transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] Kayak gets my flight, hotel, and rental car right, so I can tune out travel advice that's just plain wrong.

Speaker 2:
[00:07] Bro, Skycoin, way better than points.

Speaker 3:
[00:10] Never fly during a Scorpio full moon.

Speaker 4:
[00:13] Just tell the manager you'll sue. Instant room upgrade.

Speaker 1:
[00:17] Stop taking bad travel advice. Start comparing hundreds of sites with Kayak, and get your trip right.

Speaker 4:
[00:23] Bad advice? You talking to me?

Speaker 1:
[00:25] Kayak, got that right.

Speaker 4:
[00:29] So, you're saying with Hilton Honors, I can use points for a free night stay anywhere?

Speaker 1:
[00:34] Anywhere.

Speaker 4:
[00:35] What about fancy places like the Canopy in Paris?

Speaker 5:
[00:38] Yeah, Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[00:40] Or relaxing sanctuaries like the Conrad and Tulum?

Speaker 1:
[00:43] Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 4:
[00:45] What about the five-star Waldorf Astoria in the Maldives? Are you gonna do this for all 9,000 properties?

Speaker 6:
[00:52] 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 3:
[01:00] K-Pop Demon Hunters, Saja Boys Breakfast Meal and Huntrix Meal have just dropped at McDonald's. They're calling this a battle for the fans. What do you say to that, Rumi?

Speaker 1:
[01:08] It's not a battle.

Speaker 6:
[01:10] So glad the Saja Boys could take breakfast and give our meal the rest of the day.

Speaker 2:
[01:14] It is an honor to share.

Speaker 3:
[01:15] No, it's our honor.

Speaker 6:
[01:17] It is our larger honor.

Speaker 1:
[01:19] No, really, stop.

Speaker 3:
[01:21] You can really feel the respect in this battle. Pick a meal to pick a side.

Speaker 2:
[01:28] I participate in McDonald's while supplies last. When the internet began, Bulletin Board Services, or BBS, became the first online communities of the so-called Information Superhighway. Using their phone lines, people logged in from all over America to talk about sports, games, movies, and on one BBS in particular, share their ghost stories. Over time, those communities all went dark, except for one lone server that continues to operate somewhere in an unknown part of Pennsylvania's Rust Belt. A relic of the 1990s veiled in mystery, it is a digital archive of humanity's strangest encounters with the unknown, as told by the people who experience them. My name is Brandon Schexnayder, and you are listening to Fear Daily.

Speaker 7:
[02:38] Subject, Making Friends with the Dark. User, 000LLP. Posted, May 27th, 1999.

