Let's Not Meet: A True Horror Podcast - 6x08: Dear Santa - Let's Not Meet

Episode Date: May 24, 2021

Stories in this episode:  -A Squatter With A Box Cutter - London Fog (0:57).  -The Masked Man - koolkatkari (17:14).  -Guy With A Machete - Natasha (30:03).  -Dear Santa - Maria A (40:34).  -Bonus Story: My Own Smiling Man Who Happened to Love Scooby Doo - PistolPerfect (46:51).  All of the stories you've heard this week were narrated and produced with the permission of their respective authors. Let's Not Meet: A True Horror Podcast is not associated with Reddit or any other message boards online. To submit your story to the show, send it to [e-mail]. Get access to weekly bonus episodes of Let's Not Meet: A True Horror Podcast, ad-free versions of the free shows and a bunch of other great exclusive material and merch at patreon.com/letsnotmeetpodcast. This podcast would not be possible to continue at this rate without the help of the support of the legendary LNM Patrons. Come join the family! Right now Embr Wave is offering our listeners $50 off when you go to http://embrwave.com/meet. Go to Bombas.com/meet today, and get 20% off your first order! Upstart is the fast and easy way to pay off your debt with a personal loan–all online. Find out how Upstart can lower your monthly payments today when you go to upstart.com/meet. - Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/433173970399259/  - Twitter - https://twitter.com/letsnotmeetcast  - Website - https://letsnotmeetpodcast.com - Patreon - https://patreon.com/letsnotmeetpodcast - Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsnotmeetcast/ - Twitch - https://twitch.tv/retroxpizza/ 

You're already there, hero. But if you want to take it to the next level, turn up Bull Loose in your backyard. Whoa! Bull Outdoor can help you design, build, then deliver the outdoor kitchen of your dreams. Think of all the fun you'll have. Grills, pizza ovens, sinks, ice chests, refrigerators, and more.

All designed to last a lifetime. Start customizing now at bullbibikew.. That's bullbbq.com and turn a bull loose in your backyard. This podcast contains adult language and content. The stories in this show can be frightening and disturbing for some. Listener discretion is advised. If you have a story to share, send it to let's not meet stories at gmail.com. Enjoy the show. My name is Andrew Tate and this is season six episode eight of Let's Not Meet a true horror podcast. Have you ever looked in the face of your own death? I had that unfortunate experience several times.

I've determined it's happened to me because I enjoy the thrill of a solo adventure. I love being alone, standing over a screaming waterfall, running through quiet woods, driving through open, desolate roads. On the outskirts of this solitude are the predators. They stalk alongside, watching us wanderers fall apart from the herd, waiting to deliver death. heard, waiting to deliver death. Adventurous women like me are particularly vulnerable, but also I believe are more aware when in the presence of danger. Maybe it's primal. Maybe the pheromones of a predator spiking our consciousness. This is the story of my first solo adventure and my first rush with one such predator. In the late summer before my freshman year of college, I got my driver's license in a

shiny yellow Jeep Wrangler. I was 17 and I loved that Jeep. It was pure freedom. I put the top down, smoked cigarettes, and hit the backcountry roads in Indiana. I pretended I was some glamorous model that had gotten lost on her way back to California. My parents had moved our family to Indiana the year prior, and I just didn't fit in there. I was a city girl. I wore the wrong clothes.

I didn't listen to country music, and I had a nasally northern accent. I had made exactly one friend that year and she was inconveniently spending the summer on the Kentucky border. After some really lonely weekends, I decided to road trip the few hours to see her. It was a Saturday and she was having a party. As a new driver, I didn't think my parents would like the idea of me traveling hours away, so I decided to leave after they had gone to their second shift jobs. I would leave at 10pm and make it to the party at about 12.30am or so. At 10, I got into my Jeep with my printed directions from Yahoo Maps. This was the early 2000s and I didn't have a cell phone or GPS.

