Let's Not Meet: A True Horror Podcast - 6x09: Lost Stories 2 - Let's Not Meet

Episode Date: May 31, 2021

Stories in this episode:  -My encounter on a Hare Krishna farm - Iaintnotadpole (2:20). -The dirt road that almost took my life - Demonofz (12:01).  -He Was Living In Our Crawlspace - scaredsprout (18:39). -Drenched in Blood - possiblyapigman (27:33). -He had plans for me - JennLegend3 (49:10). -Tape Recorder - NeonEmera  (53:37). Don't forget to check out Knifepoint Horror and Ghosts In The Burbs wherever you get your podcasts! 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! Head over to chilisleep.com/meet for ChiliSleep’s best deal, available to Let's Not Meet listeners for a limited time! Give your dad the most meaningful gift this Father’s Day with StoryWorth. Get started right away with no shipping required by going to storyworth.com/meet. You’ll get $10 off your first purchase! Head over to Stamps.com, click on the Microphone at the TOP of the homepage and type in MEET for a special offer that includes a 4-week trial PLUS free postage and a digital scale. No long-term commitments or contracts. - 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/

Amplify your career through training and development solutions specifically designed for federal government professionals. From courses to help you attain or retain certification to individualized coaching services, to programs at home, your leadership skills, and business acumen. Management concepts optimizes your professional development. Online in-person, individually, or groups. It's training that's measurably better. Learn more at managementconcepts.com. That's managementconcepts.com. 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 nine of Let's Not Meet, the True Horror podcast. Welcome to the second Lost Stories episode of Let's Not Meet, a true horror podcast. These are hand-selected stories from the original pre-season run of the podcast that are no longer

available online. These episodes come highly requested, and it was a blast going through the archives to put this one together. In this episode you will be hearing some very ancient recordings that are a bit more rough around the edges than some of the more recent episodes. However, this doesn't discount the fact that they are some of the most terrifying and memorable of the series. I've included two recordings by a couple of favorite guests from the past, Soren Narnia of Knife Point Horror,

and Liz Sauer of Ghosts in the Burbs, both making a appearance in this episode with some stories that are definitely going to keep you up to date. If you enjoy what you hear, as always, please check out their shows wherever you get your podcasts. The links will be in the show notes. They are two of my personal favorites and wonderful people. And without any further

ado, enjoy the show. I graduated high school almost a year ago. I really had no urge to attend college or the military and basically got stuck in my boring hometown for months, where I slowly became dependent on Xanix and Booz and was destined to repeat a cycle of white trash set before me by my parents and their parents. I knew I had to leave town so I decided to sign up for a website that you may have heard of called Wolf.com. It's the worldwide opportunities or organic farming. You pay a small fee and they make available a directory of organic farming operations that will feed you and allow you to live with them in return for a certain amount of work around the farm.

The place I decided to commit to was a Harry Krishna community and the deep south. I got there and my car almost immediately broke down. It was a 30-year-old Chevy Blazer. I bought on Craigslist for $500. Later on, I was to find out it was beyond repair at this point. The closest town was almost 20 miles away, so I found myself stranded and surrounded by the most unbearable hipsters. Another demographic were aging hippies, also therefore spiritual purposes, but also running a small, scale organic farm located on the property. Everyone else, however, self-absorbed, condescending, right out of college, but still hipsters. I basically kept to myself, but occasionally was forced into conversation about vibrating

crystals and their three-year spiritual journey, no doubt, being funded by their parents. I had been there for weeks and was desperate for real conversation. And then Michael showed up. I had heard stories about Michael. A couple of days before I showed up, he had left to retrieve an impounded car in a large city about an hour away. Everyone said he was lazy and sane and would spend hours up in his room doing yoga instead of coming down and working with the rest of us. He showed up late in the evening going on about how he was going to really get involved

with the farming and throw himself into Krishna consciousness. He was in his early thirties. He looked like a balding, hectic Jew, his unwashed sideburns curled. He spoke like a stoner cartoon character. His sentences were punctuated with and, uh, or, and like giving his utterly fried brain time to figure out what others wanted to hear. He reminded me of many of the friends I left back at home. We became fast friends as he was the only person there who didn't give me the urge to bite my fingers off when we spoke. We were both from Texas, so we talked about the loony conservative teachers we had in high school, football, and of course, drugs. Every now and then he brought up subjects that sort of threw me

off. He wasn't able to get his car out of the impound garage so he schemed the best way to break it out. These plans involved firearms, pipe bombs, and telepathy. He told me he came to the Harry Christian temple to be friends some of the gurus and learned the raky meditation, a form of meditation used to control the minds and bodies of other people. He told me he believed he had used raky once to seduce a woman at a party, and this is when I understood his reputation.

