Let's Not Meet: A True Horror Podcast - 1x05: Clifford - Let's Not Meet

Episode Date: February 18, 2019

Stories in this episode: Man laying halfway inside my kitchen floor, let’s not meet. - kikaOD  When I lived in Japan my neighbor really did not like me - taylorferran  The monster that almost ate my mother - Emily Story My encounter with Negan at an abandoned hospital- boygenieous BONUS STORY: Dr. Ramsey - sweetmercy Send in your stories: [e-mail] Follow Let's Not Meet: Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/433173970399259/  Twitter - https://twitter.com/letsnotmeetcast  Website - http://letsnotmeetpodcast.com  Patreon - http://patreon.com/letsnotmeetpodcast  Twitch - https://www.twitch.tv/crypticcounty  

AT&T Fiber presents a straightforward moment. Your wine? Thanks. I'll pretend I know what I'm doing before saying it's good. And I'll pretend I don't know you're pretending. Are you a Gagillionaire? Yeah, I have AT&T Fiber. The straightforward pricing has inspired me to be more straightforward.

Me too. Ugh, this wine. I'll fetch you a better one. Straight forward is better. No equipment fees, no data caps, no price increase at 12 months. Live like a Gagillionaire with AT&T Fiber, limited availability and select areas, visit ATT.com slash Hypergate for details. My name is Andrew Tate, and this is season 1 episode 5 of Let's Not Meet a True Horror

Podcast. A couple of months ago, I was at and at a time I'm usually not. At the time I had classes every single day at 2pm except for Friday. The day this happened. Now, I was lucky. Incredibly lucky. I was getting in the kitchen maybe an hour after getting home because I had been lazy. Too lazy to go make my lunch straight away after getting home. My kitchen counter is in a U shape.

One side in the bottom being on two of the walls and the other being in the middle of the kitchen. The window's being where the accent is. So I was in the inside of the U, and I hear my window being opened. Now I had my blinds opened maybe 20 centimeters and one window was opened maybe 10 centimeters. They won't open any more than that because we have sticks to prevent it. And the other side was supposedly locked

closed. The window that was open was the one that I had locked. I screamed loud, and yelled, get out, as I see a man laying on the floor with his head, arms and torso inside my house, and his legs outside. He starts leaving, looks straight at me, and asks, can I have some figs? My garden, I have a fig tree, and this was right around the time when they were good to eat. Me, panicking, continued yelling, no, no. The man stops exiting and looks at me, almost offended and asks, no, to get him out, my panicked mind just said, yes, take them, but don't take too many because there are very few on the tree. My panicked brain worked in a weird way. He exited, I closed all of my blinds and called the police as far as I know they didn't find

him, but they did make sure he was nowhere near my house. The thing is, I'm a 17 year old girl. My only advantage in this situation was that I saw him whilst he was getting in. If I had been anywhere else in the house, he would have gotten inside. So crazy, fake obsessed man, let's not meet. I lived in Japan for around 10 months, a couple of years back as part of a study abroad program as my placement year for university. I lived in Hiroshima, and pretty much every Japanese person I met was exactly how you

would expect them, generous and respectful. I'll accept this one old lady who just so happened to live in the apartment next to mine. It was about a month after I'd been in Japan when our group decided to go to a sake festival. As men of fine taste and culture, we sampled many different kinds of sake from all over Japan and got rode off beyond belief. Then we all got out of the train back home to our apartments. I can't remember shit all apart from calling my girlfriend at the time and passing out on my futon. Normal stuff.

