Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Detective Horror Stories

Episode Date: June 13, 2022

🎧 Check out my new True Crime podcast called Crimehub. Just search Crimehub in the search bar to find it. 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube:��https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Jordan Grupe Website: http://jordangrupe.com/ New Book Release: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08M3ZHK1L/ref=cm_sw_r_awdo_G7796479F48T86Z6ECQN DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The murky shoreline was swarming with cops and crime scene officials. Their voices mingling with the droning buzz of mosquitoes and the bellow of bullfrogs in the marsh. As I approached, I heard the sound of someone retching and spitting into the nearby weeds. I spotted the source of the noise. I went over to find my weak-stomicked officer hiding his face in his hands. The last thing we need is some more DNA fouling up the crime scene, I told him. Get back in the car if you can't keep your breakfast down. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

And when he looked up at me, I immediately felt guilty for scolding him. He was just a kid. The bodies this psychopath was leaving behind weren't meant to be seen by someone that age, or any age for that matter. I've been doing this for 30 years, and I can barely sleep at night anymore, I thought to myself. Sorry, boss. I'll be all right. Steve said. He was a committed officer. I'd give him that. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. Then the two of us approached the crime scene together. Immediately I understood why he was sick to his stomach. A man's pale, water-locked face stared up at me from inside a boat, which had been dragged into the water. Only his heads, hands, and feet could be seen, poking out from the hull. The rest of his body was obscured by another boat. which had been laid on top of him, crushing his torso, arms, and legs.

What the hell am I looking at here? I asked, feeling last night's dinner rising up in my gorge. The coroner gave me an odd look, then hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the man behind him. Ask Sherlock Holmes over there. Slightly annoyed at the deferral, I looked to see where Bill was pointing, then noticed for the first time the Navy blue jacket with the letters FBI on the back. Lead detective David Bergen, I said, holding out my hand. The man stayed stubbornly hunched over, ignoring me while he examined some clue. I cleared my throat to no response.

Tapping on the man's shoulder, he finally turned around, and I saw he had a pair of wireless earbuds in and was listening to music. When he saw me, he pulled the headphones out of his ears and stuck out his hand to shake mine. Sorry about that. It helps me concentrate. I'm Leonard Finch, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your mayor called us, said you didn't want the help, but he thought you needed it. I tried not to wince. Well, we appreciate any assistance we can get. Bill the coroner. He said you could give me something to go off of here. The man motioned with his hand towards the victim. The boats, he said simply, as if that explained everything.

I'm sorry. What about the boats? The boats? You've never heard of it? Fairly straightforward as far as ancient Roman torture methods go. At least, I'm assuming that's what we've got here. We'll have to lift the top boat to be sure. He took a minute to explain briefly what he meant, and what would need to be done. All right, let's do it. Everybody got what they need? I asked the coroner and crime scene investigators. We need to lift this off of the victim to get a better look. After several more minutes of formalities, some final pictures were taken, and then several of us went around the sides of the boat to lift the top vessel from its position where it had been left, crushing the dead man. As we began to heave and lift with all of our strength, the agent talked in the background, almost to himself. Invented by the ancient Romans, the boats was a method of torture which involved crushing a man by sandwiching him between two boats.

The top one to keep him in place for part two of the procedure. The boats are dragged into a swamp, with the man's head, hands, and feet hanging out from the end. His extremities are painted with honey to attract the insects and animals. The Romans would then force-feed their victim warm milk and honey, a powerful laxative, and with that, the real entertainment begins. Drawn in by the smell of food, swamp vermin, enter the boat, and began to feed on the victim.

He is kept alive through the entire ordeal so that he feels everything. Essentially, the subject is eaten alive by rats, mice, and swamp creatures, while buried up to his neck and his own shit. The process takes a long time, prolonging the suffering of the victim. We lifted the top boat as he finished beating, and hundreds of rats, mice, insects, and snakes suddenly began to pour and tumble over the sides, scurrying away from their prize. The body was exactly as described,

partially eaten by vermin, and submerged in a cesspool of body fluids. It stunk worse than anything I'd ever experienced in my life. A sewage smell mixed with blood and the sweetness of honey that was cloying and made my head feel like it was swimming. The faces around me turned pale and slightly gray at the horrifying sight of the victim,

and we all hurried out of the algae-co, water. I saw rats swarming in the green muck by her feet, racing back onto dry land and away from all the lights and commotion. Several people who I knew to be consummate professionals ran away from the sea, screaming and cursing loudly. A moment later, I ran over to vomit in the same spot where my officer had been when I arrived. When I looked back, I saw the FBI agent shaking his head, looking annoying. Thanks for adding some more DNA to the crime scene to Detective, that's very helpful. With a crime scene sufficiently scoured for evidence,

I began heading back up the slope towards my car. Agent Finch was calling up to me from the water, hurrying to catch up. Sorry about earlier, Detective, he said. Sometimes I forget that not everyone sees the same things I do on a daily basis. That's no excuse for being an asshole, though. I think I'm being funny sometimes, when really I'm just being obnoxious. At least, that's what my wife tells me. I laughed at the self-deprecating comment.

It's okay. I told the same thing to my officer when I caught him puking his guts out in pretty much the exact spot. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on the kid. That's your job, isn't it? You have to show him the ropes, or who else will. Yeah, I guess that's true enough. Hey, where are you headed? He asked.

I was thinking maybe I could share a ride with you, If you don't mind, that is. That way I can pick your brain a bit and find out your thoughts on this investigation so far. I've read your paperwork. Very thorough, by the way. But there's no substitute for a face-to-face debrief in my experience. Of course, I replied, holding the passenger door open for him. What about your car?

Do you want me to get somebody to drive it back to the station for you? No need. I got a ride here from the motel with somebody from your team. Stephen something. Was I the last one to find out this agent was in town? It was like everybody knew about him but me. All right, hop in. I'm going to the morgue, though.

