transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] This is a Bose moment. You've been there, small talks going nowhere, but then the Bose speaker kicks in. Music you can feel fills the room, and no more chat with Danny from accounts. Your life deserves music. Your music deserves Bose. Find your perfect product at bose.com.

Speaker 2:
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Speaker 3:
[00:25] Bro, Skycoin, way better than points.

Speaker 1:
[00:28] Never fly during a Scorpio full moon.

Speaker 4:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 4:
[00:41] Bad advice? You're talking to me.

Speaker 2:
[00:44] Kayak. Got that right.

Speaker 4:
[00:47] So you're saying with Hilton Honors, I can use points for a free night stay anywhere? Anywhere. What about fancy places like the Canopy in Paris?

Speaker 5:
[00:56] Yeah, Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[00:58] Or relaxing sanctuaries like the Conrad in Tulum?

Speaker 2:
[01:01] Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[01:03] What about the five-star Waldorf Astoria in the Maldives? Are you gonna do this for all 9,000 properties?

Speaker 3:
[01:10] When you want points that can take you anywhere, anytime, it matters where you stay. Hilton. For the stay. Book your spring break now.

Speaker 6:
[01:24] For early access to ad-free episodes, visit patreon.com/wnmtkpodcast. You can look deep into someone's eyes, but you can never see what's truly going on inside their head. Guarded, mysterious even, Mason was my type down to a T. He was 41, but sometimes, under certain light, he looked like he might actually be younger, like maybe life had been tough for him, and weathered his features prematurely, but still betraying hints of youth somehow. Mason was an enigma, and I got off on it initially. I guess all relationships are about mystery to begin with. That's the appeal. An exhilarating dance with the unknown. But there comes a point when you need to know why someone is the way they are, how they were made. They have to go from being a feeling, tantalizing, addictive, to a person, familiar, complete. I already knew Mason had no contact with his family. He told me that when I'd first ask casually about them, and I'd left the subject alone, not wanting to pry, when his tone had been firmer and more resolute than I'd ever heard it before when I asked again. It was clear to me that it was a door I was not permitted to crack open. But I couldn't resist. It was like being handed a box with a question mark on it and being told not to look inside. It was manipulative of me, sure, but I found moments to gently keep introducing the subject in ways I was hoping he wouldn't realize were intentional until I finally felt I'd laid enough groundwork to ask him why he didn't speak to his family. He told me he didn't want to get into it, that it was too dark and complicated, and that maybe one day, when he was ready, he'd let me in. I was frustrated, but he tried to laugh it off. Aren't you relieved? He asked, attempting to shift the mood. Most people have to deal with their in-laws. You get away scot-free. With that, he got up and walked out of the room, and I didn't follow. I accepted his logic more because I could tell he wasn't going to budge that my manipulations had done nothing to crack open the door even an inch rather than because I agreed with his assertion that I should be grateful. I decided to let it lie, for a while at least. We got to the stage where you really need to be spending time with each other's friends for it to feel like a real relationship. He needed some cajoling, but Mason agreed to come out for drinks with some of mine one Friday night. It didn't take long for things to turn sour. Benjamin, a gregarious friend of mine I'd met at work, asked Mason what he did for a living. When Mason replied that he was between jobs, finding his feet, Benjamin made some joke. Everyone laughed. A couple people offered additional sarcastic comments, but it was all so trivial that I don't even remember the joke. It was playful, and Benjamin had bookended it by offering words of support, too. But Mason really took it to heart. His demeanour completely shifted, and he just lurked in the background the rest of the night, brooding, getting more and more drunk, until he was openly scowling at people and swaying as he stood. Mason, what the fuck was that? I asked him once we were back at my apartment. Your friends mocked me, he said, unsteady on his feet, as he made his way over to the couch and flopped down onto it. It's called joking around. It was harmless, I said, and you decided to make yourself and therefore me look bad. I stared at him. His eyelids were drooping, the drunken need to pass out winning him over. But I wasn't done. They're going to be asking themselves why I'm with a person who'd act like that, I added. Suddenly, Mason seemed to get a second wind to sober up somewhat. He sat up and glared at me. I'm not a person, he said, the words coming as a sharp hiss. I asked him what the fuck he was talking about. You'll see, he slurred, the drunkenness getting the better of him again. I'll make all of you see. And with that, he fell asleep. The next morning I told him what he'd said. He shrugged it off. People say all kinds of stupid shit when they're drunk. He mumbled, chewing a mouthful of fruit and staring out of the window at the rain hammering down on the city