I simply nodded and laughed occasionally when he went off on these rants. I knew one day I would reach a saturation point for this absurdity, but I could probably endure one more week. A couple of days later we were eating lunch with one of the gurus. I was telling Michael about my trip to the giant field where the branch Davidian used to be. He wasn't sure what the branch Davidian was, so I explained to him about Waco, David Khorish, and the botched siege of the FBI and the ATF that led to the death of 76 Davidians and 4 ATF agents. He was enraged. The government is always trying to silence people preaching the truth that so fucked up. I wanted to explain that David Kuresh was a sociopathic cult leader interested in power

nothing else, but he wasn't having it. Now I was angry. He was having a tantrum about a subject that I had just explained to him, and now he's telling me I'm wrong and that Kuresh was a martyr. This is when I saw the truly insane Michael. He was spitting, red as a beat, pacing back and forth. I left the table and got back to work, but he followed me. After half an hour of this absurd argument, I couldn't handle it anymore. I'm not having this conversation with a fucking loon, Michael. How can I expect logic from you?

You came here to get superpowers. The look in his eye changed from anger to hatred. He got real still, and then went at me. Michael was a big guy, much, much bigger than me. He lunged at me, and I ran. As I ran, I went through my pocket-prang, I had grabbed my knife before I left my cabin. I know it sounds ridiculous, but you don't walk my old neighborhood without some sort of protection. Plus, it was pretty

useful on the farm. Luckily, I had grabbed it and turned around. So he saw it. He stopped and contemplated for three seconds, and he quickly turned around, and finished his lunch. The next day, I pulled the temple president's side and explained what had happened, and that we had to get rid of him. It didn't take much convincing, no one really cared for him, and he wasn't helping much on the farm. really cared for him and he wasn't helping much on the farm. I felt bad snitching on the guy. He was in pretty desperate situation. He had no car no money and I can't imagine he had many friends. The temple president also informed me that he had been an alcoholic for 10 years and had come here to get sober. I found it very strange he never told me this. sober. I found it very strange he never told me this. Later that day I saw through my window someone drive up and hand him several suitcases to pack up what little he had, and I saw them both

drive off to God knows where. Weeks went by and the whole encounter kind of faded from my conscience. Late one night I got a text. Hey, it's Michael. We can get my car out for $280. Want to go traveling? I never responded. I wasn't sure how he got my number, but I figured he looked me up on Facebook or something. A few nights later, I was in the temple office

using the Wi-Fi to make some emails. I was making the walk back to my cabin and from the pitch black, I hear a lot of loud banging coming from the barn. I remember thinking it must be an animal, but also thinking it must be a pretty big one to make that much noise. I entered my cabin. The actual door to the cabin does not have a lock, but my bedroom did. So I used that one. door to the cabin does not have a lock, but my bedroom did. So I used that one. I was pretty unsettled by the banging, but I figured my imagination was getting the best of me. Later that night, I woke up, needing to take a piss. The cabin didn't have a bathroom,

but we had a shared outhouse. I didn't feel like putting shoes on and walking around in the dark, so I figured I'd just piss in the sink. I know it's gross, but I'm the only one he uses that kitchen. I opened my bedroom door and nearly pissed myself right there. Michael, completely naked, was crouching in the corner of my kitchen facing the wall. I made a noise I wasn't aware I could make. Something you would only hear shaggy make on Scooby Doo. The noise alerted Michael to my entrance. All he did was glare at me and shook his whole body. I slammed my door and locked it almost immediately. I knew what he was trying to do.

He was trying to pacify me with raky meditation. I called 911. I didn't open my door or even approach it until I saw the red and blue lights outside my window. Michael wasn't there when they arrived. My guess is he ran deep into the woods that surrounded the farm. I explained to me in Michael's history and what had happened that night. There wasn't much that they could do since no one seemed to know anything about Michael.

I didn't even know his last name. I had to leave the farm shortly after. Calling the police was really frowned upon since I believe many of the old hippies thought that they were still avoiding the trapped. I didn't mind leaving either. I couldn't sleep knowing Michael might be out in those woods angrier than he was before. It stayed up almost three days while I waited for my friend to come pick me up. My entire childhood I grew up without a father. When I turned 15, I got really into hunting, and just enjoyed guns in general.

