The Why Files: Operation Podcast - 623: Witnesses of: Black Eyed Kids, Phone Calls from the Dead, The Cursed Heart

Episode Date: January 12, 2026

Gather round for three campfire stories investigators cannot explain.A dead man's phone calls thirty-five times in twelve hours, guiding rescuers through wreckage to his body. The phone battery should have died. The phone was never found.A heart transplant patient inherits his donor's food cravings, handwriting, and wife. Thirteen years later, he kills himself the same way his donor did. Same method. Same location.Two children knock on a car window asking for a ride home. Their eyes are solid black from edge to edge. They cannot enter without permission. The people who let them in never tell their stories.Three documented cases. Hundreds of witnesses. Zero explanations that hold up under scrutiny.The signal sometimes gets through. The heart sometimes remembers. The door should stay locked.

Gather around, because this happened. September 12, 2008, the 4.22 p.m. MetroLink left Union Station packed with commuters. Charles Peck stood in the aisle at the front car. He was 49 years old. He texted his fiancé, Andrea. I'm almost there. That was the last message he ever sent. Minutes later, the commuter train slammed head on into a Union Pacific freight train, both traveling over 40 miles per hour, combined impact speed, 82 miles per hour. Charles Peck died instantly.

Twelve hours later, his family sat in a living room watching news footage of the wreckage. Then Andrea's phone lit up on the table. The caller ID said Charles. We think of telephones as everyday things, plastic and glass, good for ordering pizza or doom scrolling through social media. But since their invention, people suspected they could serve another purpose. Nikola Tesla built a radio to reach the spirit world. Thomas Edison believed he could do the same. He called it a spirit phone, a device to bridge this world and the next. In 1920, Edison told Scientific American he'd been working on an apparatus

to see if it is possible for personalities which have left this earth to communicate with us. He died in 1931 without completing it, or so his assistants claimed. But these calls do happen. In 1979, scientists published the first comprehensive study of phone calls. calls from the dead. They documented over 100 cases. 72% occurred within 24 hours of death. 89% featured heavy static or poor connection quality. Ninety-four percent described voices as distant, mechanical, or hollow. Average call duration, six to 15 seconds. The pattern was clear. The calls were real. But were they messages from beyond or something else?

Sometimes the dead call to say goodbye. Sometimes they call with a word. warning. Dean Coons is famous for writing horror novels, but his most terrifying story is one he lived. Coons was in his home on a Tuesday afternoon in 1988, working alone in a quiet house. The phone rang, an unlisted number. He picked it up and heard that heavy, rhythmic static crackling through the receiver. Then a woman's voice cut through the noise. It was faint, but distinct. It sounded exactly like his mother, but his mother had been dead for over a decade. Coons didn't speak. He couldn't. The voice didn't say hello. It didn't ask how he was doing.

It said only one thing repeated in a flat tone. Be careful, Dean. Be careful. It didn't sound like a recording. It sounded like a transmission from somewhere else. Then the line went dead. Two days later, Coons visited his father at a mental care facility. His father suffered from dementia. Coons walked into the room, and his father looked at him, reached into a drawer and pulled out a knife.

The blade was eight inches long and a razor sharp. His father lunged and tried to stab him. Kuntz caught his father's wrist inches from his chest. His father was 73 years old but fought like a man possessed. It took three orderlies to pull them apart. Kuntz wrestled the knife away. He subdued his father without getting hurt. If he hadn't been on edge, if he hadn't been warned,

he might not have reacted fast enough. His mother reached across whatever separates the living from the dead to save her son's life. But Charles Peck wasn't calling to warn anyone. He wasn't calling to say goodbye. He was leading them somewhere. Looking to refresh your wardrobe this year without draining your bank account, Quince has you covered with luxe essentials that feel effortless and look polished,

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The impact fused the trains together into a safe. single mass of twisted steel. The fires burned for hours. Fink black smoke was visible for 20 miles. 2,500 gallons of diesel fuel leaked from ruptured tanks. The smell of burning plas and diesel reached Northridge six miles away.

Andrea was at the station waiting for Charles when the news broke. She drove to the crash site, but the police held her back. She joined his parents, his brother, his sister, and his stepmother in a waiting area. They sat in that room for hours, terrified, waiting for the survivor list. Then they were waiting

for the list of the dead. And then in the middle of that silence, Andrea's phone rang. She looked at the screen. Charles. The room went still. She grabbed the phone with shaking hands and pressed answer.

Charles, baby, are you there? She expected a voice, a cry for help, anything. She got static. That low, rhythmic hum, like wind blowing through a long tunnel or someone trying to breathe through damaged lungs.