beyond. I stood there, unable to believe he was so nonchalant about what had happened. Eventually, he turned to look at me. I was about to initiate the difficult conversation of asking him to leave, but he spoke first. I get it, he said. You're done with me. A couple weeks later, something turned up at my door. A gift basket, full of little things only someone who'd really been paying attention would know to get for me. And with it was a note, written in Mason's careful, tiny handwriting. I'm sorry, I've had a troubled life, it said. Mason came over that night. He said he wasn't ready to reveal to me what had happened in his childhood, why he had no contact with his family, how it had affected him, but that he wanted to. He'd found a therapist and was starting to work on it. He'd even found a job. He told me he was making positive steps, beginning to evolve. I want to share myself with you, he said. It's just going to take some time. I took him back, but my friends weren't pleased when I told them. They made comments about how he'd freeloaded off me and about his behavior last time they'd met him. To my surprise, Mason suggested that he try to patch things up by going on another night out with them. Tell them I was having problems and that I'd like them to see the real me, he said. I agreed to give it a shot and told them all that he'd changed and that if they agreed to another night out with him, they'd all get to see it for themselves too. You could sense the trepidation in the air when we arrived, but this time Mason was a delight and any tension soon evaporated. He won everyone over. He was charming, smart, a good talker and an insightful listener. He even paid for everyone's drinks. The next morning, my phone blew up, and every message was about how Mason was now in each of my friend's good books. You're the talk of the town, I said to him, as he put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me and kissed me on the top of the head. Things stabilized. We fell into a quiet predictability most couples would consider normal, comforting even. The only shifts came when every once in a while Mason would have to go away for work. He always seemed curiously excited by it, buzzing more than he ever did otherwise, like it was something he really looked forward to. That niggled at me. What was it about being away that offered him something he wasn't getting at home with me? I asked him about it once, doing my best to throw the question up casually. It's because I'm good at it, he said, and then quickly mentioned he needed a shower and walked off towards the bathroom. So the quiet predictability ticked on, but during the in-between moments, I'd begun to catch myself staring at him. Invaded by the suffocating sense, I was sharing my life, myself, with a stranger. It built up until I couldn't stand it any longer. So one day, I plucked up the courage to tell him that we needed to talk. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world as I laid it all out, that his promise to bear his true self to me was taking too long, but he sat quietly listening to me, nonetheless. But he didn't speak when I was done either, he just continued to sit there. If we're going to evolve into something more than this, you gotta give me something, I said, trying to elicit a response. He looked away from me and I could see the gears turning in his mind, that he was thinking about it. Eventually, he nodded. Alright, he said, let's take a drive. We drove out of the city and into the suburbs, deep into the seemingly endless rows of identical homes with identical front lawns. So deep, it's almost like you lose your sense of where you are in the world, a space with nothing that stands out, nothing to orient yourself around. Mason made me promise that if he told me about his family, I'd never try to contact them myself. I promise, I said, fully meaning it and convinced it was a boundary I'd never cross. We pulled up across the street from a house that looked like all the others around it. We sat there a while, just waiting, and eventually a family of three came out of the house, heading for their car. That's my dad, he said. I watched as a man who I guessed was in his early 60s, who was still attractive and resembled Mason in his jawline and tired looking eyes, spoke to a woman who looked considerably younger than him and a teenage girl. Is that your mom? I asked. And your sister? Mason shook his head. That's his second wife and her daughter from a previous relationship. But he's been her dad for a long time now. I nodded and was about to ask more, but Mason got there first. My mom lives in a facility now, he said, like the words were hard to come by. And I'm not sure where my sister is. I lost track of her. I did my best to scrutinize Mason's face, as he watched his estranged father and his family get into their car and drive away, trying to decipher what he was feeling and coming up short. Do you hate him for something? Is that it? I asked. Mason shook his head. That's not it at all. He replied. I shifted in the seat so I could face him better. Mason, whatever happened between you, why don't you just talk to him? Try to figure it out. You don't understand, he said. That would undo everything I've made. He turned to look at me again, and I saw real emotion in his eyes, the fear of losing something. It would even undo us, he said, taking my hand. And I don't want that. Mason felt more