My uncle is an avid hunter, gun builder, and ammunition reloader. He loves to hunt. This is a common interest that made us become very close. He was my father figure and taught me a lot that made me into the man that I am today. Now to the story. My uncle's father lives in Montana, which allowed us to get resident pricing on big game hunting tax. Once a year, we would head up to his property and hunt for a week. Usually, this would go off without a hitch, and if we were lucky, we would get the shot we were looking for. Unfortunately, not this year. Just like every year, we headed up to his father's property in northern Montana.

That night, we headed out to go set up some hunting camera so that we would know if there were any deer in the area. It must have been 1am and we were driving down this two-lane dirt road, headed into the woods. We were always the only people on the road, since it was so early in the morning. In this particular time, we saw headlights approaching from behind us, but not nothing of it. We figured they must have been doing the same thing as us. After telling us for some time, the headlights disappeared, which was strange since there were no turns on this particular road. A few seconds go by, and all of a sudden, we see the truck driving on the shoulder to our right with the lights off. The shoulder was a small hill, with brush and a fence fairly close to it.

Definitely something that somebody should not be driving on. The truck speeds up and gets back on the road, turns the slides back on and speeds off into the darkness. This set off some red flags, but we figured they were just impatient and wanted to get there before us, so no big deal, or so we thought. We drove down the road for a few more miles until we saw tail lights stopped in the middle of the road. It was the truck that passed us a few miles back. They had set up traffic cones to completely block the road off, and there was another truck parked on the shoulder. We figured that they must have broken down, so we stopped. I had read an article online earlier this year about

people in other countries that would make roadblocks to rob or kill people for their vehicles and belongings. I laughed and started to tell my uncle about this article when two men from each truck jumped out of their vehicles and started to approach ours. My uncle always kept two handguns on shoulder holsters under his arms when we were out doing these kinds of things. This saved our lives. Two of the men stayed at the tailgate of the truck, parked on the road, and the other two men came up to his window. At this point, my uncle has his right hand and his jacket with his hand holding the gun. The men were extremely friendly and said that the truck on the shoulder had broken down and they were just helping them out.

They asked if my uncle knew anything about cars and if he could come take a look at the problem. My uncle refused, and this made them in very angry. Both instantly drew pistols, and one of them rounded the front of the truck towards my window. My uncle grabbed the man's guns that were pointed at him, which he forgot to load around into, which was lucky for us. My uncle pulled his gun out and shot the man in the shoulder and slammed on the gas, driving on the left shoulder, passed all of them. I looked back and could see the other three men gathering around the men who my uncle shot.

We drove and drove and drove for what seemed like an eternity without saying a word to each other. We drove back to his dad's house and he told me to go to bed. He called the police and told them what had happened. They sent out two officers to the house to take his statement and mentioned to him that they had quite a few reports of roadblocks being set up all around Northern Montana. They were able to catch all four of the men who stopped us that night and took the man Amplify your career through training and development solutions specifically designed for federal government professionals, from courses to help you attain or retain certification to individualize coaching services, to programs at home, retain certification to individualized coaching services,

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Then drive and shine today. I have a phobia that goes by a few names, scope of phobia, opt of phobia. The fear of being watched. I have this weird compulsion whenever I see a doorway, a window or virtually any surface that I believe someone could hide behind. I imagine a face peering at me, staring. I imagine what I would do. What could I do? You'll soon find out why I have this phobia. On to the story, I'll try my best to remember all the details, but my mind is repressed a lot of it.

Around June of 2016, my mother and I were living in a small apartment. my mother and I were living in a small apartment. There is no basement or attic, obviously, but there was one tiny crawl space in the closet floor of my bedroom. I never looked in it. I suppose some people would be overwhelmed with curiosity, but my mind had already imagined all the worst scenarios, I decided to leave whatever dead bodies and ghosts were down there for whoever rented after us. It was a nice apartment, small, but perfect for the two of us. We lived there for a few peaceful months until the noise has started. It was nothing extreme, just the odd bump in the night, and particularly scratching. My mom just brushed it off as rats in the walls. As long as they stayed in there,