Skip to 6am the next morning when my loud as fuck doorbell wakes me up. Keep in mind my apartment is extremely small so the noise is very loud. I check the time and I'm confused as anything but assume that it's just my friend from downstairs who wants to talk about last night. I look through the people and my door and I see a police officer standing there. First thought that goes through my head is, Taylor, what the fuck did you do when you were drunk last night? I talked to the police officer using a translation app,

and he basically tells me that there's been a noise complaint. Strange considering the fact that all I did was make a phone call and fall asleep. Anyway, the guy sees how confused I am and can tell that there must have been a mistake and leaves. I'm honestly still drunk and really confused, but the day carries on is normal. The next morning, 6am, the doorbell rings. I'm already kind of assuming what it was going to be at this time. And what do I see through the people? Two police officers. Same conversation goes down and I convinced them that there's been no noise. I literally walk them into my

apartment to show them how I fell asleep watching Netflix. They tell me at this point, it's the neighbor who I've never met that is making complaints. At this point, I think maybe she's just a bitch or she's racist. I asked a guy at my university who takes care of all the foreign students about this and he tells me that I'm going to be moving apartments going to a new room on a different floor. I'm pretty pissed because I just settled into my new space, but whatever. He plans on coming by tomorrow morning with a landlord to move my shit out, and check if my new room is okay. I forget woken up by something in the middle of the night, and it really fucks you up. I went to sleep at a good time that night in preparation for the people helping me move

my stuff out. Naturally, at 3 a.m. I'm fast asleep. And then suddenly, the loud dinging of the doorbell over and over and over again, it's just constantly ringing. It's fucking deafening, and of course it wakes me up right away. I can't even begin to tell you how scared I was. I couldn't even move. I didn't want to. After about a minute of what felt like incessant noise,

complete silence. I make my way over to the front door to look through the p-pole and I see nothing. But I just know that this psycho neighbor is there. Nothing else happens that night and I eventually get back to sleep. The next morning, still kind of shaken, but it's cool because my friends are coming around to help me out soon. I keep walking out to the front to check if they're downstairs and quickly closing my door

behind me because I don't know what this woman will try if she sees me. I walk into my room and the sliding door to my balcony is open. And there I see her for the first time. She literally wrapped her fucking body around the fence that separates our balconies whilst keeping her footing on her side and just staring at me. We stared each other for a second and she quickly whips back around onto her side. second and she quickly whips back around onto her side. Literally two seconds later, my doorbell rings. That's not possible. This is some demon shit.

I'm so fucked. That's all that was going through my head. Thank God it turns out to be the people to help me move my stuff. And I tell them what's up. And hastily moved downstairs to my new room. Outside of her turning up at my new apartment one time and asking if the police had came there, I was able to avoid her from then on out. I guess the police decided to start ignoring her calls. So crazy asshole lady, That's not meat. Mom was always very protective of me when I was growing up, telling the line between

being very caring and overprotective. As the shithead kid that I was, and in many ways maybe still am, I always thought it was because she didn't want me having fun. Only years later, as an adult, did I really learn where that fear came from for her. I'm never usually worried about my personal safety. I'm a woman, but based on my parents, people usually don't bother me. I'm 5'10", I'm built like a Clyde stale covered in tattoos. If they do, I'm usually able to talk my way out of most situations without having to resort to fistocuffs.

I'd like to think that I'm able to channel the serene confidence and the don't fucking come near me aura at the flick of a switch. Whereas case scenario, I carry something small, sharp and pointy, used mostly for opening thick packaging from things I impulse by off of eBay when I'm in bed on my phone, half asleep. Ma on the other hand is a sweet petite, small and stature with fine features. I wanted to describe her as being dainty, but I feel it would be an insult to her years of doing strength training, working on setting personal boundaries and finding her voice. Looking at pictures of my mom when she was little reminds me of all the hours I spent as a kid watching true crime documentaries. She had missing child

written all over her face. Shy and small, but very obedient, kind and eager to please. My mom was born in the early 60s and due to a less than Norman Rockwell home life, she fled in most of her time that she wasn't studying. With every extra curricular activity, she could get her hands on. Her favorites were acting class and track. Those small and size, she was a track star. She loved running and always said that it made her feel free. My mom has always said that she felt like prey. Throughout her childhood and teenage years, my mom endured the grave misfortune of encountering

more creepy men and escaping attempted deductions than she can count on fingers and toes. So many incidents that when she talks about it, there are categories and tactics of the men that she can count on fingers and toes. So many incidents that when she talks about it, there are categories and tactics of the men that she can identify. Patterns. She describes the men rubber-necking in their cars from the other side of the street, and then circling around the block so that they can pull up next to her on the sidewalk. She disdainfully refers to this tactic as classic. There are two kinds of creeps, she says. The ones who are so brazen and bold that they try to shock you with what they say or do,

then there are those that have to physically outrun or outwit. The other kind is worse. She stares into the vacant space behind me, defocusing. I stand across from her in the kitchen as she sits at the breakfast bar, lightly trembling. Her eyes locked and focused on the trauma as if she's tuned out her actual vision and is rewatching a memory in her head like a movie.