I noted the gas gauge was at just over half and I'd have to stop for gas somewhere before arriving. Off I went without a care into the world, messy bun, short shorts, and a tank top. My dad had told me never to drive with flip flops, so I was wearing some sneakers. It was a peaceful, clear night. There weren't many people on the highway just a few truckers. I bopped along to the radio, trying to ignore the gas gauge and make good time. When I got below a quarter of a tank, I started to look for a gas station. I saw a sign and followed the off ramp to a wooded

area. The road teed and the sign said to turn right. Another mile down the road, another sign said turn left. The gas station was a few more miles and a few more turns. It was one of those sad looking stations with the ancient pumps that aren't digital, so they don't take debit cards. Cash only. Also, closed at six. I was cold and getting a bit nervous because I wasn't sure how to get back to the highway. I, family, tried to make the rickety pump give me a few drops of gas.

Then I put the top and windows back on my jeep, feeling ridiculous for the flimsy outfit. I tried to retrace my path and ended up further in the maze of cornfields. I'm not a country girl. I just assumed at some point all roads lead to civilization, but they don't. After another 40 minutes of driving, the car started to sputter, just a little. Now I panicked.

There was nothing for miles, but blocks of cornfields broken into patches of woods. Very few houses. The occasional house I did pass was completely dark. The moon and my headlights were the only things illuminating the road. Finally, I saw a light. At the end of a long driveway, between two mode fields,

was a pole barn. The barn's tall doors were cracked, and the light inside shone through dimly. In front of the barn, set a man with the baseball cap, slug low over his face. He was sitting in a lawn chair. Even as I write this, I'm overwhelmed by my own naivety at that age. I grew up in Detroit. I was familiar with violence. I should have known that a willowy teenage girl like myself should not approach a grown man in an isolated area. But after living in Indiana for a year, I'd grown accustomed to everyone's country-friendly

ness and didn't have much of a guard up. And I was desperate. I maneuvered the Jeep down the dirt and gravel, noticing that there were a few half-logs across the driveway. Country speed bumps. As my headlights clared onto the man, he shielded his face with his hand. He stood up and I noticed he was holding a beer. I opened my door and slid out, stammering. Hi, I'm almost out of gas and I need help. He had taken two steps left out of the headlights. That's when I saw his face, his dead eyes.

They looked like nothing but black holes. His dirty face was smiling slightly. He let the beer can slip from his hand, and he stepped forward. I almost screamed at the beer can, hitting the ground, but the sound wouldn't escape my lips. I clamored back into my jeep and pressed the lock button down just as he reached for the handle. He was standing there, very close to the glass for just a few seconds while I frantically searched for my damn keys. They had fallen to the floorboard, but as I reached for them, I heard a tap on my window. I grabbed my keys and looked up. He was smiling wildly with

rotten teeth, tapping on my window with a box cutter. I felt my arms and legs go numb. I couldn't coordinate my fingers to put the key into the ignition. He started to cut the plastic window of the Jeep in a loopy pattern, toying with me. I was finally able to slam the key into the ignition. He grabbed the side of the window, and I hurt the sickening rip of the Velcro coming apart. I slammed the car into reverse, gunning it over the country's speed bumps. Two of them. I was swerving backwards. I thought I heard him laughing. The Jeep made a sickening hiss as I tried to peel out on the road ahead. One of the front wheels was caught on a log. I had finally run

out of gas. I saw him, maybe 40 yards from me. He was stopped halfway in the driveway, so he must have ran after me. I swallowed hard, scrambling out of my Jeep, running up the road like I had never run before in my life. My ears rung, I couldn't hear anything except the deafening beat of my own heart. The thuds sounded like footsteps behind me. Trees grew over the road and blocked out the moon, like a tunnel. The road turned sharply uphill and I could feel him gaining on me. I ran track in high school and I'm sure that that night I beat any previous personal records. Through the tunnel of trees I could see the moonlight then a house. I'm normally close to the road for this area, maybe just 20 feet. Oddly, there were bars on the front door. But there were flower planters on the porch,

and people who plant flowers don't kill people, right? I banged on the door with all of my might, half looking over my shoulder, expecting that he would emerge from the shadow we rode at any moment. Who are you? What do you want? An old lady clutching her robe together had peered out a barely cracked door. Please, please let me in. Your neighbor is trying to kill me. I was out of breath from the run, desperate, sweaty. I must have looked nuts because she closed the door.

She closed the door on me. And I heard her yell, my husband is coming. A gruff, heavy-set farmer came to the door and looked down at me. What's going on? I was in tears, hysterical. I could barely eke out that his neighbor was trying to kill me. And I needed to come in and call

the police. Honey, we don't have any neighbors. Are you talking about my pole barn? With that he shut the door. Again, I was left trembling on the porch. A few seconds later though, the farmer came out holding a shotgun. Well, we might as well go and check. Come on. He motioned for me to get into his truck. I just want to get out of here. I don't want to go back there. He could hurt us.