Speaker 2:
[02:59] Home ownership was not something Miranda and I ever thought was in our future. We both came from families who rented, for whom even the strictest of financial discipline wasn't gonna be enough to conjure it down payment. It's not that our parents weren't hard working, just that we come from places where hard work isn't always enough. We'd been married for eight years, renting a series of apartments from untrustworthy and often straight up criminal landlords, before we put our heads together under a leaking roof and ran the numbers. We weren't as poor as we've been raised to believe we'd always be, and if we cut back a little on the booze and the weed, we could swing putting 10% down on a fixer-upper. It took a couple months for us to find the right combination of availability, the price and location, but in the end, we put 15% down on a yellow brick two-story at the corner of A Street and Burnbrae Avenue. A realtor had actively tried to dissuade us from the house, pushing other smaller and cheaper homes until finally we said, if she didn't tell us what the problem was, we'd move on to someone else. At first, she was sheepish, trying to wheeze a lot of the conversation by saying she felt the burden of repairs would be greater than we expected. When we pointed out that the home inspection report revealed nothing structurally unsound about the place and all the other issues were things well within my skill set to fix, she had no where left to retreat. She explained that the house had a long list of prior owners, all of whom relisted the house within six months of purchase. As far as she was concerned, it was easier to just avoid trying to sell it. Why had all the previous tenants moved on so quickly? A number of them had, it seemed, felt the house didn't like them, while others had a much more direct experience. Their belongings would move from one room to another. Their pets would hiss or bark at thin air, and on rare occasions, a screaming voice with no obvious source would race toward them down darkened hallways. Miranda and I, both atheists, were more amused by this than anything, and couldn't get our heads around the idea that this kind of bullshit was what had been holding up our entry into the property market. Her stories summarily dismissed, the realtor agreed to sell us the house. We moved in immediately. It took six months before the certainty of what you might call our materialist world view was challenged. I was in the process of renovating what would be Miranda's sewing room, a toolbox laid out on my portable workbench when I reached for my tape measure. If nothing else, I'm a creature of habit and a firm believer in measure twice cut once. As such, my tape measure is always kept in the same spot. Yet when I reached for it that day, not only was it not where it should be, I couldn't find it anywhere. Not on the ground, not underneath the sink, just gone. I looked for a good hour, grumbling and cursing beneath my breath, failing to turn up any sign the tape measure had ever existed, let alone where it was now. This process repeated with other tools, and I was beginning to wonder if I was, in fact, losing my mind. Especially galling was the fact it lost most of the tools necessary to repair the rat's nest of electrical wiring I'd found running through a wall and inexplicably under part of the dining room floor. For the time being, Miranda and I resolved to step over the worst of it until I could find or rebuy the needed gear. Not having pets meant there wasn't initially any opportunity for the second stage of the house's reputation to evince itself. We instead, for several weeks, existed in an annoying but harmless limbo of disappearing tools. Would you believe it was a raccoon that tipped us over into belief? The little critters are all over this neighborhood, getting in garbage cans and hissing dramatically at anyone who gets too close. What I came to recognize is the raccoon equivalent of the middle finger. On a warm spring afternoon, with the front door left open to help disperse paint fumes, one of those furry little bastards who apparently never got the memo that he was supposed to be nocturnal, toddled in. Neither of us even realized he was there until we heard that same hissing we'd become accustomed to outside, except it was, you know, coming from inside the house. Miranda and I carefully put down our brushes and followed the sound, which was now accompanied by fierce growling. There in the hallway leading to the back porch was our little burglar, a chubby brown fellow with streaks of whiteness fur. He was rearing back on his hind legs, ferociously swinging his paws at something just above his eye line. A chill ran up my spine, and though she said nothing, I felt Miranda's hand closing over mine. One shocked chirp later, and the raccoon reared back far enough to lose his balance, tumbling backward and landing in a fuzzy heap on the hardwood. Gathering himself up quickly in a bid to retain what dignity he had left, our visitor dashed back out the way he had come, shooting between our legs in a brown blur, throwing one last hiss over his shoulder. That night in bed, Miranda couldn't hold back her concern anymore and she asked if I thought the house was really haunted. Had she done the same even six months before, I'd have seriously questioned her sanity. So