I saw no reason to get rid of them. A week or two later, I had already grown used to the noise. It almost became comforting in a way. After all, I never really liked silence. That is until I awoke one night to a different noise, a rolling sound. You're really similar to the sound my closet made when I opened it. I peaked my eyes open and looked over, but I couldn't make out anything in the dark. I thought maybe I saw something move, but I was well aware of how the mind placed tricks on you in the dark. There was only one way to find out. I turned on my lamp. I feel like crying just speaking this. It's been almost a year since I've had to recall this

night. When I turned on the light I expected to just see a closet full of coats but what I saw was much much worse. It was an eye and Not just an eye, but the entire half of someone's face. Barely visible in the tiny crack he had opened. He didn't even react to being caught. No smile, no fear, just watching. My heart is never beat faster than that night. I wish I screamed or maced him more anything. But I just stared back frozen in time until I couldn't hold it in anymore. I began sobbing loudly. I think I tried to say something along the lines of what do you want? But it was garbled by my crime. He opened the door more. I could now see his entire body, which I don't care to describe as I've spent too long

years trying to forget that face. He went, shh, shh. I lost my breath at that. Hearing him made it real, I couldn't pretend this was some fucked up hallucination anymore. At this I sat up and pressed my back against the wall. He said, it's okay, William. He said it so cheerfully. It gives me chills, just remembering it. This is when I finally had the courage to run out of the room, this creep new my name, my fucking name. My mom still half asleep when she called the police thought I had imagined it. Of course by the time the police got there he was already long gone. All that was left of him was that damned crawl space. I still never looked inside. Though retelling this now I kind of wish I did.

Having some sort of proof of this would, I don't know, comfort me, because at least you all would know I'm not crazy. Apparently he had been living in there. For how long, I don't know. But the officers who first arrived on the scene said that there were tiny marks inside the crawl space. I didn't want to know how many. I didn't want to know whether he was marking days or weeks. I just wanted to leave that fucking apartment. And we did. The police never found them, not for certain. They thought they found a homeless man who matched his description, but he was apparently unresponsive.

I've always thought they didn't take it all that seriously. They just thought he was a squatter. Even after I told them that he knew my name. They thought that given how long he had seemingly been squatting, he had probably just heard my name through the floorboards. Since that night, he has been the face I always see when there's an open door or closet. It's grown more distorted as time goes on, but I can always make out a part of his purseed lips. As if he's still shushing me, even now. It's gotten easier with time, but I don't think it will ever leave me completely. Anyways, I guess we didn't actually have rats.

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Live like a Giga-Gillionaire with AT&T Fiber, limited availability in select areas, visit ATT.com slash HyperGig for details. For a very dark, five-year period of my life, I worked in what my employer called Health Care Security for a professional term. This is effectively a polite way of saying that my employer was a private contractor who rounded up a lot of local goons to serve as poorly trained and oftentimes incompetent security officers for numerous local hospitals and other health care facilities in our city. The job description stated that we protected the entire campus of whatever facilities we

were contracted to work for, and that was true to an extent. But the vast majority of the job took place in emergency rooms and psyched apartments. Daily assignments involved direct face-to-face interactions with drug addicts, chronic alcoholics, homeless people, individuals recently released from prison, violent criminals, injured, and conflicts with the police and most notably psych patients. Oftentimes, the people we've confronted fell into more than one of the aforementioned categories. In addition to the dangerous patients we dealt with, many of my own co-workers at the Security Contract Company were, let's not me, worthy material themselves.

Hypothetically, to work for this particular company, you had to pass a background check, a drug test, and obtain a merchant guard license from the city. I occasionally had to access the background check results of some of my co-workers, and it was rare to see anyone get hired with what I personally would have considered a passing result. Over the years, I witnessed a number of people get terminated for some really bizarre sexual assault and or harassment situations. Among a wide array of other generally unprofessional behavior as well. No doubt several of these incidents would be let's not be worthy, but I'm not the victim

of these stories, so I won't try to tell them. Luckily, the facility I spent most of my time working at was one of the better ones, and they actually had a very well-designed security program in place. The security program manager who I worked for was a retired US Army artillery officer and a retired federal law enforcement agent.

So he knew his stuff. To the best of his ability, he chased away the more obviously unethical and incompetent security guards, although the company would just keep sending more of them no matter how many we got rid of. The hospital itself was a level one trauma center, and when it came to dealing with the physical injuries, they were great. Psych patients, however, not so much. Every patient and visitor entering the hospital emergency department was searched for weapons. To achieve this, there was always a minimum of two officers in the emergency department.

