looked up just in time to see that one amber eye,
37:43 looking down at me, and underneath, under folds of moss, There were his teeth, his mouth locked sideways in a silent scream. Then there was a bony crunch, and the vines around his lungs pulled like a noose. Wet hot air splash my face, foul is airborne bile, slathering me with dust. No, not dust. Spores, even through my shirt, I could taste it. metallic and foul like pennies that had been fished out of the sewer. It was in my throat, in my eyes, and up my nose.
38:28 My head started to rush. I stumbled backwards. Half blind and coughing my guts out, I ran without any sense of direction and slammed straight into the table. Glass shattered on the floor, and I turned, racing in the direction where I thought were the stairs. My foot found the first ledge, and I started to climb, sprinting three or four steps when the floor fell from under me.
38:50 The steps snapped in two, tripping and hammering my shin on the next ledge up. The pain made my entire left leg feel like plastic. But I kept going, crawling, and climbing up the steps as fast as I could. I got upstairs and my face was burning. My vision melting into bright watercolors. The whole house was radiated, green, yellow. And all around me, the walls were sprouting flowers that bloomed in the shape and color of the dead man's eye. My ears were ringing, and I couldn't think as I plowed through the house.
39:23 I ran out the front door, the fresh air stabbing my heart. The breeze was freezing and making everything in my body a thousand times more painful. I remember gasping for air, but feeling like something was tied around my airways. My lungs felt deflated, flat, unable to expand. My knees hit the ground, warm tears streaming down my face. I thought I was going to die. Clearly, though, I must have still been breathing, because I made it out.
40:00 I'm alive. And after an eternity, I felt that I could stand. I could walk. And with half a mind, I made it home. The rest of that night is all distorted. I remember soaking back home. and still coughing trying hard not to wake my parents I went to the bathroom and spent maybe the next 30 minutes just washing my eyes I got them to stop burning
40:43 but they were still so bloodshot and everything in my vision felt like it was slowly swirling back and forth I tried to go to bed to just close my eyes but I think I got up two or three times to hurl. The next morning, I started this post. It's been a few days, and I'm okay now. Thankfully, I mean, my shin still hurts. My nose is all stuffy, and about a hundred times now I've had to just stop and pull myself out of a coughing fit. But, hey, that's just the price of a good story, right? I just wish my clothes didn't reek so bad. No matter how many times I put them through the wash, I just can't get that smell out.
41:37 It's on my other clothes, too, and my pillow. I don't know. Maybe I should see someone. A doctor? Or maybe I'll go to our school nurse first and see what she says? I know I'll have to tell the police. I mean, there's a dead guy still in that house. But first, I want to put this out there, unredacted. Then I'll hand over what I've got.
42:09 I still think about what I've found. The lab, the dead scientist. It was like a fever dream. In fact, maybe that's exactly what it was. Maybe breathing in all that dead air caused me to hallucinate, hearing sounds that weren't there, or seeing a human corpse consumed by plants and still breathing.
42:32 in the dark. It's possible. But then how would you explain what I found later? When I threw my clothes in the wash, I forgot to empty my pockets. Luckily, the petri dish didn't shatter, but the mold inside grew twice in size. I forgot I saved it. And unsure of what to do with it, I tried to freeze it. I had hit it. I had hit it. in the mini-fridge I keep by my bed, but yesterday I woke up and found that it was leaking. Overnight, the fridge had died. The mold is bubbling over the tiny dish. I've since been keeping it in an old ice cooler we store in the garage.
43:23 I'm thinking that should work for now. I'm just hoping my dad doesn't have any spontaneous fishing trips. I don't know what this thing is. And I'm afraid to tell the police in the event I get disappeared by men in black. I mean, dead scientist guy could be national news. Hopefully, by putting all this out there, I've bought myself insurance from accidental falling out of a window disease. Just to be extra clear, I like my life and I'm not suicidal. There's one more thing.
44:01 One more clue I don't know how to square, but maybe one of you. you can. The basement was dark, so much so that I didn't get a good look at the sample before I grabbed it. But on top of the Petri dish, there was some writing. It's not much, but on a piece of label tape, someone wrote S. Brooks. I'm not sure who that is. Maybe patient zero? If you have any theories, you should leave it in the comments below. I'll be on here for the next few hours to answer your questions. And don't forget to follow me for more updates. O.P. Over and out.
45:06 Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by Bryce Delaney and read by Willicana. Sound design and mix by Seth Williams and produced by David Flowers, with production assistants from Anna Kelly, Garrett Henderson, and Jessica Jurwitz. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. I think Chuck would approve.
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