I wanted to look at the other body for comparisons. Good thinking. I was considering doing the same. Great minds, detective. Great minds think alike. I reversed and turned around on the narrow dirt strip, which led through the forest. The birch trees were close on both sides. of the car, and occasionally the branches of bone-white saplings scraped the glass as we drove.

So, have you ever seen anything like this? Agent Finch seemed to think about this. Once, a couple hundred miles from here. We got called in to consult on a case, and the M.O. was similar. Same guy, you think? Feels like it. They never did catch him. We stayed in town for a few weeks, but by then he must have gotten out. looking for him and decided to skip town. How long ago was that? A year and a half. Long enough for the sick bastards urged to kill to become overwhelming again.

It was only a matter of time before he came out of hiding. The really talented ones can never stop for very long. They crave the next kill, and that craving gets to become a hunger they can't ignore. How do you know it's him? Agent Finch sighed, looking out the window at the passing trees. I don't, not for sure.

But there aren't many serial killers who use ancient Roman torture methods to murder their victims. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's only one. So your guy is in our town now? Looks that way. And I don't think he's going to pack up and leave so quickly this time. He's gotten bolder, more brazen. It's like he wants to get caught. What do you mean?

For the boats to work, he'd have to stay. stay with the victim. He'd have to have stood there, force feeding him milk and honey for hours until he died. It's not a slow way to go. Shit. Imagine the screaming, listening to that for hours, and not getting scared of being caught, not running. Just continuing to torture this poor, innocent man, despite his pleas for mercy and the chances of being arrested. He's committed, and he's totally emotionless, psychopathic. And you're positive it's the same man? What about a copycat?

The details were never released to the public. What are the chances of two perps using ancient torture methods to kill people, totally independent of each other? Slim to nil. Exactly. Hey, that reminds me. Why don't you stop by the motel where I'm staying? It's right up ahead.

I can show you my case file. from that one. We can see if something lines up. Anything to catch this freak, I said, spotting the motel up ahead and turning into the gravel line. Pull around back. The owner said they're looking at paving over this gravel. They asked if I could keep the car out of the way for the estimate today. No problem, I told him, pulling around to the back of the building. The motel was abandoned. Even Macy, the owner of the place who ran the desk, wasn't in by the looks of things. There were some old stacks of scrapwood and cardboard leaning up against the back of the building, behind a tattered couch. I parked next to it and put the crown Victoria in the park, then turned off the engine.

As I turned the key, I felt a sting in the side of my neck, like a bee. I looked over at Agent Finch and saw him pocketing the hypodermic needle he had just injected me with. My eyes started to blur, and my arms grew heavy as I tried to take a swing at him, realizing, too late what was happening. The punch I threw landed in his lap, soft as if I were trying to pet a cat. Despite my efforts, I felt my eyes closing and the world went dark. When I woke up, I was strapped to a bed. My own sock was stuffed into my mouth to create a foul-smelling gag. I coughed and tried to spit it out, but found it was duct taped securely to my head. You small-town cops really are stupid, you know that? The voice from across the room was mocking and unkind. I recognized it as

Agent Finch. Although I had a growing suspicion, that was not his real name. Another noise was constant beneath his voice and the hum of the furnace below us. It was the squeaking sounds of rats in a nearby cage. It's funny how you can just show up in a blue jacket, screen printed with an FBI crest, and some letters on the back, and everybody believes you at your word. You didn't even ask to see my ID, and your subordinate couldn't tell the difference between mine and a real badge. The feelings of self-loathing at that moment were severe, but I tried to ignore my own internal judgments about myself. This was not the time for a pity party. My life was in the balance, and it was likely about to be ended by this maniac in a

horrifying and gruesome fashion. I've studied history for decades, detective. I've immersed myself in literature covering every era, culture, creed, race, and dynasty since the beginning of recorded history. But one area specifically always piqued my interest, surpassing all others. Torture.

All the various methods we've come up with to inflict pain and suffering and to prolong that pain, to draw it out endlessly. I was getting a feeling those pet rats were not meant for companionship. The Spanish Inquisition had some inventive techniques. The Heretic's Fork, for instance, he said, holding up a long, thick fork with tines on both ends. This is wedged between the subject's chin and breastbone, preventing them from speaking or sleeping.

Any movement causes the blades to dig deep. deeper. Great for interrogations, but dull, simple. One note, like a plain cheese pizza, no complexity. He threw it over his shoulder, as if bored with it. The Romans and the Greeks were the most creative, debatably. The brazen bull, leather peeling, pile driving, wheel breaking, sawing people in half. I mean, who comes up with this shit? The man looked to be enjoying himself as he pulled a squeaking rat from the cage and brought it over to me, setting it down on my stomach as I squirmed. But this method is by far my favorite.

There isn't really a name for it. It's just called rat torture, more or less. We're not even totally sure who came up with it. Maybe the British. He took a steel bucket from the floor nearby and set it over the rat on my belly. It immediately started to squeak and scratch at my skin. I tried to scream, but no sound came out as the sweaty sock muffled my voice. Essentially, as you might have guessed, you place a rat on the victim's belly.

Then you put a bucket over the rat. Can you guess what happens next, detective? He picked up a large torch, connected to a tank of butane. I shook my head violently back and forth as he smiled. Sure you can guess. Here, I'll show you. He turned on the torch and held it up to the steel bucket, singing it black.

The rat inside the bucket squeaked curiously a few times, then began to pace, scratching at the corners where the steel met my skin. It was already starting to get hot. With nowhere to go, the vermin will begin to dig down instinctively. Don't worry, detective. The rat will be just fine. They aren't harmed during the procedure.