The call lasted six seconds. Then it dropped. The family stared at each other. Pocket dial, glitch? Well, five minutes later, it happened again. This time, his son's phone rang. Caller ID? Dad.

He answered, Dad, where are you? Static. Heavy, hollow silence. And the line went dead. Then his brother's phone rang. Then his stepmothers. For the next 11 hours, his phone launched a desperate campaign. It called everyone he loved, his fiancé, his parents, his son.

siblings, his children? 35 separate calls. Each time they answered. Each time they screamed into the receiver begging him to speak, begging him to tell them where he was, and each time they got that strange, hollow static. To the family, this meant one thing.

Charles was alive. He survived the crash. He was trapped in the wreckage, maybe pinned, maybe injured too badly to speak, but he was conscious. He was holding his phone. He was pressing send. He was telling them he was still there.

The family ran. to the police station and shove their phones in the officer's faces. He's calling us. Look, he's calling right now. This changed the entire operation. Before the calls, firefighters worked in recovery mode. They assumed everyone in the front car was dead. They moved carefully, treating the wreckage as a crime scene. But if a survivor was calling out, this was now a rescue mission. The fire chief sent 250 firefighters to the site. 50 paramedics stood by. They brought cutting equipment, jacks, cranes. Over 100 tons of steel had to be moved piece by piece without causing further collapse. Police contacted Verizon and traced the signal. Every call came from Peck's phone.

Every ping came from the same location. The phone was broadcasting from the epicenter of the disaster, the lead passenger car, crushed to half its original size. The firefighters went back in. The work was dangerous. Reckage twisted under immense pressure. Fire is still smoke. It was small. They are thick with smoke in the stench of burning plastic and diesel. But they had a target now. They cut through steel. They lifted heavy debris. Every time the phone rang, they got a fresh ping.

The signal guided them through tons of twisted metal. 35 calls, 35 pings. The rescue team worked through the night, exhausted running on adrenaline and hope. At 3.28 a.m., 12 hours after the crash, the call stopped. Maybe the phone battery died, or maybe Charles had lost consciousness, but it didn't matter. They had his location.

One hour later, just before dawn, they broke through the final layer of debris. They aimed their flashlights into the crushed car. The beam hit a man in a seat. It was Charles. He didn't look injured. Unconscious, maybe. For a second, they thought they pulled off a miracle. They didn't.

The rescue team rushed to him. Charles was still strapped into his seat, not pinned by machinery, not trapped under rubble. He didn't look injured. A firefighter reached out and checked for a pulse. Charles Skin was cold. Charles Peck was dead and had been for a while. The injuries were catastrophic. Crushed thoracic cavity, severed spine, massive internal bleeding.

His heart stopped instantly when the trains collided. The crash occurred at 4.22 p.m. Charles Peck died at 4.22 p.m. According to the medical examiner, brain function ceased the moment of impact. No suffering, no waiting for rescue, instantaneous death. He was dead 12 hours before they found him. He was dead before the first call to Andrea. He was dead for the call to his son, the call to his brother, the call to his stepmother,

dead for every single one of the calls that guided the rescue team through the wreck. The comfortable explanation is, technical glitch. Maybe the impact short-circuited the phone. Maybe damaged wiring was causing it to randomly dial contacts from his favorites list over and over for 11 hours. But there's a problem with that theory. When firefighters found Charles, they wanted to secure his personal effects, especially the phone that guided the entire rescue operation. They checked his pockets, empty.

They checked the floor around his seat. The seat pockets. The debris within arm's reach. No phone. They expanded the search, sifting through wreckage in every direction. They checked underseats and overhead compartments beneath debris. No phone. They swept the area with metal detectors.

They photographed every piece of wreckage before moving it, standard protocol for securing evidence. They found his wallet. They found his keys. They never found the phone. The device that made 35 calls over 11 hours. The device that pinged cell towers and transmitted a signal strong enough to guide a rescue team through the wreckage was gone. It wasn't in his hand. It wasn't in his pocket. It wasn't anywhere in the car. The signal came from his seat, but the source didn't exist. Charles Peck died instantly. He didn't have a pulse. No brain activity. No phone. Yet for 11 hours, he reached down. He called the woman he was going to marry. He called the children he was leading behind. He called everyone who loved him over and over until they found his body. And once they did, he hung up. We want to believe that when we die, we leave this world completely. But stories like this make you wonder if the connection is ever fully severed.