I was shaking uncontrollably. That's why I'm bringing the gun. No bastard is going to trespass on my property. I slid onto the bench seat of his truck, with the barrel of the shotgun across my lap. What choice did I have? We drove down the road where he could clearly see my jeep, haphazardly, left with the doors swung open. The pole barns' doors were still cracked, with the light on, but no sight of the crazed would be murderer.

We traveled up the driveway and the farmer cautiously hopped out, shot gun, half at the ready. He slid the barn doors open a little wider, leaving me alone in the truck. The waiting was almost as bad as the running. My arms and legs went numb again. I couldn't take a real breath. When the farmer re-emerged, he had the shotgun pointed down casually at his side, but he looked irritated. He bent down to pick up the beer can, tossed it into a barrel, and got back into the truck.

Well, it looks like you were right. Looks like someone has been living here. We got the crops down last week, and we haven't been back here since. The bastard left his sleeping bag. I guess we better call the cops now and get you some gas. What on earth are you doing driving around at this hour? I didn't have a good answer. The farmer let me wait inside his house until the sheriff came. He took my statement and tried to call my parents on our house phone.

No answer. Lucky me. Then the farmer drove me to the Shell station to get some gas and then back to fill up my jeep. Instead of driving home, I drove to my friend's place. I made it there at 5am, and I collapsed as soon as I stepped out of the Jeep, and her stepdad found me unconscious on the lawn a few minutes later. I was a doe, exhausted from the chase. My friend joked that I had been partying so hard on my own that I didn't make it to see her. But she became somber after hearing

what I had actually gone through. I slept for several hours, then drove home and told my parents an abbreviated version of the story. It was a decade before I wanted to tell the story again. In fact, I tried not to think of it. I kept traveling though. Sometimes alone, sometimes across the country, sometimes in foreign places, there were a few close calls during my decade of wandering. Currently, I'm married, late 30s with a predictable, comfortable life. I wonder if that's why I think of these things now. I couldn't then, and they have stopped me from exploring. I get light-headed and chilled when I think about that man and his dark dilated eyes.

Wanted to kill me. Occasionally, I see other predatory eyes and bashing as I go about my daily life, but I'm no longer a target. I stay with the herd, a carry a weapon, my head's always on swivel. Under my husband's protective arm, I pray that dark soul hasn't found any fellow kindred spirits. To other wanderers though, stay safe out there. Into the squatter with the box cutter, let's not meet again.

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kitchen of your dreams. Think of all the fun you'll have. Grills, pizza ovens, sinks, ice chests, refrigerators, and more. All designed to last a lifetime. Start customizing now at bullbibq.com. That's bullbibq.com and turn a bull loose in your backyard. I spent most of my life wondering if I overreacted to this encounter. So maybe if I write it out and let you read it, you can make the choice yourself. I was in fifth grade and it was a very stale, cold morning as I grew up in a city that

often had brutally cold winters. To give you some context, there were five of us kids. I have two older brothers and older sister, and then it's me, the younger girl. Then I have a little brother. The year before my older sister, little brother, and I would walk to our bus stop that was only three blocks uphill from our house. As my sister finished fifth grade, the year previous, she began attending school with my older brothers and she would ride with them to school. This year, it was only me and my little brother

that attended our elementary school. On this particular day, my little brother wasn't filling well and he stayed home from school. My mom had to leave very early for work so she couldn't drop me off, so I had to ride the bus. Knowing that I would be walking to the bus stop alone, I began getting ready a bit more anxiously than normal. My mother often had a clock set 10 to 15 minutes fast to help her get ready in time,

which is funny because she was still often late. I didn't have to wait for my brother, as he was sick, so it didn't take long to get ready. Terrified, I would miss the bus, and unable to truly gauge the time based on the accuracy of the clock, I began to walk to our bus stop. This was a new experience for me, as I was used to having at least one family member walking with me to the bus stop. But no worries, I was in fifth grade and had this under control. Not to mention, there was a girl a couple of grades below me that waited at that bus stop