The other kind of creep, she says, is the one who tries to trick you. A lost dog, vaning injury or sickness to appeal to the part of most women that wants to be a caretaker. Our genetically pre-programmed maternal instinct. I'm standing in the kitchen cleaning up and putting away supper while she's reminiscing, walking me through her trauma. I told her it was something I wanted to write about.

The encounter that always terrified me the most as a kid was about my mom escaping a violent child rapist in serial killer. During the time this incident took place, my mom was in Kitsolano, staying with her older sister Carmel, and whatever loser Carmel was being beat up by that week. My mom always tells the story the same way. She was around 15 at the time, and she was squatting down on the sidewalk, looking at a large bullfrog. My mom described the feeling, the one where you feel like someone is watching you.

The one where you can feel someone's eyes on you as if they're a pair of clammy unwanted hands roaming all over your body and creating some kind of perverse 3D image in their own way. My mom looks up and locks eyes with a man sitting at a blue car. He sits, smiling, examining his prey. She said his eyes were wild, and his gaze was so cold blood and infixated that, recalling the incident decades later, produces goose bumps on the backs of refractal arms. He was the brazen kind.

No story of a lost dog, no limp, no invitations to lunch. A shark smelling blood in the water. His pupils dilated as he narrows in on his kill. I'm a rapist and I'm going to get you," he said, with a low grin on his face. He laughed maniacally, lurching forward in his seat. My mom said that she felt her knees go weak with fear. Years peppered with these encounters, and years of running track had instilled her

with a quick reaction time for dangerous situations. She begins to move dodging forwards and backwards in an attempt to de-chem out. He's revving the engine and accelerating the car backward and forward, almost as quickly as her legs are moving, matching my mother's movements. She explodes into a sprint. This time, there's no ribbon, no trophy. This time, she can feel the finish line is her life. He follows her in his car and she has to cut through several different backyards before she's able to get out of his line of sight. When she makes it home, to her sister's place, she explains what had happened. No one cared,

no one did anything. Well, you got away. What do you want me to do?" That's what they would say. Years later, in August 1981, that same face that had haunted her waking life and loomed like a ghost in her dreams was appearing everywhere she looked. Canadian serial killer Clifford Olson confesses to 11 murders, but mom instantly recognized him, horrified. I've always been interested in true crime. I remember googling his name when I got my own computer, finding every scrap of information I could about this monster that almost made a meal out of my mother.

I remember looking at one of those composite pictures where they show photos of all of his victims in a larger image, a patchwork quilt of loss. I shuttered as I looked at these children who looked so similar to my mother that they could have been related. She was his type. All 11 of Clifford Olson's murders took place in under two years from 1980 to 1981. Children ranging from the age of nine to 17 would be abducted, raped, and murdered by either strangulation or being bludgeoned to death. He had an extensive criminal history and was arrested on August 1981 on suspicion of attempts to abduct two girls.

He reached a controversial deal with authorities agreeing to confess to 11 murders and show the RCMP the location of the bodies of those not yet recovered. In return, authorities agreed that $10,000 for each victim was paid into a trust fund for his wife, Joanne, and then infant son Clifford III. His wife received $100,000 after Olsen cooperated with the RCMP, and the 11th body being a freebie. When Olsen pleaded guilty to all these counts of murder, he was given multiple life sentences. In 2011, media reported that Olsen had terminal cancer and had been transferred to a hospital in Quebec. He died on September 30th, at the age of 71. To give a little background, I'm a film student in college right now, and my buddies and