Maybe in the static between stations, a signal can still get through. So tonight, before you go to sleep, check your phone. Make sure it's charged. Make sure the volume is on. because if it rings in the middle of the night and the caller ID shows a name you haven't seen in years, don't be afraid. Answer it.

They might need your help. Or you might need theirs. Gather around, because this happened. Abilene, Texas, January 1996. Brian Bethel sat in his car outside an empty theater parking lot. He was writing a check to pay his internet bill. He stopped under the marquee to use the light. Then a rhythmic tapping on his window.

Two boys stood outside, hoodies pulled love. face is hidden. Brian rolled down the window just a crack. The boy in the green hoodie stepped forward. That's when Brian saw his eyes. Brian Bethel was a reporter, 20 years at the paper, crime beat. He'd interviewed murderers, documented accident scenes, covered trauma that sent other reporters to therapy. He was running an errand, nothing unusual about it. But sitting in that parking lot, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. His heart slammed against his chest. Every instinct said run, his brain didn't understand why. Not yet. The noise of the city faded away, and traffic went silent, and the wind died. Even the electrical hum of the parking

lot lights stopped. The silence was absolute. Brian's ears popped, like a change in pressure, like an airplane descending, but it was instant. The hair on his arm stood straight up, and his ears popped again. Then the parking lot lights buzzing came back, and the traffic returned, but that uneasy feeling remained. Brian looked at the boys outside his window. They looked normal enough, maybe 10 or 12 years old. One was slightly taller. They had pale skin, red hair, nothing remarkable.

They stood completely still. No fidgeting, no shifting weight. This is not the way kids naturally move. They stood like statues, patient and motionless. The taller boy smiled, but it was a performance. Friendliness that didn't match a stillness. the patience, the way the boys watched him. Hey, mister, we have a problem.

That voice was wrong, smooth and well-spoken, but didn't sound like a child's voice. It sounded like an adult imitating a child, hitting the right notes but not quite authentic. The boy gestured toward the theater. We want to see the movie, but we left our money at home. Could you give us a ride to my house to get the cash? It's not far. Brian's thoughts felt slow, heavy, like he was moving underwater, but his hand moved toward the door handle without his permission.

He watched his own fingers reaching for it. He tried to fight it, tried to tell himself, these were just kids who needed help. He forced himself to look directly at the boy, tried to break whatever spell had taken hold. The boy tilted his head and light from the marquee cut across his face. No reflection. No life. Then Brian saw, the boy had no eyes.

Brian couldn't breathe. His hands were shaking. Adrenaline flooded his system. Every cell in his body screamed the same message. Run. The boy had no eyes, not damaged eyes, not clouded eyes, voids. The entire visible surface of each eye was solid black, edge to edge darkness. Then the trance broke and panic flooded in. His hand froze on the door lock, then snatched back. like he touched a hot stove. The change in the boys was immediate.

The polite act dropped. The taller boy's expression shifted to cold fury, a fury that wasn't human. He didn't scream or pound on the glass. He just stared with those impossible black eyes. An itch formed in Brian's skull, freshered building. The taller boy's voice was so calm, so reasonable.

You just need to get to our mother's house. It won't take long. Brian's fingers touched the lock again. He didn't decide to do it. His hand just moved. The kid didn't sound like a kid anymore. His voice dropped. It sounded cold.

It sounded dead. We can't come in unless you invite us. Let us in. We don't have a gun. Brian hadn't mentioned guns. Hadn't thought about guns. If the boy was trying to reassure him, he just made it worse. Then Brian thought about what the kid just said.

They needed permission. He couldn't just open the door himself, like some rule prevented it. We can't come in unless you tell us we can. It was almost like the boy's voice was coming from inside Brian's brain. He looked down. His hand was an inch from the lock. He had to get out of here. Brian slammed his foot on the gas. The tires squealed. He spun the wheel and tore out of the parking lot. He checked a nearer. The street behind him was empty. The parking lot was empty. The boys were gone. not walking away, not running, just gone.

Brian drove home fast. He ran into his house, through the deadbolt, checked every window. He turned on every light and sat in his living room holding a kitchen knife until the sun came up. The next day he did what any journalist would do. He wrote down everything that happened. Then he published the account online. He titled it simply, B-E-K, Black-E-E-D-K, Black-E-E-ed kids. With an hour as the e-mail started, a cop with 20 years on the force.

a nurse, a software engineer, all with the same story, two children, black eyes, that polite request, and every email said, I've never been that scared in my entire life. The emails came from everywhere, different states, different witnesses, but the same story. The details matched too perfectly to be a coincidence. Always at night, always a knock or a tap to announce their presence, always a mundane request, a phone call, directions, a ride home, and always, that wall of silence, the sudden drop in temperature, the overwhelming sense that a predator is nearby. Portland, 1998, a software engineer leaving downtown late at night, three kids on a street

corner, two boys, one girl, they tried to guilt him. One said, you'd promised you'd help us. He'd never seen them before. As his car passed, he saw their eyes in the street light, solid black, different state, different witness, same eyes. The reports kept coming. Over 12, documented accounts, 47 countries, same eyes, same silence, same requests. But there was one strange pattern repeated across every account, every country, every year. 100% of documented cases show the same limitation. They cannot enter without permission. They can't get into your car unless you unlock the door.