strong was my refutation of anything involving the so-called supernatural. Hadn't we experienced two of the strange things which had driven previous owners away anyways? And the third, a disembodied voice shrieking at you from the dark was hardly the kind of thing you could live with. Despite my misgivings, I did my best to comfort Miranda, assuring her everything would work out just fine. Little did I know, that wish, and believe me, that's what it was, was about to come true. The constant throughout my life is my inability to dream. Not in the abstract goal-setting sense, but in the actual, when I sleep, I see nothing until I wake up kind of way. People will tell you that not dreaming will make you insane, yet in 28 years, I hadn't had a single one, and still more or less had all my marbles. That night, for the first time ever, I dreamed, in it, I was laying in bed, Miranda curled up next to me, breathing softly. Through the door, I could see the faint glow of our hallway nightlight, keeping us safe from stubbing our toes while heading to the bathroom. In that quiet, I could distantly hear what sounded like a small voice straining. Another raccoon? It was the simplest explanation. With a sigh, I heaved myself up out of bed as carefully as possible, so as not to wake my wife. Through the hallway and down the dimly lit stairs I went, my socked feet making very little sound. On the main floor, the straining was much louder, broken by vocalizations which couldn't have come from any animal, because they were very clearly speech. Had an actual burglar gotten in somehow? Feeling naked without some method of self-defense, I nevertheless continued walking into the dining room, which was unmistakably the source of the noise. That's when I saw it. Sitting on the floor, his diminutive foot caught in a tangled snarl of wiring was a tiny man, no more than three feet tall. In every way, his dimensions were roughly the same as my own, just shrunken down to half the size with a sharp lined face and pointed teeth. His clothes might have been the strangest part. They were bushy and green, as if grown into shape and they glowed green. As annoyed as the small man was to be caught up in the cables, he became doubly so at seeing me standing there watching him. In a blink, he disappeared. A tangle of cables, however, were still there, clearly caught around something which was tugging at them lightly. Deep in the recesses of my brain, a series of synapses lit up, prompted by the vanishing act, all of them leading to a single realization. This was what had been causing all the house's mischief. We had a surprise room mate. Strangely, I wasn't angry about this. I knew what it was like to share someone else's space, you know, frustrating it could be to navigate their whims. I could no more want to evict this fella than I could sell the house, and so those same synapses whipped up a compromise. Into the utility closet, I went to find the breaker box, tracing a line down the panel until the dining room switch was under my finger. With a snap, I turned it to the off position, depriving the wiring there of electricity. Taking a box cutter from the shelf, I returned to where the rat's nest was still being disturbed by the small man's wriggling. Holding my hands up, I approached the area of pulled up floorboards. Movement ceased, and I heard a string of words in a language I didn't recognize. They did not sound welcoming. Attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible, I mimed pulling a cable, then cutting it, while repeating the word, help. The tiny man seemed to understand, as his rushed speech slowed to what would have been a conversational speed if I knew what he was saying. Gingerly, I pulled the blade from the back pocket where I'd stashed it, giving him time to take it in. Again, I mimed pulling a wire, followed by the knife moving in a clean sawing motion. I knelt, amused at the discovery that our breathing was in sync. I smiled at the space where the man was hiding, at which he reappeared, looking guarded, but less angry than before. I picked up the offending electrical wire and, as gently as I possibly could, used the knife to sever the loop around his ankle. The discarded wire tumbled to the ground, and the now freed little fellow let out a tiny cry of joy. I laid the knife flat on the ground before looking straight at him, placing a hand on my chest. I said, stay, then pointed at him and said the same, gesturing around me at the house. Friend, I added, moving my hand back and forth between us. His eyes widened, lips curling just a little in a smile. Then, I woke up back in bed. The nature of that experience, particularly the end, forces me to believe what I experienced wasn't a physical event. In addition, the electricity downstairs was on when I finally ventured a look, and the cable I'd cut was intact. And yet, in the days that followed, every single one of my wayward tools were recovered in odd places around the house, never again to disappear. I never shared the experience with Miranda. How could I explain it in a way that doesn't sound mad, but a dreamer know? I believe I did actually make a friend that night, and sometimes I feel him around us. Miranda has felt it too, interpreting it as the house accepting us. Whatever you want to call it, it feels good knowing we are not alone.