I are always looking for new locations to film our movies at. I make horror movies, so all the places I'm looking for and exploring are abandoned. And tonight, me and my group of friends, and their ten of us total, decided to check out this abandoned hospital down the street from our school. They had been there before and said that it was a great spot for filming and I should check it out. Tonight was that night. So when we get out there, I have my Nikon DSLR out with a handheld LED light attached to the top of the camera to scout out the place when we get inside. I didn't film any of the encounter because I usually only filmed the inside of these places, but I had my camera and my light out to shine my way through. I was leading the way down this narrow path that led to these walls that we had to climb

to get to the roof of the place where we would access one of the rooms to get inside of the building. Now because I was carrying my camera and bag, I was trying to look for another way up. So I walk a little further down this narrow path and I start noticing a lot of clothes and random shoes, cardboard boxes lying around the area. There was even an empty sleeping bag. That's what I knew that we probably weren't alone. And we were likely going to run into someone if we made the wrong move.

And boy, did we ever. One of my friends walking behind me, down this path notices a door to my right. It's closed, and my guess is that it was locked and just not worth trying. But he already has his hand on the door handle and starts tugging. I look over, and it barely cracks open, but something is holding it from the inside. I shine my LED on the inside, and I see a shirt tied to the inside door handle to another part of the room acting as a lock. But my friend, being the way he is, tugs again and rips that shirt right off when the door

swings open. Inside there's someone sleeping on a table alongside a group of terrifying looking people sitting inside by a light in that room. They all stop and stare at us. In the short glimpse of what I got, my friend yells, Oh shit, get the fuck out of here! And slams the door. He just bolts past me. I was standing there a little shaken, almost feeling like I should apologize, but I just follow him instead.

My other eight friends are already on the roof at this point, asking what's going on. And we just run for our lives out of the area. I hear the door and the paths wing open. But I couldn't look back. From there, me and my friend rendezvous back to the higher part of the area, away from the entrance leading to the hospital. There's a small gap that you could jump across to get from one of the roofs to the building that my other friends were on. About four of them follow us and jump across, ready to get out of there.

But the others stay on the roof and watch us stuck like statues. They look at them, confused at what they're staring at, and I begin to hear this metal dragging on the concrete. I turn around, and there's a crazy-looking man. Maybe mid-twenties, dragging a baseball bat with nails all along the end, walking towards us as he drags the bat along the concrete.

My heart sinks. At this point, I turn off my light, and all that is shining is the moonlight. I keep my hand on my pocket knife, desperately trying to think of anything I can do if he starts swinging. But I knew that there was no way I would come out of it alive if I tried anything. Plus I got to take care of my camera. So he walks closer to us. And the first thing he says is, you're going to want to keep that light off.

And everyone is silent. I'm shaking. He then starts circling around us as he says, you guys are never going to come back here, right? He walks past me and sees the camera. Raises his bat saying, and you are going to put the fucking camera away, right? I just barely say, yeah, yeah, it's off. He looks over to my friends watching on the roof past a gap and he points to them and he says, jump. And they stand silent. The guy says again, fucking jump across right now.

Just run in jump. You'll make it. Keep in mind the gap doesn't look that bad, but the drop is fatal if you don't make the jump. And my four friends are all staring down at the drop, fearing what could happen. One of them says, I don't think I can make it. The guy replies, run and jump, or else you're gonna regret it.

So my friend steps back, runs, and barely makes the jump. From there, one by one, the other three make the jump across. All the while, this guy is standing right behind us with his bat, dragging it along the concrete. Once we get across, he says to us, You're never coming back here again. You understand? We awkwardly apologize and run away back to our cars in the distance. I get in my car and look back at the area. He's still standing there, watching us with his bat as we sped off. Realistically, we could have probably ganged up on him as a group if anything had happened,

but who knows who else was back there. Sadly, the hospital is a no-go from here on out, but I'll be looking around for some other locations. What scared me the most about all of this was how fearless and disturbed this guy looked. He definitely has seen some shit and had undoubtedly used that bat before on someone else. He looked like a killer. Maybe he was a killer. And it was his calmness that really got to me.