One officer inside of the emergency department itself, searching patients for who arrived by ambulance, and the other officer ran a security checkpoint for anyone who came in under their own power, be they a patient or someone seeking to visit a patient. The checkpoint had a metal detector for people to walk through, and all bags had to be searched as well. It was similar to going through security at an airport, minus the cavity searches, and no flylists, of course. Additionally, security officers could be called upon from elsewhere in the facility if necessary. This story takes place at approximately 2 a.m. on a graveyard shift when I was assigned as the security officer

in the emergency department. The shift had gone smoothly for most of the night so far when I received a radio call from the other officer at the checkpoint demanding immediate assistance. There was an obvious tone of panic to her voice and I rushed to the security point quickly expecting to be joining in on a fight with some meth-thout homeless guy. When I arrived I was initially confused because everything was quiet in the officer at the checkpoint. It was just standing there quietly examining something on the desk. On the desk in front of this security officer, I saw three bags, and I quickly realized that whatever was happening here, it was going to be more of a cerebral experience

than the typical homeless brawl. The bags I saw were of the following types. One, an icon camera bag. I've recognized the type of bag as being similar to one a photographer I knew carried. A bag like this often held a camera which could range in price from anywhere between $500 to $2000 or more. Two, an extremely expensive leather briefcase of the type that someone might use to carry both a laptop computer and a large stack of documents. 3. A weatherproof storm case of the same brand that we had used when I served in the military. Cases like these often held expensive electronic items or weapons. It was a unique set of luggage to encounter in a hospital emergency room, but that alone

wasn't what made the situation so shocking. All three bags were completely coated in multiple layers of blood. When I say multiple layers of blood, what I mean is that there were clearly some different patterns in the blood that ended up getting on these bags. Some of the blood was already dry and flaky as if it had been there for a while. Some of the blood was damp and had sort of a matted texture to it, as if it had recently been rubbed onto the bags from some other surface. But most disturbing, there were small droplets of blood which were still obviously wet and

looked as if they had dripped onto the bags within the last few minutes. Whatever the source of the blood was, it was immediately obvious that these bags had been exposed to that source over a prolonged period of time. Naturally, I asked what the hell happened here. The security officer at the desk was nearly speechless, but she attempted to explain to me that a moment before I arrived, a man had run into the building screaming and ranting. The man, like his bags, was completely covered in blood from head to toe. She wasn't able to understand most of what he said, but she recalled him mentioning a dog

and someone kicking down the doors of his house. When she asked to search his bags, he also admitted that there was a gun in the weatherproof case. Not knowing what else to do with the man, she sent him through to get checked in and kept his bags at the desk. That's when she called me, hoping I would know what to do next. Assuming that a situation in this bizarre and blood-drenched must involve some kind of crime being committed, I didn't want to open any of the bags and possibly contaminate the evidence, but we couldn't let the massive

quantities of blood sit out in the open and frighten the other patients either. So I grabbed a red biohazard bag and placed the three blood soaked items into that bag to contain the mess. Then I contacted a supervisor which seemed like the logical course of action. The supervisor for that shift was a friend of mine and a generally laid-back guy. After explaining what I had been told and had witnessed myself this far, he agreed we might need to call the police to report a possible crime. However, for better or worse, hospitals have to abide by some very strict privacy laws pertaining to patients and what we can share with law enforcement about our patients. So it was decided we needed to at least talk to this blood-covered man and get more of

a coherent story out of him before taking further action. Confronting him in his room in the emergency department, we were surprised to find that he was neither screaming nor ranting as he had previously been described. Later, in a review of the CCTV footage, it would confirm that he had been more animated when he first arrived. that he had been more animated when he first arrived. He was completely calm. This actually made his demeanor even more disturbing, as one does not expect a man covered in blood to become. He proceeded to very confidently explain to us that he had tripped over a dog at his home

because the little bastard likes to hide under blankets. He insisted that the blood which he admitted was an extreme amount was from a very tiny wound on his head that he sustained after tripping over the dog. He may have hit his head on either a chair or his TV. He wasn't sure which one. He claimed that after being injured, he tried to lay down in bed, but the blood from his head had soaked all the way through the pillow without stopping,

thus convincing him that he needed to seek medical attention. We didn't really buy this story. We weren't cops, and our powers were limited to enforcing hospital policies on our own property, so we didn't feel like we could directly accuse him of lying to us. But his assigners confirmed for us that the very minor elaceration on his forehead would not be sufficient to cause the amount of blood we were seeing on him and his backs. Furthermore, as he was behaving in a completely calm and coherent manner with strong vital

signs, he had no signs of significant blood loss, which further cast out on his claim that all the blood was his. Our next question for the man was, why he felt the need to bring so many bags with him to the hospital when he clearly felt he had an emergency situation This was a roundabout way of asking why he brought the gun with him His response was that he lived in a very dangerous part of the city and his house had recently been broken into All his windows had been smashed out and both the front and back door of his house had been kicked down had been smashed out, and both the front and back door of his house had been kicked down.