there too. So I knew that I wouldn't truly be alone. I britzley walked up hill and headed to the stop. The bus stop was next to a four-way intersection. There was a small wooden beam at the edge of someone's property that I imagined was built to keep the dirt from pouring onto the sidewalk. The beam was about two feet high and was perfect for sitting. It was almost like bus route planners new kids would need a spot to rest on early mornings, such as these. Straight across from the stop was a huge community building. In a

weird way it reminded me of a castle or a boarding school. It was currently used as a rental property for church groups and the like. The large building had multiple entrances and levels. Across the street from the bus stop was a side entrance to this building. Next to the side entrance was a small shed-like structure. It was one of those buildings that was covered up and cement and had small rocks pressed into the sides. As I reached the bus stop, I realized the little girl that was supposed to be waiting at the bus stop wasn't there. This concerned me. She

was usually there at the same time every single day, which was about 10 minutes before our bus got there, and our family was always running late. So we would arrive at the bus stop only minutes before it arrived. So I knew that if I meet her here, it was probably pretty early. I got nervous knowing that I would be alone. You're in fifth grade. You got this. I reassure myself. I began to wonder what time it really was,

because as I continued to wait, the little girl still had not shown up. I didn't have a watch, and cell phones were barely a thing in the early 2000s. As I waited in the cold, a grown man on a bike rode down from the street behind and pulled next to the side entrance of this large building. He was wearing a ski mask as he was riding the bike. It was quite cold. A ski mask isn't completely out of the ordinary, I guess. However, I hadn't seen anyone wear a ski mask since the late 1990s.

I tried to rush it off and give him the benefit of the doubt. He parked his bike next to the smaller shed-like building. Men riding bikes in our neighborhood was not unusual, as we did not live on the richest side of town. It was one of those neighborhoods full of average, lower middle-class people. Teenagers and drunks liked to muddle around so that they could break into garages and steal bikes, tools, and lawnmowers. At first, I wasn't completely alarmed. I knew he was

behind of the building, but he didn't seem to want to bother me as I was previously waiting for the bus. Cars would drive by every once in a while. Like I said, no big deal. But a few minutes go by with no cars passing, and the man walks around the corner of the building and leans against the side. He just stares at me. As the non-confrontational people pleaser that I am, and quite frankly still am, I just kept my head down. Maybe he was just waiting for a ride, I think to myself, as I tried to justify the increasingly odd behavior. A car turns down the street and drives by.

The ski-masked man disappears behind the building. Maybe he could tell I was weirded out and decided to give me some space. I hoped. My stomach, which felt like it was stuffed up into my throat, while I tried to understand his behavior, fell to my feet as he returned to stare at me with his hands in front of him. The same thing happened over and over again, though.

A car would drive by and he would return to the backside of the small building. The car would disappear and he would come back and stare at me. The ski mask made it harder for me to make out just what his intentions were. Luckily the streets were busy as people were leaving their homes to head to work and take their kids to school. I knew I would be safe as long as cars kept driving by. My fear rose with the thought that there would be a window of time with no cars.

My gut told me I needed to get out of there before that happened. I began to grow more and more anxious with every encounter. Over and over again, car would pull up. He would disappear. Car disappeared. The man reappeared. over and over again, car would pull up, he would disappear. Car disappeared, the man reappeared. And where was this little girl?

Where was the bus? I wondered, hoping someone would save me so I wouldn't have to save myself. The only conclusion that I could come up with was that I had arrived way too early for the bus, and it would still be quite a while before she would even appear, let alone the bus

driver. I sat trying to devise a plan. The man can't know that I'm scared. I thought about walking back to my mom's, but that would mean I would have to pass him. Not to mention, his ride would be all downhill. Plus, he had a bike. He could easily see me and catch up to me. He would see how frantic I was.

My mother wouldn't be home, not to mention my little brother was there. If the man followed me, we wouldn't have anyone to protect us. Luckily, my dad lived in an apartment a few blocks away in the opposite direction. He was unemployed, so I knew he'd probably be home, not to mention if I walked towards his apartment. I would have to walk uphill for half a block. But then it would turn to all downhill. If I could make enough that hill quickly as possible, I could disappear once it sloped downwards. My plan in place, I stood up as the next car approached us. I headed up the incline, walking like it was the most normal thing I had ever done.