Definitely a lesson learned, but regardless, let's not meet again. A week or so before my 10th birthday, I walked to the corner store with the $5 bill and picked up a jar of ragu for my mom. On the way home, a man I'd never seen before fell in step with me and began talking. Hi, he said cheerfully, my name is Dr. Ramsey. I'm a pediatrician. Do you know what a pediatrician is? I walked along silently, not replying and fervently hoping he would take that as a sign that he should leave me alone

subtleties were not his strong suit though. He kept right on chattering. Are your parents looking for a pediatrician for you? Of course, you're almost a big girl now. You'll be needing another kind of doctor soon, won't you? That's okay. They can still bring you to me until then. What's your name? You have beautiful hair. I was just on my way to get some suckers for the candy jar in my office. Do you like suckers? Thankfully, we were nearing my house, so I ran forward up the steps and into the kitchen door. I didn't know it then, but that was the beginning of a very long, very scary ordeal. It didn't take long after

that for Dr. Ramsey to begin showing up. At first it seemed to benign enough, at least to a kid. He would drive by nearly every day, smiling and waving. I told my mom who said, maybe it was on his way home from work. But then the phone calls began. My dad called me into the living room and sat me down. He asked me about the day that Dr. Ramsey followed me home, and if I had talked to him, he said I wasn't in trouble, but that I needed to tell him the truth. I told him, no, and he asked if I was sure, could I be forgetting something? I told him again, he frowned, then asked, and how does he know your name? I didn't know.

It turns out that's not all that he knew. He knew my sister's name as well. Pretty soon neither my sister nor I were allowed to answer the phone because he called several times a day. At first neither of us knew what he was saying. Then one night one of my brothers told us that he neither of us knew what he was saying. Then one night, one of my brothers told us that he was telling my parents that he was going to hurt me. And later, my sister. Well, things got complicated after that. My dad had called the police, but as this was

before there were any kind of stalking laws, there wasn't a lot that they could do. It told my parents to call back if he, quote unquote, tried anything. My dad then called a friend from back in the day, who happened to be a cop. For the next month, my dad's friend would escort me to and from school. Suddenly, life as I knew it it came screeching to a halt. I couldn't walk to school alone, I couldn't play outside, I couldn't walk to the super America, which is sort of like a 7-Eleven for those who don't know. When access to me was completely denied, things escalated. It was around this time that he began threatening my sister as well.

And one afternoon my sister, two of my brothers, my mom and I, were in the kitchen. One of my brothers saw a glimpse of someone in the garage. They'd seen him, too. Dr. Ramsey came bolting out of the garage. My brother's chasing after him. They ran all the way down to Cherokee Park where they lost him in the trees. My parents called the police again, but nothing came of it. The only information they had was a description and a name that was almost certainly fake.

Well, a couple of weeks later, we woke to find our dog hanging from the side porch. She was a gorgeous, saddle-back German shepherd born the same day I was. We were all devastated. The cop said that there was no evidence that it was him and ruled it accidental, but none of us believed that. His phone calls became more informative in the meantime. He would talk to us about who was home and who wasn't. If my brother would say my dad was home, he would tell him who was really in the house.

He also would talk about the house itself, about the window and the kitchen that he could easily open with a knife from the outside, even when it was locked, and about the house itself, about the window in the kitchen that he could easily open with a knife from the outside, even when it was locked, and about the French doors that connected the living room to the side porch, and how the lock could be finangled from the outside if he jiggled it just right. That night, my dad put in some carpenter nails at the bottom of the French doors until he could get a new lock order. My parents had to go to a company event for my dad's work. My older brothers were at St. West Roller skating rink. My sister was on the phone with her best friend. My little brother was on the floor of sleep. I was watching Devo on the midnight special with Wolfman Jack. It was late.