You see, once it gets warm under that bucket, he'll burrow into you. And pretty soon he'll find his... way into your belly, where the temperature is kinder. His eyes betrayed no emotion. It didn't look like he was enjoying this. He was simply doing it, as if it was his job. I started to scream and tear at the bed sheets beneath me, terrified as the rat started scratching at my flesh in earnest. There he goes. See? I told you he'd be all right. Blood began to pour out from beneath the lip of the bucket. It dripped down my sides as I thrashed and bucked, trying to free my

But the straps holding me down were tight, bound with the sure knots of a professional who has done this before. The bucket was hot as hell now, starting to glow faintly pink in places. My belly was on fire, a constant agonizing pain growing there. I bit down hard on the sock in my mouth and began to bang my feet against the footboard fire. Agent Finch didn't even blink. He just kept holding the torch to the bottom of the bucket as it grew hot.

and hotter. You won't die right away. It will take time for an infection to brew and kill you. And during that time, you'll have a new friend, a little rat buddy living inside your belly. Doesn't that sound nice, detective? Just as I feel ready to pass out from the pain, I hear a sound at the door, a polite double wrap of knuckles on wood, and then a voice. Hello? Agent Finch, are you in there? The man didn't move. He just, he just, kept holding the torch to the steel bucket as the rat burrowed and chewed desperately. It felt like burning nails were being raked across my insides as the rat made the whole bigger, bigger. A sound could be heard of a key turning in a lock, and suddenly the man's

expression changed. He looked surprised for the first time, and I guessed that didn't happen to him often. Luckily for me, Officer Stephen Pritchett was a damn fine police officer that day, and even Luckily for me, his family just happened to own this little motel. It's a small town, and most people have two jobs. His second job just so happened to be working the desk when his mom, Macy, was off duty. But she wasn't supposed to be off duty today, and the vacancy sign out front wasn't supposed to be turned off. He saw these things and started to get suspicious, and he didn't want to go through the hassle

of a warrant to check out the out-of-towner calling himself an FBI. A fact I would thank him for later. Steve had the key for every door on the property, a grand master in his pocket. And if not for that, I'd probably be dead right now, instead of in a hospital. But that didn't make the next few moments any less scary. As soon as the door was thrown open, Steve saw what was happening and drew his pistol. I was impressed at his ability to do so under such duress. He was clearly surprised to find anyone home.

He had expected the place to be empty. The fake Agent Finch threw the butane torch at him, missing wildly and hitting the door frame. With that momentary distraction, he ran across the small motel room to the desk where he had set down his gun. Again, luck was on my side. If Finch had the gun in his possession,

he could have easily taken me hostage and used the bed for cover, but I was fortunate. And guns are heavy. Nobody likes carrying them around indoors. not even serial killers. Officer Pritchett took three shots at the man as he ran for his gun, without giving any additional warnings.

The first one missed. The second raised his thigh. And the third hit him in the shoulder, dropping him before he could make it to his firearm. After securing the weapon and the perpetrator, my most junior officer unstrapped me from the bed and pulled the bucket off of me, much to his disgust.

The rat was already inside my abdominal cavity, burrowing deeper and deeper, looking alive and well. Despite his madness, the man had not lied. The rat wasn't hurt, as it would turn out. I wish I could say the same for myself. Officer Pritchett managed to get me to a nearby hospital. He saved my life, but he was emotional. He put my health first, which was admirable,

but that meant the security of the prisoner was secondary. And this was no ordinary prisoner. Agent Finch, as he called himself, escaped from police custody, breaking the back window of the squad car by kicking him out. He was seen a short distance away on a CCTV camera, wearing no police handcuffs. Like a magician, he had already escaped them. He was walking briskly towards the bus station with a slight limb,

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Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. For over 10 years, I've served justice from the shadows. I fight crime behind a mask, wearing a black spandex body suit and a cape, fashioned by my loyal butler, Al Franken. Some people might call that madness. I call it my job, and I'm damn good at it. Every superhero needs an origin story, so I'll tell you mine, before getting to the real matter at hand. The two stories are related, and it's important to see the whole picture to know what's really happening here in Laughlin,

and to know why it's so important, not just for us, but for the whole world. everything is at stake. The comedian is loose again, and that means we're all in a lot of trouble. We're here, sir, Al Franken said from the driver's seat. His eyes studying me in the rearview mirror. Are you sure you want to do this by yourself? I'm quite certain we could find someone else to tell them the bad news.

I let out a deep sigh, looking up at the giant factory, billowing black smoke. No. My father always made himself available at moments like this. And I should do the same. There's going to be a lot of very upset people leaving this factory today. A lot of people will be out of work. I'm the one who made the decision, so I'm the one they should be upset with. Very good, sir. Shall I leave the car running in case we need to make a quick escape? I think that's wise. Opening the car door. I got out of the Rolls-Royce and made my way inside.

I was ushered upstairs by several men in pinstripe suits who rushed to greet me, trying desperately to steer me away from the production floor where they dreaded a surprise inspection by the owner. This lack of transparency had always bothered me, and was part of the reason why I was having the plant shut down. It felt like they were hiding something big, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't figure out.

out what it was. The other problem was the pollution. It was growing out of control, and I was starting to receive significant public pressure to do something about it. Black smoke billowed from huge smokestacks in vast quantities on a daily basis, and local cancer rates were skyrocketing. Whatever they were doing in my factory, I wanted no part of it. Mr. Snyder is waiting for you, Sir, right this way, the men in suits told me, leading me into the plant manager's office. I went inside alone and vulnerable. My butler in the car outside was my only insurance. I never thought I needed more than that, until after that day.

Mr. Wade, what a pleasant surprise, the grinning man said from behind his desk, standing up and approaching to shake my hand. Behind him were pictures of his youthful days as a stand-up comic, working with legends in New York. I found out that his gangster nickname was The Comedian, but he didn't know that I knew that yet. I'd discovered all about his ties to organized crime through my contacts at the FBI. If we'd known you were coming, we would have made arrangements for you. Can I offer you an espresso? Some fruit, perhaps.

I don't have much on hand, but I can have someone make a run. for us. What would you like? That's quite all right, Mr. Snyder, I said, shaking his hand and sitting down in the chair reserved for visitors. I needed to speak with you about something. Please, have a seat. His smile slipped, but only for a second. If this is about the emission levels last month, I can assure you, we're on track for next year. It will just take some time. Mr. Snyder sat down, pulling out a box of cigars and offering me one. Help yourself. They're Cubans. The best. He was looking at me as if trying to read my mind, but failing, his brow furrowed. You're not here about the emissions, are you?