Never once did I look back. I was determined to make it over that hill. And once I reached the part of the sidewalk that began to slope, I looked over my shoulder. I couldn't see the mask man. This was my cue to take off in a sprint. Down the hill I hauled ass, my purple Disney backpack, thumping with every step that I took. I made it two blocks, then hit the turn hard

to make it to my dad's with tears running down my face. I banged on the apartment door. My face both hot with tears and cold from the temperature that morning. My dad frequently called the police, so this was not an unusual response when he dialed the number. The officer showed up and asked me to recount the events over and over.

The re-questioning made it more difficult to be certain of the events and the possibility that maybe I had been overly dramatic. My dad called my mom and she rushed home to stay with my brother and I, reassuring me that I did the right thing. The cops explained that they couldn't find the man and searched the area multiple times. I felt disappointed as there wasn't much to describe. Man with a ski mask and jeans on a bike.

Sixteen years later, this situation still bothers me. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision and what might have happened had I not ran to my dad's apartment. Looking back as an elementary school teacher now, I would have wanted any of my students to get out of that situation as quickly as possible. So creep with the ski mask? Let's not meet again. Don't let the summer heat bake in, road-grime any longer, head to your nearby Zips Car Wash to clean up and cool off.

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I come from a violent country, so violence and danger, they weren't new to me. When you live like that, you kind of get used to it. You don't pay much attention. Somebody once said to me, if you're going to live in fear and Brazil, you're not going to live at all. When I was around 16, I was fearless. I would take buses late at night, walk by myself, and never really cared because nothing had happened to me up to that point. Until a particular day. This was 2004. It was a Friday, around 7 pm.

I took my usual bus to meet my then-boy friend. He had late classes and we usually met afterwards to do something. That day we were going to a concert. I was so used to that route. In my country buses, usually have two people working on it. The bus driver and the ticket collector that stays at the front, where you can see a ticket gate. Right beside that gate, there's a single seat, which was my favorite. I sat there by myself mining my own business, listening to music, knowing that nobody would sit or stand by me. The bus had its lights off, and that was normal, and to be honest, I liked it.

I would sit down, listen to music with my headphones while looking at the city lights. I saw in the low lights that the bus only had one guy sitting in front with the ticket gate, and a couple sitting two seats behind. I got to my single seat and the bus carried on. A few minutes in, the ticket collector started screaming at the bus driver. Turn the lights on, turn the lights on, he has a weapon. The bus driver turned the lights on and I looked back. There was a guy, he was standing up. He was wearing a button-down shirt, but I looked back. There was a guy, he was standing up. He was wearing a button

down shirt, but it was open, and he had blood all over his chest area and his hands. He was holding a fucking machete covered in blood. I froze. I looked at the window to see if I could jump from it, but I couldn't. So I stood there, frozen. He pointed the machete at the bus collector's face and said, I'm not going to hurt you, just stay calm. They then moved towards the couple and the seats in the back. He sat on the seat across from them. He asked the guy,

what do you have for me? The guy visibly nervous was shaking trying to get his wallet out of his pocket. The machete guy got pissed. He got up and started hitting the guy with the side of the machete, screaming and I couldn't really make out what he was saying. The guy got money out of his wallet and gave it to the machete guy, who threw the money back into his face and continued screaming. He then went a few seats back, began crying and screaming, and started stabbing the seats violently. He was stabbing the seats, screaming, saying, damn you bitch. Why did you have to do that?

Look what you made me do, you bitch. Fuck you. And cried out a name. Now I don't remember what the name was. The bus never stopped. The bus driver just kept driving like nothing was happening. That is until he stopped for another passenger. The new person comes onto the bus unaware of what was happening. That is until he stopped for another passenger. The new person comes onto the bus unaware of what's happening. This other person walks in, stops in front of the ticket gate to pay for his fare, crosses the gate just to be surprised by

the machete man who screams in his face, takes his money, then punches him. The guy moves directly to the exit door in the back. And at that moment, I made a mistake. And a complete panic. I thought I could try to leave with him, so I quickly got up just to be blocked by the machete guy. I think up to that point, he actually didn't know I was there. That's when he saw me. I sat down on a common seat, the one for two people.

He sat beside me and calmly asked, what do you have for me? Just my phone. I don't want this shit, I want money. Do you have money? He screams and throws my phone on my lap. I start to cry. No, just the phone.