Suddenly, the top of the French doors swung open. And in the few milliseconds before the nails at the bottom caused them to snap back, I could see his silhouette. My sister whipped the phone at the television, and we ran upstairs. About half way up we realized our little brother was still asleep on the living room floor. As quietly as we could, we slipped back down the stairs to get him. We all went into our bedroom and didn't turn on the light. This way we could see outside. We watched out the window for a while, and when we didn't find him, we crept down the hall to our brother's room to look. We looked down,

and could see someone standing at the back door. He knocked loudly. What do you want? My sister asked out the window. He stepped back and said, Is this the mercy residence? I have a pizza for delivery. Can you come to the door? She scoffed at him, declaring she was not stupid. She could see.

He didn't have a pizza, and that she was calling the cops. He left. A short while later, my brother's returned home. and that she was calling the cops. He left. A short while later, my brothers returned home. We told them what had happened and they walked around the yard watching for him. They came back in and things settled down. By now, we'd pretty much given up calling the cops because it never helped.

So we just went back in. Each of us except my youngest brother still asleep, carrying a knife from the kitchen just in case. Eventually one of my brothers wanted the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal as a snack. You know, that sensation you get when you can just feel someone watching you. Yeah, he had that in spades. He kept looking around the kitchen through the doorway into the dining room at the windows. He didn't see anything, but he could still feel eyes on him. So he went closer to the door to try and see better. The kitchen lights were reflecting on the windows of the door.

It had the re-rose of windows. So he still couldn't see. He stepped closer, then closer again, until he was right up to the door, then cupped his hands on either side of his head so that he could see. On the other side of the window pane was Dr. Ramsey. Smiling back. He turned to yell for my old and brothers, and when he looked back again, it was gone. They went out again to look for him, but they didn't find him. The next night, we were at the table playing crazy eights, and my brother was restless. My sister asked him what was wrong, and he said he always felt like any minute now there would be a boom, boom, boom, at the door or the window.

Almost immediately after he finished this sentence, it happened. Three booms at the window right behind him. In the chaos, the two eldest ran outside, but he was already gone. A couple of weeks later, I was at school when we were outside on the playground during recess. I was swinging upside down when I saw that now familiar blue Ford Galaxy cruising by, moving slowly. There he was, smiling and waving. He called my name and I ran to the teacher and told her. The school had been told all about him and she took me inside right away and called my mom. That same day, my mom had gotten a call from the office asking her

to verify that my dad was picking me up as he'd called to say that he was on his way. He wasn't. Not long after that I woke up one night, thirsty, and went down to the kitchen for a drink, sitting there alone in the dark, was my dad. On the table, a gun. He was tired of the police waiting until Dr. Ramsay tried something. He was tired of his children being terrorized. He was tired of being afraid every time he left for work that something would happen to us while he was gone. I sat with him for a time watching before he sent me back to bed. These events in many more took place over a period of around 18 months. Then as suddenly as it began, it was over.

He had vanished from our lives. The phone calls, the drive-by is with the creepy waves, everything. For a long time, during and after the Dr. Ramsey days, I would have reoccurring nightmares, in which I would wake up to find him standing over me as I slept. It took a long time before I felt like a kid again. I found out years later that when he was calling Dr. Ramsey would tell my parents that he was going to rape and kill me and later my sister, and that there was nothing that they could do about it. I don't know what

happened to him when he disappeared. I don't know if he was in a car wreck or locked in prison, maybe in a coma, but sometimes I wonder if the weight ended for my dad when he was sitting in the dark and kitchen one night. I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to. Thanks for listening to season 1 episode 5 of Let's Not Meet, a true horror podcast. This week you have heard man laying halfway inside my kitchen floor, let's not meet by Kika O.D. When I lived in Japan, my neighbor really didn't like me, by Taylor Farron. The monster that almost ate my mother by Emily Story and Vancouver Canada, my encounter with Nigan, at an abandoned hospital, by Boy Genius. And finally, a retelling of Dr. Ramsay by Reddit user SweetMerce.

There's a new email address for story submissions, moving forward, please send all submissions to Let's Not Meet Stories at gmail.com. This way I'll better be able to organize and stay up to date with all the correspondence at the older email address. And if you already submitted your story to the old one, your story will still be considered and read. Don't worry. I'll see you next week for a brand new episode of Let's Not Mead. You