real after we'd taken the drive out to his father's house, but the effect wore off pretty quick. I went from thinking he'd let me in as much as he could to feeling like it had been a missed opportunity to go the whole way. But I was out of ideas. How was I going to crack him? It wasn't until Mason was getting ready to leave for his next work trip, one of those trips he always seemed so keen to get going on for reasons I didn't really get, that inspiration struck. I went online and purchased a small tracking device and hid it on his car before he left. A few days later, he returned deflated. His work trips normally seemed to energize him, but now he seemed frustrated and disappointed somehow. But I didn't ask him what was up. I was too consumed with thoughts of what the tracker might reveal. And if it would reveal anything at all. That afternoon I was surprised when Mason said he was heading out to meet a friend for drinks, and that he was taking a cab because he wanted to have a few. But instead of asking him who he was meeting and what time he'd be back, I just smiled and nodded, knowing it'd be an opportunity. As soon as he left, I went to the car, brought the tracker into the apartment, and checked the data. He'd made a 6-hour drive out to some small town in Michigan, where his car had stood still for 5 days, and then he'd driven back. The data only gave me an approximate location, and searching online led me to a disused train track by the side of an abandoned-looking, bare-brick building I couldn't find any information on. I pondered driving out there myself, but instead, another idea came to mind. Mason hadn't unpacked his suitcase yet, and it was just sitting in the bedroom. He was very particular about me not doing stuff like that for him, but I decided I'd pretend I was just trying to be helpful if I got caught. As I went through its contents, I couldn't tell if I was just being paranoid, but it seemed like none of the clothes had been worn. Of course, there existed the possibility he'd had them cleaned and dried while he'd been away. But then I found something, stashed at the bottom of the suitcase, beneath everything else was a black cloth pouch. I opened it by loosening the strings that held it shut, and I emptied out the contents onto the bed. There was a bundle of cash. I didn't count it, but it was thousands of dollars. There were also three credit cards. They all had different names on them, and none of those names were Mason. And the final item was a key ring. On it was one silver key, and one key fob with a logo on it that I didn't recognize. I searched the names on the credit cards online and turned up a whole bunch of people. But I quickly realized that short of contacting them all and asking if they'd had a credit card stolen, there was no way of knowing which of them was the right person. If that was even really what had happened. And did I really believe Mason was a thief? Instead, I turned my attention to the key fob. On one side was the number 34, and on the other was that logo I didn't recognize. I scrutinized the logo more closely and searched for varying descriptions of it online until finally I was staring at that same logo on the screen of my laptop. The logo was for a self-storage company with locations all over the state, and the nearest one was close. Mason hadn't been gone long. I had time, so I grabbed my coat and headed out. The key fob had gotten me inside the building, and I made my way down one of the corridors of the storage center, the kind where fluorescent overhead lighting garishly illuminates concrete floors below, lined on either side by metallic roller shutters that guard each unit. I found my way to unit 34, checked I was well and truly alone. I had opened it using the silver key. I only lifted the shutters a couple of feet, and then crouched and slipped through the gap, so I could close it behind me and remain unseen inside the unit if someone came along. Now in total darkness, inside the windowless room, I used my phone as a flashlight and found a switch on the wall. I flicked it, and two fluorescent tubes blinked into life. The unit was pretty bare, hardly anything in it, but in the dead center of the room, as if someone had measured the dimensions, so it would be exactly in the middle, was an ornate wooden box or trunk of some kind. It was sealed shut by a heavy metallic padlock. It was such a strange, striking thing that my eyes had focused on it immediately, and I neglected to notice what else was in the unit. So I forced myself to take it all in properly. Each of the three walls had what looked like a curtain rail on them, each of them with a black cloth hanging bunched up on one side. I made my way over to each of them and pulled the cloth so it slid across the rail and unfurled. And when I did, I saw that when the cloths were fully stretched out, each one had words stitched into it and white felt. I stood back so I could see all three of the sentences spelled out. You are part of something bigger. You will be remembered. And the third one, the oddest and most unnerving of them all. Everyone's pain will ultimately be worth it. I felt scared. I didn't understand this place or what Mason did here, but I knew it was nothing good. Readying myself to flee, I looked at that strange padlocked box in the center of the room again and was suddenly terrified at what might be inside it. As I turned fully around to