They can't cross your threshold unless you invite them. They're bound by some ancient law that even they can't break. So they manipulate, they beg, they weaponize guilt. It's freezing out here, mister. We're just kids. Why are you scared of us? Please. Our mom will be so worried. They use human empathy as a weapon. We're programmed to help children. Evolution wired us that way.

They know exactly which buttons to push. But here's what keeps researchers up at night. We have hundreds of accounts from people who refused, people who listened to their instincts, who drove away, who kept the door locked. We have zero first-hand accounts from anyone who let them in. No blog post describing what happened next. No police reports filed the following morning. No social media updates.

The people who open the door don't tell their stories. Brian Bethel still lives in Abilene. He still works as a journalist. In 2013, a reporter asked if he still thinks about that night. Not that long ago, he found two small handprints on his car window. That's scary enough. But when it really bothers Brian, the handprints were on the inside. Gather around, because this happened.

Charleston, South Carolina, 1995. Sunny Graham lay in a hospital bed. His heart was enlarged and failing. Doctors gave him weeks to live. 200 miles away, a man named Terry Cottle put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Terry's heart was strong. Doctors rushed it to Charleston and transplanted it into Sunny's chest. Sunny woke up with a new pulse, feeling stronger than he had in years.

But Sonny inherited more from Terry than just his heart. A lot more. Sunny Graham was a popular guy at Hilton Head. As manager of the central plant, he knew just about everyone on the Barrier Island. His cooking was legendary at fundraisers and community events. The local high school football field was named in his honor. He and his wife were married 38 years, two children. In 1994, a virus attacked Sunny's heart muscle.

The damage was severe. By 1995, Sunny was 56 years old and dying. His name went on two transplant lists. He waited, and his heart kept failing. One evening, Sunny got the call. A heart had become available, Terry Cottle's heart, close to a perfect match. Terry Cottle spent four days on life support. A 22-caliber slug entered his skull just behind his right ear.

He was 33 years old. That day, his wife Cheryl agreed to take him off life support. his organs could save lives. The surgery went well. Within six months, Sonny was strong enough to go on a fishing trip to Alaska. But something was different. Sonny had always hated hot dogs,

the smell, the taste, everything about him. Now he ate them every day, sometimes two or three. He developed a taste for beer and heavy metal music. He never cared about beer and metal before. His wife started seeing changes. Sonny's handwriting looked different. He walked differently.

He laughed differently. differently. She said he seemed like a different person. His friends noticed too, friends that he had for 40 years or more. But Sonny felt something else, something he couldn't explain to anyone. He felt a pull toward the donor's family. He needed to thank them, to meet them, to understand who had given him this second chance. In late 1996, he wrote the donor's widow. Her name was Cheryl Cottle. She agreed to meet him. They met at a restaurant in Charleston in January 1997. The moment Sonny saw her, his chest tightened. He felt a physical jolt, a sudden acceleration that didn't feel like attraction or nerves. It felt like recognition. His heartbeat faster when she smiled. It slammed

against his ribs when she spoke. He felt a rush of emotion that didn't belong to him. Love, guilt, and a desperate need to protect this woman. Cheryl felt it too. She said later that meeting Sunny was like seeing Terry again. Cheryl was only 30 years old. She looked at this older man with gray hair and weathered hands, but she felt her dead husband's presence. She felt him looking through Sonny's eyes. Sunny went home to his wife that night, but he couldn't stop thinking about Cheryl. He called her. They talked for hours. He visited her. He felt compelled to take care of her in ways he couldn't explain. Soon, Sunny's marriage fell apart. His wife couldn't compete with a ghost. That April, Cheryl married another man. Sunny gave away the bride, standing in for her late

father. Sunny watched her walk toward someone else, but it was Terry's heart pounding in his chest. That marriage didn't last either. Both couples fell apart under the weight of what neither could explain, the pull between Sunny and Cheryl that defied reason. Cheryl married Sunny in December 2004. Two different men, same heart. And that heart was bringing her husband back. For a while, things felt right. Sunny felt younger. He had a new wife, a new heart, a new beginning. Then the depression started. Terry Cottle hadn't just died, he killed himself. He was a man in struggle with depression he couldn't escape.