As such, he couldn't secure his home at all. When he wasn't there, and he felt that if he left his valuables at home, then the thieves would come back while he was gone and still everything he had left in the house. Hence, he had decided to bring all of his most expensive items. Camera, computer, and gun with him when he left the house. He even went off into a side story at this point, claiming that someone had recently robbed him of $50,000 worth of antique silverware. Even though his stories had taken a turn from merely suspicious to outright bizarre, we kept pressing him.

And our next question was if he would be willing to let us put his blood-drenched bags back in his car in the parking lot. We will usually hold pocket knives and other small items for people, but firearms. In expensive items, we would have to lock up in a safe, which we didn't want to do in this case because everything this man owned seemed to be perpetually covered in blood. So our usual procedure in situations like this, but typically less bloody, was to ask people to take their items back to their car. Oh no, we couldn't do that. The man insisted. You see, the windows of his truck were broken out too, so the truck wasn't secure either. In fact, the doors on the cab of his truck were broken in such a way that

they didn't even stay closed on their own, so he had to chain them shut to keep them from flying open while he drove. By this point, the story had literally morphed from being suspicious to being bizarre to finally being outright disturbing. A man covered in blood had literally just told us in an eerily calm demeanor that he has a habit of chaining door shut. We couldn't resist the temptation to step out of the parking lot to inspect the truck for ourselves. It wasn't difficult to pick out of the parking lot to inspect the truck for ourselves. It wasn't difficult to pick out which truck he had been talking about.

It was an older model Chevy pickup with badly worn white paint and a large pile of garbage in the bed of the truck, including open alcohol containers. As he had described, the driver's side and passenger's side windows were missing, and the doors were indeed held shut with some kind of elaborate, jury-ragging involving chains. Inside the cab of the truck, someone had ripped out large sections of the dashboard, leaving electrical wiring and mechanical components exposed. We later confirmed from CCTV footage that this was the truck the man had come from before entering the hospital. But as with the bags and the man himself, the

most disturbing thing about the truck was the blood. The entire interior of the cab was drenched and even more blood than the man and his bags had been covered with. As with the bags, the blood seemed to be in layers here too. Some of the blood had already dried and was beginning to flake, but some of the blood was also thick and matted. Still damp, but quickly drying. A lot of the blood was still clearly wet, however, including droplets that were falling from the roof of the cab in a large pool of blood,

which was forming in what appeared to be a small storage space in the center console. The most notable thing was the massive wave of blood, which appeared to have been splashed onto the interior of the windshield, directly in front of the steering wheel. I have no idea how that truck got into our parking lot, because it should have been impossible for anyone to drive with that much blood covering the windshield. There was some blood on the exterior of the truck too, but in much smaller amounts. It was smeared in small streaks all around the vehicle, as if someone had walked in a circle around the vehicle and intentionally smeared those small streaks in random locations. Aside from that, in some natural-looking wear and tear, the vehicle had no other obvious

exterior damage. At this point, we notified the nurse for the emergency department and she called the police to report the situation. It must have been a slow night, or the police were just very interested in seeing this for themselves because multiple officers from the local police department showed up only a few minutes later. The first thing that they wanted to see were the bags. I put on gloves and removed them

from the red biohazard bag. The police looked at the bags, but that was all they did. They refused to open them or touch them in all because they said the situation wasn't enough to give them probable cause to search the man's property without his permission. Next, the police spoke with the man. Their conversation went largely the same way that the conversation with my supervisor and I had with the man earlier had gone.

He repeated the same story about tripping over the dog, his house being broken into, and bringing his stuff to the hospital to safeguard it, all told in that same eerily calm demeanor. The police didn't seem to believe the story any more than we had, but they didn't accuse him of lying either. They didn't even write anything down. They just asked for his address, which he gave them. And they said that they would have to contact the police department, which had jurisdiction over the city where his address was located. While they waited for a response from the other department,

they went out to examine his truck and seemed baffled. As baffled by it as we had been, a short while later, one of the police officers spoke to us again to notify us of the outcome. The other police department where the men lived had checked their records to see if any crimes had been reported at the man's house, or if he had any prior record, but they found no evidence of any wrongdoing. And that was it. Everyone just dropped it. They found no evidence of any wrongdoing. And... That was it. Everyone just dropped it.