I seriously had no money on me, but even if I had, I don't think it would have made any difference. He was sitting by my side when he started slowly stabbing the seat. He turned to me and said, have you ever been stabbed? I was stunned. No. Do you want to know what it feels like? No, please. I started crying with my head down.

He then cuts himself in front of me. He passes the machete on his arms and says, this is what it looks like. I start sobbing alone thinking, I'm going to die and it's going to hurt nobody is going to save me. He gets up, then goes back to the couple, starts harassing them, kicking them, punching them, screaming at them more. He stabs some other seats.

Curses that same name that he was cursing before asks why cries some more He does this all together. It's a fucking freak show The bus goes through a long road and before it reaches the bus terminal Is one of those long power line corridors with all the power lines and grass That's where he asks to get off the bus The bus driver continues. Then the ticket collector starts screaming, stop the goddamn bus. He wants to get out. The bus stops. He gets out and runs towards the power lines. The bus closes the doors and moves on. I saw his silhouette running through the field.

I sat there shaking, crying. His blood on the seat next to me. I was completely shocked, paralyzed. I reached my former boyfriend's school. I sat there stunned, waiting for him. When he came out of his class, I broke down, started crying, and I told him what happened. He couldn't believe it. I told him I wanted to go home, that I didn't want to go to that concert anymore.

He then looks at me and says, he gets it. He's going to take me home, then go to the concert by himself. Great guy, whatever. My theory is that machete guy found his wife or girlfriend doing something he wasn't happy about. Maybe he got high and murdered her and saw the blood on him and on the machete. He was cutting himself, but I don't think that it was his blood that was on him. I became very frightened. I wasn't able to do stuff by myself anymore. I wasn't brave anymore. I became very jumpy.

I was robbed two more times. It wasn't this spectacular, but it was enough to make me almost a gore-phobic. I was so afraid to go out of my house, I had to go to therapy. Then I got the chance to move to Canada, which is a very safe country, especially compared to Brazil. Here I was able to feel better,

take the bus again, walk around with headphones, all the stuff that I couldn't do back at home. I'm still very jumpy, and I get freaked out fairly easily, but no comparisons. This was years ago, but just writing it, has made my skin crawl. In conclusion, machete guy, please, let's never meet again. Y, ¿por qué no sé que te pretende? ¿Estás un guillanero? Sí, tengo 18T Fiber. El straightforward pricing ha inspirado a mí para estar más straightforward. Me, tú. Es una, yo te lo pongo.

Straight forward es mejor. No equipes, no data caps, no prensa de 12 meses. Llevo como un guillanero con 18T Fiber. Llamé en la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abierta de la abier en www.acp.com. Estilo de pieza cabeza para donde sea que vayas. Jay Cipeni. Before I start the story, I should tell you some things. Growing up, I had quite the imagination. I would often come up with fake scenarios and stories.

So after some time, my parents knew what I was doing and dismissed all of my tails. Moreover, I used to and still do have very realistic life-like dreams. I would often confuse reality with my dreams. So needless to say, my parents didn't take me very seriously. I wasn't the only one to blame for my wild imagination, however, like most kids, I was brought up in a world of fairy tales, as my grandma used

to say. My favorite of these fairy tales was Santa Claus. Whenever Christmas rolled around, my brother and I would write letters to Santa. We would mail them and then wait until midnight on Christmas Eve to see Santa eat the cookies and drink the milk, we carefully laid out for him. Of course, for years we saw nothing, but we just thought to ourselves, dammit, we fell asleep again, whatever we'll catch him next year.

So next year rolled around and we prepared as usual. We left cookies and milk on the table, moved the chairs from the front of the fireplace so that he could squeeze through it and waited. We waited and waited. We started giving up home when we heard something. We heard the front door slowly open, then heavy footsteps. We caught him.

I whispered from the top monk bed that my brother and I shared. Finally, after all these years, five minutes passed, and this steps started getting closer and closer. Suddenly, the door opens slowly slowly and in comes Santa. We're both ecstatic. He saw that we were both excited and motioned to us to be quiet. He then approached us, handed us some gifts, and asked us to get off of our beds and play with him. So we did. off of our beds and play with him.