No, I'm not. Mr. Snyder, I'm sorry to say that I've decided to close the factory. I plan on opening a new facility in the next year, which will offer employment for anyone interested, regardless of age or experience, provided they work here. I will be paying their salaries in the interim as well. But this plant and your services will no longer be required. He stood up, his face turning red. What? You can't do that. I... There's no call for this, Mr. Wade.

There's no reason to shut down this plant. Why? Simply because a few tree-huggers who say our smoke is too dirty. We're in the busy. of making money, not pleasing environmentalists. Your father knew that. I remained seated, refusing to take the bait. My father knew you were up to something here. He told me to be careful of you, and he told me not to hesitate to shut this plant down if I thought it was necessary. Necessary! He didn't know what was necessary. Neither do you. You're too rich and stupid

to know anything except the contents of your bank account. I stood up, realizing this conversation was going nowhere. My decision is fine, Mr. Snyder. I can find my own way out. Good day. I began to walk towards the door when I heard a distinctive click. There was only one object in the world that could have made that sound. And I raised my hands into the air, realizing it was a pistol being cocked.

You're not going anywhere. This is my plant, not yours. We're going to keep doing what we've been doing, and you're not. going to stop us. He hit a button on his desk, and the men in pinstripe suits came back in, this time looking less pleasant than before. They grabbed me roughly by the arms and tied me up, duct-taping my mouth closed, and putting a black bag over my head. Come on, boys, let's show Mr. Wade what his plant is really producing. They led me down some secret corridors toward a part of the factory, which was hidden from public view. When they took the bag off my head and I looked at

around. I didn't recognize the place. It had been built secretly, I realized, without my consent. A vat of glowing green ooze was below us, and its noxious steam rose up to the catwalk where we stood, choking me. They had put gas masks on, and Mr. Snyder had one on his face as well. When he spoke through the filter, his voice came out sounding muffled and distorted, like a terrible bane portrayal. Here we are, Mr. Wade. You wanted to be part of the solution, well, now's your chance.

You'll be a permanent part of the solution, just like your father. He couldn't keep his nose out from where it didn't belong either. This revelation shocked me, but it made sense in retrospect. Of course, Snyder had killed my father. No wonder the old man had told me to be careful of him. If only I had listened.

He shoved me over the railing and I went tumbling down. Faster, faster, faster, somersaulting and spinning as I careen down towards the brackish green slime. The surface of it approached me rapidly like a swimming pool after falling from the highest platform dive imaginable. I landed in the middle of the vat of toxic ooze with a sickening impact that rattled my insides. The liquid hissed and churned, gurgling all around me as it began to let off steam. An unexpected reaction occurring as the substance met my flesh. Sinking to the bottom, I tried to hold my breath, but found myself gasping in the green liquid. At first, there was terrible, excruciating pain, worse than anything I'd ever experienced.

But then after that, I felt nothing. I passed out, and regained consciousness over and over again, wondering how I could possibly be alive. Each time I awoke, I felt if something was changing inside of me, making me into something different, being reborn into something more than human. How I was rescued from that place I'll never know, and my loyal butler refuses to tell me. But my guess is that someone inside the plant saw my demise and felt guilty. Regardless, when I awoke, I was in the back of the Rolls-Royce, wrapped up in a blanket. Al was driving fast, turning corners too quickly, and making his way towards the hospital. The giant car squealed around the bends, and people on the side of the road stopped to stare at the unusual vehicle as the massive engine roared.

It took months for me to recover, but when I did, I started noticing changes in myself. As I grew stronger, so did these new abilities. Suddenly I could disappear into the shadows with ease, becoming in front of the world. visible to the naked eye. My reflexes and intelligence were heightened. My strength increased. My senses became sharper. My healing was faster. I realized I was superhuman as a result of my accident with the toxic ooze. With the assistance of Al and his wizardry with robotics and advanced technology, we designed gadgets to help me defend myself for a new mission. A mission to rid lawfully of evil men like Snyder, who had killed my father and tried to kill me. A man who was poisoning

the city by continuing his crusade to create that toxic compound is men designed. We fashioned a costume and a cape that would allow me to glide through the air and a grappling-hooked gun, which could help me escape from tight spots. We built a car which was bulletproof and fast as hell, outfitted with enough horsepower, nitrous oxide, and advanced electronics to outrun and out-maneuver anyone. And with firepower on top of that, part of me wanted revenge to get back at Snyder for the terrible injustices he had committed. But I realized I had to be better than that. This was about more than just revenge. It was about bringing peace and security back to the streets of Loughlin.

A city terrorized for too long by heinous criminals who hid behind masks. Gangs and psychopaths had taken over the town, and Snyder was emblematic of a much larger problem. The man who tried to kill me disappeared when he found out I was still alive. I'd discover later on that he tried to open his own factory. But without the resources of Wade Corp, he was unable to run the manufacturing operation as criminal network required. That green ooze I fell into

Was being refined into a chemical Which he intended to sell to foreign militaries To make super soldiers But when Snyder tried to create the same chemical at his own plant There was a terrible accident Everyone died except for Snyder He emerged from the burnt-out wreckage of the factory More powerful than ever

He blamed me instead of himself His face was burnt badly in the accident His lips pulled back from the accident His lips pulled back from his teeth in a permanent puckered grin. The comedian was born, a supervillain to counter my superhero abilities. Of course, I thought to myself, reading the headlines. Life imitates fiction. For every Clark Kent, there must be a Lex Luthor.

For every Peter Parker, there has to be a Dr. Octavius. There's probably a closer comparison, but I can't think of it right now. Despite all the good I've done for the city of Laughlin over the past ten years, the comedian has managed to make this city even more depraved and evil than when I began my crusade. Maybe the citizens of Laughlin don't deserve justice. Maybe none of us do. After he'd been raining havoc on Laughlin for years, I finally captured the comedian. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I'll save that story for another day.