He put a gun to his head because the weight of living became unbearable. And now something dark lived inside Sonny. His personality shifted. Friends who'd known him for decades said they didn't recognize him anymore. The gentle, kind man who was the first to do a friend of favor, that man was disappearing. And Sunny talked about feeling trapped, about living someone else's life. about thoughts that didn't feel like his own. Sunny became moody and withdrawn.

He grew possessive, jealous in ways he'd never been. He accused Cheryl of seeing other men. He followed her car. He checked her phone. Then the fight started. The relationship turned toxic. Sonny felt trapped in a life he didn't recognize. He said he didn't feel like himself anymore.

He felt like a passenger in his own body watching someone else make decisions. In 2007, Sunny drew up a will. He asked his nephew to be the executor. He organized his finances, paid off debts, settled accounts. People noticed. They asked if he was okay. Sonny said he was fine just getting things in order. The beer, the hot dogs, the instant love for Cheryl,

his handwriting changed to match Terry's looser, more careless style. These weren't coincidences. These were Terry's preferences, Terry's traits, Terry's life. Sonny walked a path already walked. He followed footprints that were, his own. The years passed. Whatever joy Sunny found in his second chance evaporated. Instead, Sonny had a sense of impending doom. He was living Terricado's life, and he knew how that life ended. April 1st, 2008, 12 years, 12 days after the transplant. Neighbors in Vidalia, Georgia

were jolted awake by the sound of a shotgun blast. That morning, Sunny Graham drank his coffee and told Cheryl he was taking his nine-year-old stepson to the dentist, then off to work, a normal day. But Sonny made a detour to his backyard shed. There, the 69-year-old picked up the 12-eage shotgun he'd taken on countless hunting trips. He pointed the muzzle at the right side of his throat, just like Terry did all those years ago. Then Sonny pulled the trigger.

It was April 1st, almost exactly 13 years since another man's suicide, gave Sonny Graham a second chance at life. Different weapon. same method, same location. Sonny Graham died instantly. He left Cheryl a widow for the second time. Two husbands lost, both to self-inflicted gunshots to the head. Two men, one heart, same fate.

The story spread across the world. Reporters wrote about cellular memory and whether organs could hold a suicide gene. The internet lit up with theories. Scientists documented this phenomenon for decades. Personality changes following heart transplantation. Four categories, changes and preferences, alterations in emotions and temperament, modifications of identity, and memories from the donor's life.

The heart contains about 40,000 neurons, a network that operates independently of the brain, a heart brain that communicates bi-directionally with the brain and other organs. Researchers documented this cardiac nervous system in the early 1990s. Some theorized that cellular memory could transfer personality characteristics from donor to recipient. Studies of 73 heart transplant patients showed 89% reported personality changes after receiving their organ. And not subtle shifts, fundamental alterations in who they were. Claire Sylvia received a heart-lung transplant from an 18-year-old male motorcyclist. She suddenly craved beer and chicken nuggets. Food she later learned were her donor's favorites. She dreamed

about a man named Tim L. Her donor's name was Tim. A woman received a heart from a police officer killed in the line of duty. She started seeing flashes of light in her eyes, feeling burning sensations on her cheeks. She later learned the officer was shot in the face. A five-year-old boy received the heart of a three-year-old named Tim. The recipient had never been told the donor's name. He called his donor Timmy. He said Timmy got hurt when he fell down and likes Power Rangers.

Well, Tim fell from a window ledge reaching for a Power Ranger toy. The theories exist, the documentation exists, the cases stack up, one after another, people receiving organs and receiving something else. Preferences, memories, traits that aren't even their own. But theories don't explain the weight of it, the lived experience of looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself, of loving someone you've never met, of walking toward a shed with a shotgun because something inside you, something that isn't you, knows exactly what to do. Sunny Graham's heart remembered what his brain never knew. It remembered Terry's widow. It remembered Terry's pain. And when the time came, it remembered Terry's choice to end it all.

Thank you so much for hanging out today. My name is A.J., this is the Wi-Files, and that was a campfire story. No debunking, no analysis, just a creepy story to scare you in the kids. And that one is true and unsolved. Now, if you had fun, I'd appreciate it if you can like, subscribe, comment, and share. That stuff really helps. And like what's top, which we cover here, today is recommended by you. So if there's a story you'd like to see, go to thewifiles.com slash tips or send us an email.

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