There wasn't even going to be an official report because they said there was nothing to report. My supervisor and I were mystified. We knew the local police department were notoriously lazy and often unhelpful, particularly when it came to writing reports. But this was the most outrageous thing we had seen them ignore by far. I've flopped down at the security checkpoint and started writing my own report. At the very least, I wanted to make sure that we covered our own asses by showing that we had done our jobs. I investigated to the greatest degree we were allowed to, and made every effort to report a possible crime to the police.

Luckily, it was quiet at the checkpoint at this time of night, so I had plenty of time to assemble a detailed report with images of the blood-drenched man and his truck attached to the report. While I was still working on the report, the man was discharged. He had cleaned himself up slightly, but his clothes were still stained with large quantities of blood. He asked for his bags back, and I hauled them out from under my desk to hand them over. Before leaving, he declared that he needed to check the serial number on his weapon before leaving. He opened the plastic case right in front of me and without taking the

web and out, he showed it to me in plain view. It was a beautiful 1911 handgun, completely clean, no blood on it, or inside of the case. And the whole setup looked like it was brand new. Then he just slammed the case shut, took his bags, and disappeared back into the night from whence he came. That was the last time any of us ever saw the man 18T Fiber 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.

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No equipment fees, no data caps, no price increase at 12 months. Live like a gigillionaire with AT&T fiber, limited availability and select areas, visit at ATT.com slash Hypergate for details. So yesterday I was at my sister's house with my mom watching my son and nephews play in the yard. One of my nephews, Harrison, was picking bark off a tree when I remembered an odd encounter I had as a kid.

I said, so weird, out loud, thinking about the encounter. My mom inquired what I was talking about, so I told her. When I was a kid, I was hanging out at the Pine Cone Forest, which was what the neighborhood kids called a small patch of trees on the side of the road. I was picking bark off one of the trees to pass some time waiting for my friend Frankie to finish his homework and come out to play. Out of nowhere it seemed, a guy came up to me. I could smell him before I saw him. He smelled like stale cigarette smoke.

I was kind of scared when I looked at him. He wasn't very old, but he had a very lazy eye that was cloudy, and his teeth and fingernails were stained yellow. My mom taught me to be nice to people even if they don't look like me so I faked a smile and said hello. What are you doing? He asked me. The smell of his breath was the worst. I'm picking the bark off this tree. You shouldn't do that. It's like picking off the tree's skin. How would you feel if someone picked off your skin?" He said, while lightly pinching my arm with his sharp yellow nails.

I don't know. I replied and took my arm back. Just then Frankie's mom called for me out the door and told me to come and wait inside. I didn't think anything of the whole thing at the time. When I told my mom about it, she had this look of, I don't know, guilt maybe? She said that it's probably time I know the whole story. She thought I forgot about the whole encounter, so she never brought it up to me. First you should know that the neighborhood I grew up in was a small, tight-knit community. Everyone knew everyone, and there was no reason for an outsider to come unless they knew someone there.

Anyway, here's what happened with the sky. Frankie's mom, Sonia, noticed a white van with no windows parked on the side of the road. How cliche, right? She didn't recognize it, but figured maybe it was a visitor for a neighbor. Sonya said, or rather told the police, that the van had been there all morning and afternoon. She was kind of keeping an eye on it. She said she just had a bad feeling. Her house had a huge window in front facing the pine cone forest, and the van was parked next to it. She saw me waiting for Frankie and kept a constant eye on the van while holding the phone just in case. She saw me waiting for Frankie and kept a constant eye on the van while holding the phone just in case. She saw the man exit the back of the van and walked up to me. As

soon as she saw the guy grab my arm and pinch me, she called the cops. That's when she called me into her house. The cops stopped the guy just outside of my neighborhood. In the back of his van were binoculars, a polaroid camera, and pictures of me taped all over the walls and ceiling. Me at school, at my grandparents' house, at the bank with my mom, just me everywhere I went. But that's not all. He had a key to a storage unit on him. Inside the unit, they found a cabinet full of knives, a lot of knives, pairing knives, a butcher cleaver, a thin, fles knife, a melon baller, and just various knives of all shapes and sizes.