Needless to say, he escaped. The best criminal masterminds never stay locked up for long, and even the Rackham asylum can prevent him from getting out. I came home to Wade Manor tonight with the knowledge he had escaped, weighing heavily on my mind. I'd been distracted during the charity fundraiser event. I had been attending that evening, and I hadn't been able to focus. Part of me couldn't help wondering what mischief the comedian was planning. Of course.

I had no idea. He had been planning this for a long, long time. Wade Manor was dark and quiet when I entered, still in my tuxedo. I had given Al the night off, but still expected him to greet me at the door when I entered, as he always did. Instead, I was left alone in the echoing foyer of the old mansion. Al? Are you here? I called out, feeling uneasy.

There was no response. I stood silently in the shadows for a few moments, then spoke again. Snyder, I know you're here. What have you done to Al? I should have never left him alone. He was capable of taking care of himself, sure, especially with the advanced security and weapon systems in the mansion, but not against someone as cunning as the comedian.

No one was safe against someone like that. Not even me. Al is doing just fine. Nider's cackling voice said through the intercom beside the main entrance. Aren't you, Al? Say hi to Mr. Wade. Run, Mr. Wade. It is insane.

My loyal Butler screamed before being abruptly silenced. Now, now, I said to say hello, not to go running your mouth off, you little. There was a sound of someone being pistol whipped, and I heard Al cry out in pain again. Leave him out of this. It's me you want. I had none of the high-tuck gadgets my suit afforded. My belt was in the hideout beneath the manor if I could only get down there. With dread clouding my mind, I decided to take action.

Walking deeper into the manor, I went to the library. The comedian's laughter and mocking voice following me the whole way. He was watching me, which meant he had access to the cameras and likely the whole security system. And that was very bad news. I entered the library and approached the bookcase, hid the secret entrance to my lair. It looked undisturbed, at least. That was a good sign. Pulling back the fake book on the third shelf from the top, the bookcase on the floor beneath my feet started to spin on a rotor located underneath. I needed my equipment, but the fact that I was

giving away my secret hideout was not lost on me. Snyder would likely be headed down this way, and I would have to hurry. Running down the stone steps into the cavernous layer, beneath the manor, I saw the lights begin to turn on, illuminating my suit and vehicle. I put the mask on and then slid my legs one at a time into the tight black spandex body suit. After zipping it closed at the back, it immediately began to itch. You think I didn't know about your little secrets, Wade? I know everything about you. You think you could hide your identity as flying squirrel man for me? We're brothers, Wade. Toxic ooze brothers.

Snyder's voice crackled over the PA system once again. Does it feel like you've got ants in your pants, Wade? Trust me, it's going to get much worse than that. You ruined my life, and now I'm going to ruin yours. The itch of my skin was spreading and growing worse. It felt like bugs crawling. But then, the sensation turned into something more like acid eating through my flesh. Ah!

I screamed, trying to unscored. zip the suit, but it wouldn't open. Of course it wouldn't. It wasn't my suit. It was the comedian's sick creation that he had swapped for mine. Nothing down in my hideout would be safe. I was fairly certain of that. I ran back up the stone staircase towards the main level of the mansion again, only to hear the comedian's twisted laughter coming through the intercom once again. The entire mansion was suddenly tilting on its axis, the wall paint bleeding like a stabbed animal. Whatever my suit contained, it wasn't just meant to make me itch and feel uncomfortable. There was something else.

A drug like LSD was seeping into my skin. I had to get out of it quickly, but how? My thoughts were coming fast and disjointed, a tumbling mess of ideas that were beginning to make no sense. Unable to tell if the solution my brain came up with was good, but completely insane. I decided to just go with it. Running over to the fireplace, I grabbed a long match and struck it against the brick, setting the tip of light. Then I walked over to a nearby curtain and set it on fire. Ha ha ha ha.

What are you doing, Wade? Stop that! The comedian's laughter cut out abruptly. He hadn't anticipated this. The sick bastard was somewhere in the mansion. The fear in his voice had confirmed it. And now he would be making a run for it. I proceeded through the hallways of the mansion as things began to blaze in the rooms behind me.

Wade Manor was quickly turning into an inferno as the old wood, books, and tapestries burned fast and hot. Now he can feel his skin burning like I am, I thought wildly, grabbing the walls for support as I stumbled up the staircase towards the security office on the second floor, an isolated room with access to the camera system. I felt like whatever acid was in my suit had burned clean through my epidermis and was now working its way to my subcutaneous tissue. I could smell fat sizzling like pork ribs at a barbecue. Terrified and hallucinating, seeing bulging fingers poking out from the walls and faces smiling at me on the ceiling. I finally reached the security office. Kicking in the door after several missed attempts, I nearly fell into the room, only to see the comedian climbing out the window.

Al was tied to a chair, his mouth stuffed full of rags. His eyes were wide and scared as smoke was now filling the room, and flames were starting to lick up through the floorboards beneath us. You win for now, Wade, but I'll get you next time. Mark my words! The comedian jumped out the window with an umbrella in hand, using it to glide down to the ground like Mary Poppins. I managed to untie Al, but that was as far as I got, before collapsing into a heap on the floor,

gibbering like a maniac, and screaming about snakes and faces in the ceiling. My loyal butler pulled me from the house and cut that wretched psychedelic suit off of me. The two of us sat out on the front lawn of the house, listening as the sounds of sirens drew closer. I threw the fake suit into the blaze and watched it burn up. As the manner burned down before our eyes,

I reflected that it was not the first time Al had saved us. me, nor would it be the last. History repeats itself, and sometimes life is just like a comic book. At least, mine is anyways. Watch your step, the ferry captain told me, opening the gate. It's a long way down and the water's cold. The sea had been choppy on the way across from the mainland. The sky gray and foreboding of rain. Captain Flanders and I had talked the whole time inside the warmth of his cabin. as I attempted to soothe my nerves with conversation, and to distract myself from what was right outside the windows all around us.