Speaker 5:
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Speaker 8:
[18:35] No one goes to Hanks for his spreadsheets. They go for a darn good pizza. Lately though, the shop's been quiet. So Hank decides to bring back the $1 slice. He asks Copilot in Microsoft Excel to look at his sales and costs, help him see if he can afford it. Copilot shows Hank where the money's going and which little extras make the dollar slice work. Now Hanks has a line out the door. Hank makes the pizza, Copilot handles the spreadsheets. Learn more at m365copilot.com.

Speaker 7:
[19:16] Subject, Insomnia. User, ElSilkel. Posted, July 12th, 1998.

Speaker 2:
[19:31] It started as insomnia, nights blending into one another, silence stretching into a bottomless void where sleep refused to find me. Each blank of the numbers became a pulse, counting down to an unknown deadline. So I started driving. My 86 Chevy Nova, its metallic blue dulled by years of neglect, became my midnight sanctuary. The rhythm of the asphalt beneath worn tires calmed my nerves in a way no bed ever could. The monotonous hum of the engine lulling my anxiety. I drift through empty neighborhoods, the windows down, feeling the city's cool breath wash over me like a moonlit baptism. At first, like I said, it was peaceful, soothing even. If I couldn't sleep, at least my soul would get a little rest, because I meandered my way through the streetlights, spilling amber puddles onto darkened roads. But after a few months in, I started noticing things, little things that unsettled the fragile tranquility I'd come to rely on. Each and every night, I discovered there was a woman standing motionless on the corner of Maple and Seventh Street at exactly 3:03 a.m. by the old Brooks warehouse. She wore a pale yellow dress that fluttered without wind. Her face perpetually turned away from me, hidden beneath a cascade of dark hair. I saw her at least a dozen times before ever clocking it, but when I did, she stood out like a sore thumb, a glitch in the system. Then, there was the gas station at the end of town, abandoned since 89. Its neon open sign cracked and weathering, the moon's glow shining through the old windows, casting a sickly light over rusted pumps and empty parking spaces. Some nights, I'd swear I saw shadows moving inside the convenience store, silhouetted against grimy windows. Once, I even stopped and waited to see it, but the shadows never showed up when I wanted. Yet, they seemed to always be there when I wasn't looking. Over the course of these drives, I found so many of these, I guess you'd call them oddities. From a house that appeared to be a different color every night, to the same cat darting out in front of my car every single time at 1:17 a.m. no matter where in town I was. As you might expect, sleep never came. But a burgeoning obsession with the night filled that void. I'd return home drained yet restless, scribbling notes about street corners, alleyways, and those who inhabited them under the cloak of darkness. My walls soon became a patchwork of madness, maps connected by strings of desperate intuition, and polaroids pinned next to handwritten observations. What can I say? It got a little out of hand. One night after passing the old Cineplex that always seemed to be consumed and some sort of missed, my insomnia led me back to Maple and Sabbath. Well, that's a lie. It wasn't the insomnia anymore. Like I said, it was the obsession. I parked the Nova and let it idle quietly as the dashboard clock ticked toward 3:03 a.m. Well, she was already there, waiting. Heart hammering, I stepped out onto the pavement. Hello, ma'am, are you lost? I croaked out against the silence, my voice so filled with fear it sounded foreign even to my own ears. Then slowly and deliberately, her head turned in such a way as I can best describe as a toy that had been wound up and just let loose on the floor. Meanwhile, the rest of the world seemed frozen, the moonlight framing her face, pale, hollow, eyes sunken into endless black pools. Her lips hearted, releasing a whisper that echoed impossibly loud in my mind. I've been waiting. Panic seized me. I stumbled back to the Nova, engine roaring to life, but the town around me had shifted. Streets twisted into unfamiliar patterns. Houses loomed taller, distorted. The road stretched endlessly forward, trapping me in an infinite maze. It felt like the walls were closing in on me, but I was outside without such boundaries. Sleep, I now understood, wasn't avoiding me. It was protecting me, but the insomnia had won. Night after night, I drove deeper into the city's shadowed corners, each drive revealing more about a reality hidden from waking eyes. I began tracking patterns, mapping the streets meticulously. Each route etched itself into my memory until the city became a labyrinth imprinted within my mind. New sightings occurred with unsettling regularity, a boy holding a red balloon beneath a street lamp that flickered precisely every seven seconds, an elderly man repeatedly crossing the same empty intersection forever caught mid-stride. I documented everything, compiling those details into my obsessive journals cluttered with sketches and hurried descriptions of apparitions. My apartment, once a refuge from the outside world, was now transformed into a chaotic archive of a sleepless wanderer. And so, the boundaries of my reality started to blur, the lines separating wakefulness from nightmare dissolving steadily. Shadows lingered at the edges of my vision, whispers trailed me down grocery store aisles, and silent figures crowded around my bed when I did attempt to rest their presence heavy and suffocating. That's right, I just nodded off right there on my sofa. This morning, I woke up fully refreshed. It was almost unnerving, like my body didn't even know how to deal with the energy. My heart was full. There was a skip in my step and a warmth in my soul. Is it all finally over? I guess we'll find out tonight.

Speaker 7:
[29:19] Fear Daily is an independent podcast hosted by Brandon Schexnayder and written by Brennan Storr, with Joanna Smith serving as the consulting editor, audio production by Rachel Boyd, and sound design by Southern Gothic Media. This podcast is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or locations is entirely coincidental. Ad-free versions of Fear Daily are available now on your favorite podcast apps. For more information, visit feardaily.com. But move fast before the server goes offline.

Speaker 2:
[30:16] Anyone else like me noticed that the older we seem to get, the more the doctors and all say we need to make sure we're getting enough protein. Well, luckily, if you're someone looking for a quick, convenient way to get more in right from the start of your morning, we've got something for you. It's the Strong Coffee Company. That's right, you can start your day out with a little extra, a ready-to-drink coffee packed with protein, collagen, and healthy fats, designed to keep you fueled without slowing you down. It's simple, it's efficient, and it fits easily into a busy day. And if y'all are anything like me, you're probably already pouring a cup of coffee first thing in the morning anyway, right? So why not try Strong Coffee Company? I've even got a code for you for 20% off. That's right, you can use our code Gothic at strongcoffeecompany.com and get 20% off your order. That's strongcoffeecompany.com code Gothic. Around here, we spend a lot of time talking about spirits, but some are a lot easier to deal with than others, let's be honest. And if you're looking for one that won't come back to haunt you in the morning, we've got something just for you. Ritual Zero Proof. I know, I know, that was kind of a dad joke. Ritual Zero Proof ain't a ghost, this isn't a ghost story. No, Ritual Zero Proof are non-alcoholic spirits crafted to stand in for the classics, so you can still mix a proper drink and enjoy the experience just without the alcohol itself. So now you see what I did there, right? Ritual Zero Proof lets you party without the horror story of a hangover the next morning. And look, y'all, if that's the sort of thing that interests you, we've got a special code for you right now. Go to ritualzeroproof.com and use our code Gothic for 16% off. That's right, ritualzeroproof.com code gothic.