There is also a few anatomy books, obstetrical equipment, duct tape, and 10 empty 5-gallon buckets. In the middle of the unit was an old bed that was used to restrain mental patients, so it had wrists and ankle straps, and the entire inside of the unit was covered in plastic wrap. My mom said he was in a high- security mental institution for the criminally insane last she heard. So that's pretty creepy to me and I figured I'd share. At the time, I was 10 years old and lived in a small coastal town and Newfoundland that was littered with large forests.

Almost every house had acres and acres of forestry behind it, which in itself was very beautiful. As I am now 21 and live in a bustling city in Alberta, I do find myself missing this setting in my old backyard every once in a while. But it's usually accompanied by the unsettling memory of what I'm about to recount. By the time I was in fourth grade, I was already trusted to be home by myself as my mother went out to visit my grandmother and aunt, who literally lived a few minutes down the road from us. I was happy to have such a privilege.

I was an only child, and my father worked, and in other province, months at a time, so I was very lucky to have this opportunity. It usually meant late-night movies and video games, and on the oddnight exploring the forests. This night I was exploring said woods. I usually never went too far in. Just up a large rock formation I liked to climb and look out through the trees in all directions. The house was always in sight so it never felt scared or frightened being there.

It felt like my own private place that I could enjoy. So as I was scaling the rocks to sit in my usual spot, I suddenly started hearing a sound from further in. A sound that wasn't natural at all. Crying. Faint crying. It sounded like a child, maybe even an infant, crying relentlessly. I was more puzzled than scared since crying was the last thing you'd expect to hear in the forest. I must have listened for a few good minutes, convinced my ears were playing tricks on me, but it was, in fact,

crying. In my mind, I imagined it was a young girl that somehow wandered too far into the forest and needed help. I considered going back to the house and calling my mother to help, but then I worried that the girl would wander further and beyond earshot. I decided to try and locate the sound myself. I made my way hastily through the trees and branches, trying to figure out the exact direction the crying was in. It definitely wasn't as easy as I thought, and it was a matter

of trial and error to even make sure I was going in the right direction. One thing I never realized as I was doing all of this was how consistent this crying was. No pauses, no words of any kind, just non-stop sobbing and whelling that had no end. When I did notice was that the closer I got to the sound, the more metallic it sounded. I eventually reached a small clearing that had only a few small trees and a bush, and nothing else. I had never gone this far before, so this was the first time I had ever seen it. When I made my way in, it didn't take long for me to find the source of the sound.

A grey tape recorder. One of the biggest I had ever seen. It was peeking out of one of the bushes, and the crying was coming from out of the speakers. This really disturbed me, as I had went all this way expecting to find a real person, but it was just a tape recorder. As I was about to shut it off, I heard another sound coming from just outside the clearing on the opposite side. It sounded like steady steps, advancing in my direction.

It only took seeing a tall shadowy figure coming my way to send me running. Fortunately, by some miracle, I recognized my way back by identifying rocks and trees, identified as landmarks. Looking back, this probably saved my life. I never looked back, and I didn't try listening to see if that person was following me, I just kept telling myself to make it home and nothing else. I had to get home. Once I saw the large rock formation, it didn't take me long to know the rest of the way without needing to survey in my surroundings. I was out of the forest in record time and immediately ran into my house, locking the

door and shutting all the lights off as I went to my bedroom. I didn't want this person to know where I lived, or I would really be done for. After shutting the curtains of my window, I peaked out as discreetly as I could to see if whoever had been out there had actually managed to keep up with me. I didn't see anyone, but I stayed by that window for a good hour, waiting for something to emerge out of the forest's shadows. But nothing ever did. After that, I went straight to bed.

I never did tell my mother about what had happened that night. I also never was able to go back into the forest again. Thank you for listening to this week's episode of Let's Not Meet a True Horror Podcast. This week you have heard, My Encounter on a Harry Krishna Farm by I Ain't No Tat Pull. The dirt road that almost took my life by demon of Z. He was living in a crawl space by a scared sprout, drenched in blood by possibly a pigman. He had plans for me by Jen Legend III, and finally, tape recorder by me on Emra. 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. As always, if you have a story to share, send it into Let's Not Meet Stories at gmail.com and don't forget to check out knife point horror and ghosts in the burbs. Wherever you get your podcasts and I want to thank my guests Soren Narnia and Liz Sour who both will be appearing in future episodes this season of the podcast. I'll see you all next time for a brand new episode of Let's Not Eat, a True Horror Podcast.

Stay safe. 1 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd 2 nd A-TNT fiber 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. The straightforward pricing has inspired me to be more straightforward. Me too. Ugh, 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.

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