Don't look outside. Don't look at the water. Pretend you're at home in the city on dry land. It had partially worked. I hadn't thrown up, and that was an improvement for my last time at sea. My legs were wobbly as I stepped across the gap, trying not to look down. Despite the pier being totally still, I felt my body swaying up and down with the phantom sway of the ocean waves we'd experienced during our two-hour journey on the small boat.

I was safely on the island now. That pit in the bottom of my stomach should have been going away. But it wasn't. Why did I still feel so uneasy? Seagulls laughed and swooped through the air nearby on a rock-strewn beach, littered with bottles and old newspapers. A thunderhead in the distance crackled to life with electricity. flashing white momentarily. Thanks, I said, careful as I made my way across the slippery wooden boards.

My feet wanted to skid and slide with each step forward, and I braced myself with one hand, grabbing onto the thick rope, which served as a railing. It looked as if I was the only one visiting the island. I realized as the captain closed the gate behind me and went back into his cabin. The vessel was small, and I hadn't even seen it. anyone else aboard. Still, I was surprised to confirm that I was the only passenger. Over here, detective! A man was calling to me from the gravel parking lot nearby, and I walked

towards him. He was slender with glasses and a mustache, carrying a coffee cup in one hand, and a donut in the other. The policeman was wearing a worn, salt-stained blue-rain slicker, more befitting a sailor than a man of the law. Rain began to patter on us from above as he met. me halfway, popping the donut into his mouth and taking my bag with his free hand. Welcome to Iker Island, he said, his mouth chewing the donut and making it disappear in one large swallow. We spoke on the phone. I'm Chief Varnson, but you can call me Bill. Nice to meet you, Bill. I wasn't expecting you to meet me out here, but I appreciated it. Can you point me in the direction of a motel or a bed and breakfast? I don't need much. Just somewhere.

to lay my head overnight. Our voices were being drowned out by the increasing noise of the rainstorm, and I had to speak loudly to be heard. Nothing like that around here, he said, opening the passenger door of his car to let me in. But you can stay with me if you like. My wife passed away a few years back, and I wouldn't mind the company. How long do you plan on being here? As long as I have to. I'll take you up on the bed offer, and I'll pay you for your hospitality. I'm not one to freeload. Besides, my client is paying for my room and board. We both got in, and he started the engine. Rain dripped off of us, and he turned on the heat and the wiper blades as it began to fall even harder. A staccato beat like pounding drums on the roof of the car as we drove towards the town.

Who was your client anyways? I wasn't clear on that when we spoke. spoke on the phone. I'm not at liberty to discuss that, unfortunately. But I do appreciate your help, Chief Arnson. Bill. Right. Thanks again, Bill. As he turned down a gravel road, I saw something in the trees, retreating suddenly as we approached. A large, polking shape like a bear, but not quite. Lots of wildlife on the island? I asked, suddenly nervous. I think I just saw something. Could have been a bear, I'm not sure. No bears around here. Closest thing we've got is deer, brought over from the mainland at some point by hunters, so they had something to do. But the damn things are out of control nowadays. They probably outnumber the people 10 to 1. Not that that's saying much.

We drove past a lot of abandoned houses on the outskirts of town. Many of them half collapsed, their roofs caving in. But as we got further along, I saw the... houses with cars outside and their lights on. So it wasn't a complete ghost town. Why did so many people pack up and move away? I asked. There's not many jobs left on Iker Island since the cannery closed. Fishing isn't what it used to be. Every year I look around and there's a few less familiar faces.

No sense sticking around if there's no jobs. He drove through downtown and we finished the journey in awkward silence. This is it, Bill said, as we arrived outside an old two-story building with a porch out front. A battered sign with faded blue letters swayed in the wind on rusty chains, and I barely made out the words, police station. He showed me the ramshackle bullpen with its single small jail cell, leading me up a set of creaking wooden stairs at the rear of the main level. There was a small guest room on the second floor with an uncomfortable bed and dusty sheets where I could lay my head for the night. The only amenity was a hard wooden chair which I sat on for a while, looking out the window at the falling droplets, glowing in the street lamps light. The town was quiet

aside from the sound of the pounding rain and rumbling thunder in the distance. I didn't see anyone walking the streets until the following morning. By then, the sun was out shining, and my mood had grown considerably warmer with the weather. Still, I'd be happy to get this case over with and get home, I thought to myself. This little town was rubbing me the wrong way. People were polite, but somehow cold at the same time. A cheerful voice called out, Good morning, to me, and I looked to see someone approaching me on the street. I was standing out on the veranda, enjoying the fresh air after a long night of allergies and unwashed bed linen. You must be the detective, a woman in a flowery yellow dress said, smiling blank.

Frankly, I'd pushing her baby down the road in a stroller. I'm Cindy Fox, and this is Little Susie. We were just out for a stroll, and I thought we'd pop by to say hello. I was slightly stunned at the interaction. Everything about it just felt odd. The woman's smile was too broad, showing too many teeth. Even her baby didn't look right. Her eyes were too intelligent and seemed to study me.

Then the baby began to grin as well. a fixed, toothy display of teeth. But babies aren't supposed to have teeth, are they? Nice to meet you, I managed to say, my throat dry and tight. Susie and Cindy. Very pretty names. Can I ask, how did you know I was a detective? And should I mention, I'm a private detective now.

I'm not with the police force anymore. Oh, we know. It's a small community here on the island, detective. Word gets around very quick. Nothing has kept secret for long. She smiled and walked off without another word, leaving me with that growing sense of unease again. What was it about this place? Was there something in the drinking water making everyone act so strange?

No wonder my client had hired me to look into the suspicious circumstances surrounding the disappearance of... Getting settled all right? A voice asked from behind me, interrupting my thoughts. It was Bill, the police chief. He walked right past me, out onto the gravel road, yawning and stretching as if the main street were his living room. Yeah, so far so good, I said. Can you point me towards the general store? I need to get something to eat. They'll be closed today. It's Monday. On the island, just about everything is closed on Sundays and Mondays. Damn, I didn't bring much with me. Is there any other place nearby where I can get something to tide me over until tomorrow?