So we did. We must have been playing for 30 minutes before he stood up and said, okay, I have to go now. Other children are waiting for me. But before I go, I wanna take some pictures of you to put them next to your names on my list. We were stoked. So we let them take our pictures, then we watched him leave. We never saw him again.

For the next five years, we waited and waited, but nothing ever came of it. Did he forget about us? No, that can't be. He knew our names. We were on his list. He had taken pictures of us. He couldn't have forgotten. I was five when we saw him, my brother four. He doesn't really remember a thing. Well,

as one would expect at the age of ten, five years after the incident, my parents burst my fairy-tell-infused bubble. Santa isn't real. But I saw him, I said, as soon as my dad broke the news to me. Honey, you probably had one of those dreams of yours. Santa doesn't exist. I was devastated. I didn't know what to tell my brother since he absolutely adored Santa, even though he doesn't really remember meeting him. Years went by, and I sort of forgot about the whole thing. As a teen, I remembered the incident, and thought to myself, why does Dad not admit that he dressed up like Santa that night?

I mean, he already told us that he doesn't exist? Why doesn't he just admit it? But I let that slide and shrugged it off and just blamed his forgetfulness. Last year, 15 years after the incident, I traveled back home to Greece from Paris to spend Christmas with my family. During the Christmas dinner, we started reminiscing about the past and telling stories of our childhood. At some point, I laughed and said, Dad, do you remember that one Christmas Eve that you dressed up as Santa Claus and came into our room and played with us?

My dad and mom were extremely confused. They both looked at me. Very troubled. Come on. You have to remember," I said. He took pictures of us. I said yet again, trying to make them remember. I looked over to my brother who also looked weirded out. Come on, you of all people have to remember this," I said to him. I'm sorry, I don't. Are you sure you're not being good old Maria, who makes everything up?

No, I've lied a lot, I admit that. But this happened. I'm telling the truth, no one believed me to this day no one does. But this happened. The thing is, if my dad wasn't the one who dressed up as Santa, who was? How did he know our names? How did he know where our bedroom was? And most importantly, why did he take our photos? These questions are still unanswered, And to this day, they managed to keep me up at night. It's so incredibly scary to know that something bad happened without knowing who did it or why. To this day, that remains the scariest experience I've ever had. And that's coming from someone who lives in the center of Paris where creeps are not scarce. And that's coming from someone who lives in the center of Paris, where creeps are not scarce.

Anyway, I don't like to ramble. So weird stalker, predatory, makeshift, Santa Guy. Let's Not Meet, a true horror podcast. It's part of the Lost Stories series that I've been working on for the last couple of seasons. In fact, next weekend, we going to be airing the last story's part 2 for all of you, but I wanted to add this story into this episode as a bonus and a preview of what's to come next weekend. So enjoy my own smiling man, who happened to love Scooby Doo by Pistol Perfect. Growing up, I was raised by a single father, since my mother had a lot of mental health

issues, and she eventually left us, living in a rather decent sized city in a less than moderate downtown apartment. My father, a young man who was practically a workaholic in order to support myself, as well as keep both of us in decent housing, would usually bring me to a nearby family member to watch over me while he was at work. At the time of this occurrence, I was about seven, and I still didn't understand how to take care of myself at home while my father was at work. In other words, I struggled to make microwaveable popcorn. I was one of those kids. It was the weekend, and my father was heading to one of his two jobs, thus he was going to bring me to my aunts home, which was a few blocks down.

We usually walked considering my father's job, as well as my aunts home wasn't too far away. And we couldn't afford a car. Let's focus, however, on what happened. I don't remember the specific date. I think it was in early summer Saturday around 7 p.m. I'm in my Scooby-Doo pajamas, happily awaiting my sleep over with my wonderful auntie. And my father is getting ready to leave. I grab a movie to watch at my aunt's house, probably Blues Clues or Scooby Doo or something similar.

We leave our room, lock up the apartment, and head out onto the sidewalk. Immediately after walking out, I notice there's a man leaning against the outer building next to the door. He's smoking a cigarette and just casually standing there. He was wearing a baseball cap, but that is really all I remember about him. We began walking down the road in the direction of my alants. We had about five feet when he says, hey kid. Cute pajamas. My father gripped my hand a little tighter and pulls me a tad forward, forcing me to keep stride. I was about to turn my head to look at the man, but my father must have noticed because

he told me to just keep walking. We make it to the edge of the sidewalk, and have to wait for the light to change when I hear him again. Hey, kid! What you got there?" I felt my father's hand get very tense. He leaned down and picked me up, basically making sure that I would not leave his side. The man repeated again.