face the shutters and make my exit, I found myself flinching backwards, confronted by the presence of another person. But it was really myself I was staring back at. The shutters had been covered by some silvery reflective material, offering a distorted mirror image of whoever looked into it. I snuck back out as quickly as I could, my heart pounding and feeling like I was being watched from every angle. All I could think about was Mason, alone in that room, reading those disturbing words on the walls, looking at a blurry reflection of himself for reasons I didn't understand, and doing god knows what with what might be inside that locked wooden box. It was dark by the time I got home. I'd had to stop on the way back, feeling like I was going to pass out, and unable to resist the urge to check I wasn't being followed. I was afraid Mason would be there as I put the key in the lock and opened the door to my apartment, that I'd have to tell him to his face that I wanted him gone, and that I was prepared to call the cops if he didn't leave, because I decided, once and for all, I wanted no part of whatever the hell it was that was going on in his mind. But he wasn't there. I decided to call him, to tell him over the phone, but he didn't answer. And then I saw something I hadn't noticed when I'd first come in. The suitcase Marcus had taken for his work trip, the one I'd rummaged through, was now in the living room, sitting open on the ground. I froze. If he'd been through it, looking for his black pouch, he'd know the keyring was missing. Would he know I'd taken it, or would he assume he'd misplaced it? Mason? I found myself calling aloud as I tentatively made my way through the rooms, double-checking no one was home, but he was nowhere to be seen. Reassured I was alone, I fished through the suitcase and put the keyring back in the black pouch, just in case he hadn't looked inside it in the time I'd been out. I decided to try calling him again. I made my way into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the end of the bed, about to click his name in my contacts, and then the lights went out. Plunged into almost darkness, I looked back towards the bedroom door to where the light switch was, and someone was standing there. At first I thought the lack of light was playing tricks on my mind, distorting the proportions of their head. But when they took a single, silent step out of the shadows, I realized it was something else. They were wearing a mask. The mask was fucking terrifying, uneven surface painted totally white. But the worst part, the part that truly scared me, was its mouth. It was pulled so wide, as if to mimic an impossibly dislocated jaw. But I could see only black, inside its gaping, unforgiving void. Mason? I whimpered. No, the figure said, its voice coming from deep behind that awful mask. I am the Maw. And those were the last words I ever heard. That's the story I imagine Susanna would have told about what happened. But she didn't. And now she can't. I'll admit it was interesting to try and put myself in her place, a necessary exercise if I'm to keep this truly special thing I've created from disintegrating in the memory of time. But even though I hadn't originally planned on it, the way things went with Susanna was good for me. It helped me understand what it is that I'm capable of, the things I can do, so that the fire I lit so long ago can grow into a giant flame in people's minds, their imaginations, their fears once again. I know what it takes to turn yourself into a legend, but legends can fade. Sometimes you have to do something drastic to keep them going. And after what I've just said in motion, the things I'm about to do, the legend of the maw certainly will be alive. Not only alive, but matured, evolved into something more than its humble beginnings. And still only hinting at the incredible anormity of its final form. People will scratch their heads. Why did that terrifying presence, known to mysteriously appear for occasional sightings in the small town of Veth, one who'd claim responsibility in strange letters for the vanishing of a certain teenage boy, suddenly reappear elsewhere, linked with the disappearance of a young woman? Is it a copycat, a coincidence, or is it really him? I smile to myself when I think of the stir it'll cause. The world has changed so much since I first dreamed this all up. Everyone's a detective now, and things spread like wildfire, quicker than they ever could before. That's why, prior to me leaving the city, for good, I made sure each of Susanna's friends caught a glimpse of me before I disappeared. Made sure each and every one of them froze in fear for a second, questioning what it was they were really looking at, when they saw me standing there in the mask, watching them from a darkened street corner, when they looked out of their window at night, or were heading to their car, or got a snatched vision of my imposing figure, lurking in the shadows beneath the trees, as they took a shortcut through a darkened park. As I journey on, I think of my mattress. You are part of something bigger. You will be remembered. And the third one, now more resonant and true than ever before. Everyone's pain will ultimately be worth it. This is a new chapter, and I'm so excited for what's to come.

Speaker 7:
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Speaker 5:
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