Head up to the marina, Bill said, pointing down the street. It's right near where I picked you up last night. Closest thing to a corner store we've got around here. If you keep going past the docks, you'll see it. Did you want to lift? No, I'm good. I could use the exercise. Thanks for the offer, though.

All right, suit yourself. Enjoy your walk, detective. Started heading off and he called after me, telling me to wait. You know, if you're going to wait. You know, if you're going to walk, though. If you told me what you were here investigating, it would make it a lot easier for me to help you. I'm just saying, that's all. I know you got your deal with your client, but between two men of the law, I think it should be all right to bend the rules a little bit, don't you?

He had been persistent on the phone as well. The chief liked to know what was happening in his own backyard, and I couldn't blame him. I'll give it some thought, I said, trying to be diplomatic. You might have a point. Fair enough, he allowed, and I kept going on my way, my stomach rumbling with emptiness. I got about 20 paces down the road before I saw another face. A man was trimming his bushes near the street, using a giant, oversized pair of hedge clippers. His smile was similarly wide and welcoming, just like the chief, just like the woman with the baby stroller and the baby.

Good morning, detective. Fine day for a walk. The man continued snipping the greenery with his enormous shears as I approached, but his eyes were fixed on me. By the time I got near to him, he was only trimming the air, missing the plant entirely. Hello, I replied, my anxiousness increasing again. It seems as if everyone in town knows about me. I tried to say this in as friendly of a tone as I could,

but it was becoming difficult to maintain my composure. Well, it's a small place I could. Island, word gets around quickly. I'm David O'Brien, the town gardener. I keep all the hedges trimmed around here. Mo the grass, plant the flowers, all that dirty business. I tend to the cemetery as well, don't you know? His voice was heavily accented, and it was difficult to understand the man. He seemed to be trying to hold in laughter, as if some joke was very funny, but I wasn't privy to it. After his introduction, He turned on his heel and wandered off to another part of the property, giggling, his edge clippers dragging in the grass behind him,

digging up the immaculately maintained sod with reckless abandonment. The interaction left me feeling disturbed, even more than I already was, and that was saying a lot. I was beginning to consider shortening my stay on Iker Island. Perhaps leaving tonight to come back with official reinforcements would be the safest bet. any longer than that, and I might find out where my client's sister had ended up much more intimately than I would like. Continuing on my walk, I passed several more residents. They were mowing the grass, sitting on their porches sipping coffee, and walking down the street

with dogs on leashes. Each time the same thing happened. Good morning, detective! Cheered a man fetching his mail, that same vacant look in his eyes, and with the same wide-toothy grin that was growing so familiar. He produced a knife from his pocket, and I jumped backwards. But then I saw, he was just using it to open his mail. He did so smiling. His eyes never leaving me. I hurried away, moving briskly down the street again, my head turning on a swivel. Good morning, detective! laughed an elderly man on his porch, carving something that resembled a pagan idol while resting on a rocking chair in the shade.

fine day for a walk. Good morning, detective. A woman walking her poodle said, startling me as she appeared from nowhere on the other side of me. I jumped back and spiked my spine against the top of a picket fence, crying out in pain. She tilted her head and went past, grinning and laughing as if my injury were the funniest thing in the world. Even the dog was smiling at me. Was I losing my mind? I picked up my pace, trying not to look alarmed. I felt as if I was surrounded by bloodthirsty animals rather than well-wishing pedestrians. There was a forested area on either side of the road up ahead, and I rushed towards it. But then I couldn't help myself.

I stopped and turned around, looking back at the town square. Everyone on the street was stock still and glaring at me when I turned around. The smiles gone from their faces, replaced by blank stairs. Shuddering. I looked away instinctively. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. I began to speedwalk again, hurrying through the forested area towards the marina up ahead. It wasn't far, and yet I was feeling more terrified than I had ever been in my life.

Suddenly I remembered the bear I had seen in the woods the day before. Bill said it couldn't have been, but it sure looked big whatever it was. Darting my gaze to either side, I looked into the shadows of the darkers of the darkers. trees, trying to see if anything was pursuing me. To my dismay, there was. A dark form was moving from tree to tree, blending in with the shadows, and just barely visible. It was moving in the same direction I was, but on a diagonal, its trajectory headed to cut me off up ahead. I hurried even faster, running down the gravel road as fast as my legs would take me. The thing moved quickly despite its size, but not as fast as me. After a while, I managed to gain a lead on it

by sprinting, and I was soon out of the forested area completely. I went over to the building with a large sign-out front reading, Marina, gas and snacks. The bell above the door tinkled as I entered, huffing and puffing, feeling out of breath for my short run. So terrified, I'd forgotten to breathe for a few moments. Can I help you? A man wearing a green, trucker had asked from behind the counter. I took him in, trying to decide if he was all right. He was the first person who didn't greet me with a smile, knowing exactly who I was before I even opened my mouth. For some reason, I took that as a good sign. Maybe he wasn't one of them, whoever they were. Still, I didn't dare risk telling him what I'd just seen. I tried to calm

myself and just act as if everything was normal. I tried to fool myself a little bit even, telling myself that maybe it actually was. Maybe I had been seeing things out there. Just looking for something to eat, I said, scanning the half-bear shelves. Not much to go around today. We get new stock on Tuesday, he replied, pointing to some off-brand chips and soda. There was also a rack with expired bags of pretzels and an assortment of gum. nothing with any protein or real sustenance. I would have settled for beef jerky, but they didn't even have that. It would be a long day at this rate, I thought.

My stomach gurgling loudly again. I put a few items on the counter and gave the man his money, not feeling the least bit satisfied with my purchase of sodium and empty calories. There was a sign over the man's shoulder which said they sold tickets for the ferry. What time does the boat leave today? I asked. Thinking I would make a break for it while it was still possible to do so. It doesn't. No fairy on Mondays. Oh, my heart began to hammer faster.