What you got there, I love Scooby-Doo. He then proceeded to make a harsh laughing sound in the voice of Scooby-Doo as I dug my face into my father because I was scared. It was then after I was done burying my face into my father's shoulder that I saw the man a little clearer He had what looked like pimples or scabs all over his face a baseball cap shadowing most of his forehead and eyes and a very large

smile Although I believe I remember him having what seemed like a scarred lip, there was something weird about his lips. I only noticed because of his enormous and awkward smile. It was just after the light turned and allowed us to continue walking across the street that the man reached out and brushed my hair. I recoiled away from him and dug my face into my father's shoulder once more. My dad noticed this, and swung around, yelling at the man, to get his fucking hands off

of his son. He said some more things of which was language that he didn't usually say around me, and I was terrified. The man slowly backed off and held his hands up. Smile still plastered onto his face. Still holding me, my father quickly walks across the road and gets onto the other side. I look up and the man was still standing there, with a smile on his face. After we'd gotten to be what seemed like in a safe distance. My father asked if he could put me down and we began to walk hand in hand again. We get about a block away from my aunt's home when amongst the usual

sound of traffic, I begin to hear heavy footsteps behind us, quick footsteps. My father must have heard it too because he took me by the shoulder and moved both of us towards the buildings. From my understanding now, he must have believed it was just a jogger out on the town. However, when I looked back, I saw that man again. The smile on his face, the hat covering his eyes. Hey, you never told me what you got there, kiddo. He said. My father had had enough. He turned around, keeping me away from the man with a hand on my chest and began to yell. I had never really heard

my father yell. He's a smaller guy about five-nine, but he's rather murly and built due to him being a diesel mechanic. The sound of his deep voice made me recoil, and I became even more worried. After using more profane language and telling the man to get lost, the man once more began talking. I just love Scooby Doo, man. I want to see if I could try on his PJs. That was what did it. My father clinched up and laid the man out. No other words said, one punch, and the man was down. Once my father saw that he wasn't getting up, he picked me up and basically ran the rest of the way to my aunt's home. He set me down and explained to her

what had happened and called the police telling them that there was a confrontation. I remember there being at least two cars with flashing lights that pulled up, but when I asked my dad about this story before writing this, he claims that they never updated him on whether they found the man or not. Needless to say, I still ended up staying at my aunt's place for a couple of days. I just remember that night, probably along with the following week, being absolutely terrified and spooked. We eventually ended

up moving out of there, and my father ended up marrying another woman. We moved into a quiet town where not a lot happens, and I am now in college. But after reading the famous Smiling Man story on here, it triggered the story and my memory. And I had to go back and ask my father about the blunt details of what happened that night. 18T5 represents presents A Straight Forward Moment You're 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 18T 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 in select areas, visit AT&T.com slash Hypergate for details. 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. Are you a Gagillionaire? Yeah, I have AT&T Fiber. The straightforward pricing has inspired me to be more straightforward. Me too. This one, 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 in select areas, visit AT&T.com slash Hypergig for details.

Thank you for listening to this week's episode of Let's Not Meet, a true horror podcast, as we you have heard. A squatter with a box cutter by London Fog. The masked man by cool cat, Carrie. The guy with the machete by Natasha. And finally, Deer Santa by Maria A. All of the stories you've heard this week were narrated and produced with the permission

of their respective authors. Let's not meet a true horror podcast is not associated with Reddit or any of the message reports online and as always if you want to hear your story on the show, send it into Let's Not Meet Stories at gmail.com and if you want to get access to ad free versions of these episodes, as well as bonus episodes and much more content every single week, head over to patreon.com forward slash let's not meet podcast or follow the link in the show notes to sign up today and support the show. I'll see you all next week for that lost story's special episode of Let's Not Meet a True Horror Podcast.

Stay safe. Thank you. 18T Fiber presents A Straight Forward 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 Gigillionaire? Yeah, I have 18T Fiber. The straightforward pricing has inspired me to be more straightforward. Me too. This one, 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 in select areas. Visit AT&T.com slash hypergig for details. in select areas. Visit atct.com slash hypergig for details.