Another 24 hours on Iker Island. That didn't sit well with me at all. Can I buy a ticket for tomorrow? Sure you can. That'll be 15 bucks, he said, printing off a receipt. He handed it to me and put my items in a bag. I turned around and started walking out the little building when he called. after me. Sorry to hear you're leaving so soon, detective. We do hope you'll visit us again. My blood ran cold as I opened the door and walked out. I didn't have to see him to know he was

smiling widely as I left. I could hear it in his voice. I pulled out my cell phone and saw an out-of-service message displayed across the top, just like it had said the night before. Knowing I had to get a message back to one of my colleagues about this place before it was too late, I started hurrying back towards the police station. The shadow thing in the forest pursued me again on my walk back into town, this time choosing to remain at a distance. I only hoped it stayed that way. Make yourself look big, speak in a low, loud voice, and never, ever run.

I remembered hearing those things about grizzly bears. Maybe they would translate to this situation as well. Don't let them know you're scared. Pretend you're more powerful than you are. Get a message back home and get some back about here, Pronto. The idea was clear in my mind as I speedwalked out of the forest, down the street towards the police station,

trying not to make eye contact with the smiling faces who walked past, greeting me. By the time I got back to the police station, I was out of breath and exhausted, shaking as I closed the door behind me. Bill was nowhere to be seen. I went straight over to the phone on his desk and picked up the line to find it was dead. All the connections looked fine,

so I went upstairs to my little bedroom, thinking maybe I could get some cell signal from up there. I needed to get a call out to the mainland somehow. But of course, the phone didn't work. My stomach rumbled and gurgled again, and I looked at the bag of pretzels I had purchased, thinking it wouldn't be wise to eat them. It would be better to starve

than to risk eating anything from this place. Still, the longer I sat there staring at the bag, the more I began to think I was being foolish. It was a sealed bag of pretzels. There was no way anybody tampered with it. I opened the bag and began to lunch on the salty snakes. Of course I got thirsty and opened the soda I had purchased as well, hearing the hiss of carbonation and the click of the seal and taking that as a good sign for my safety. Although I didn't recognize either brand name of the pretzels or the soda, they tasted pretty good, just faintly strange. After eating and drinking for a while, I sat looking out the bedroom window, sitting up in the chair,

trying to decide my next move. My eyelids began growing heavy as I saw people converging outside the police station, wearing brown hooded robes and carrying torches, pitchforks, and pikes. I tried to stand up, but couldn't. My legs were none. and my arms weighed a thousand pounds as they hung limply up my sides. Distantly, I heard someone open the door to the bedroom as I began to fade in and out of consciousness. Looking up at the people in the doorway, I saw Bill was standing there staring at me. The brestles! I mumbled, slumping from the chair onto the floor in a heap. Poison.

He began putting zip ties around my wrists and cinching them together tightly. Sorry, detective, he said, looking down at me. It's so hard to get sacrifices for Bella Sama these days. No tourists come to Iker Island anymore. We had to start getting creative. Bella Sama? The word was strange and unfamiliar. I tried to think what it could mean, but my mind felt like it was full of quicksand.

Come on, let's go to the ceremony. It's just about to begin. But it can't start without you. I passed out after hearing those words and dreamt of drowning in brackish waters, screaming and taking in salt water instead of air as the undertow dragged me deeper. When I woke up, I was hanging from a rope tied upside down to a pole. The water was beneath my face, and it was only a few inches away. The residents of the town were on the beach, wearing robes and chanting as the waves

lapped at their bare feet. Chief Varson was at the center of them all, looking out of the town. out at me and holding an open book in his hands. The ancient tome looked weather-worn and salt-stained from decades, or perhaps centuries of use. Beside him stood a gigantic man, at least eight feet tall, wearing a hat made from a bear's head. The thing which had been pursuing me in the forest had been a man after all. But he hadn't been necessary. I'd done their work for them by eating the tainted food.

You, detective, will serve as a sort of. sacrifice to Belisama, goddess of the seas, the one who blesses all fishermen with good yields. As the tide comes in, it will plunge your head beneath the cleansing salt water, and the goddess herself will come to visit you as you take your last breaths. Be thankful, for you should be honored to see her visage. I screamed as the waves began to tick my forehead. Then the sea started to submerge my face completely, with occasional white caps, as the tide came in and the water rose higher and higher.

Gulping in a belly full of salt water, I felt terrified and sick. The liquid went up my nose, and I felt panic rising up inside of me as I struggled to reach the surface but couldn't. I was completely submerged, thrashing while I was dangling upside down in the surging waves. The ocean water was cold but clear, revealing the reef below with schools of fish and kelp that danced in front of me, and tickled my face. As I started losing consciousness, I saw something else as well.

A beautiful woman swimming towards me. I thought for a moment, perhaps she was coming to save me. But then she opened her yawning mouth to reveal her teeth, long and sharp enough to rip the flesh from my bones, curved and serrated like piranha. Bella Sama. Her skin looked blue in the water, her smile growing wider as she's swimming.

Wham closer to me. I squirmed and bucked against the ropes holding me, but it was no use. I cringed as she got close enough to scrape her fingernails against my cheek. But then suddenly I felt myself being lifted upwards by the rope around my ankles. My head emerged from the water to see a blessed sight. Captain Flanders, the ferry captain who brought me over to the island, was pulling me up onto the deck of a small fishing boat. Meanwhile on the shoreline, the residents of Iker Island were screaming and throwing things in our direction. Several of them were even wading out into the water in the cultish rogues, looking ready to climb aboard the vessel.

Those unfortunate souls ended up filling in as sacrifices to Belisama, as she didn't differentiate between her worshippers and the tourists. All she saw was meat, and the goddess was hungry. The water turned red with their blood, and I saw limbs flying through the air, and their terrified faces screaming and girdling on the salt. water. But then the boat began to move, and those horrible sights and sounds faded into the distance. Pretty soon, all I could hear was the roar of the engine, and I closed my eyes, trying to forget

the nightmare of Iker Island. I wish I had better news for my client, but I'm going to have to pass this case on to higher authorities. This mystery is beyond my pay grade. And either way, I'm pretty sure I know what happened to her sister. Bella Sama is always hungry, and she has a taste for tourists now.