transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] This episode is brought to you by Welch's Fruit Snacks. Big news for your kids' lunchbox. Welch's Fruit Snacks are now made without any artificial dyes. A snack parents can feel good about and the same delicious taste kids can't get enough of. All made with no artificial dyes. Try Welch's Fruit Snacks today.

Speaker 2:
[00:22] Get the most out of your vehicle with GM Genuine Parts and AC Delco Original Equipment. The only parts designed, engineered, tested, and backed by General Motors. You can find your perfect fit for most makes and models and choose from three tiers of parts, including GM OE or gold and silver aftermarket parts. Visit gmparts.com for more information.

Speaker 3:
[00:47] I am your host Stacey Schroeder. Welcome to Tell Me Lies, the official podcast. What's the most unhinged thing of season three?

Speaker 1:
[00:55] Steven, because he's so evil.

Speaker 2:
[00:57] I do think he is misunderstood.

Speaker 4:
[00:59] You see everyone face consequences.

Speaker 3:
[01:01] It's intoxicating. The writers just know how to trick you.

Speaker 5:
[01:05] There's always a twist in this show.

Speaker 6:
[01:06] So nothing you would expect.

Speaker 3:
[01:08] Tell Me Lies, the official podcast, now streaming and stream the new season of Tell Me Lies on Hulu and Hulu on Disney Plus.

Speaker 4:
[01:26] 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:
[02:32] Subject, Grandpa's Bayonet. User, Proud613TX. Posted September 12th, 1994.

Speaker 4:
[02:47] My grandfather served in the Marine Corps during the Second World War and was very proud of his service. My own dad had never really been around, so grandpa had stepped up and been that guy for me. As I got older, playing at the park down the hill from his house became Friday night dinner at China Lantern downtown. After grandma passed, we sometimes went again on Tuesdays or caught a movie at the mall because the only thing he loved more than Chinese food was movies. He had lived in Pueblo his whole life and loved to tell me about the grand old theaters that used to be there. My favorite was the story from when he was 12 and the Colorado theater offered free movie tickets to any kids who brought in at least 5 pounds of dandelions. Grandpa brought in 10 and we used to laugh because it had aggravated his hay fever so bad he couldn't actually watch the movies. A year or two before he died we were having dinner at China Lantern and I asked him what had made him enlist. He looked at me kind of funny like I had asked an obvious question and he said because my country needed me. I didn't get it at the time and honestly I still don't. I love America but there's no way I'd jump in front of the Iraqi Republican Guard unless Uncle Sam himself dragged me there. I made the mistake of saying that same thing to grandpa and it was the only time I've seen him look even a little disappointed in me. He never held it against me in any way I could notice, but I never forgot the look either. Cancer finally got him the year before last, just after New Year's 1990. There were a lot of close calls toward the end, but I told him he had to hang on until we clicked over to the big 9-0. That way he could say he had lived in nine different decades. Well, he made it and then on January 2nd, 1990, I was working on my truck around six at night and all of a sudden, the fight just went out of me. Imagine a puppet who's had their strings cut. I left all my tools on the floor of my garage and went upstairs to bed, which is a bizarre thing to do. Three hours later, mom and my sister were knocking at the front door to tell me he was gone. Come to find out later that the time grandpa passed was exactly the same time I got hit by that wave of fatigue. I guess we were connected right up to the end. The real story starts when my mom, sister and I decided to clean out grandpa's house. After the war, he came back to Pueblo, met my grandmother and they got married shortly thereafter. He built a successful insurance business and built them a grand red brick house on West 13th, not far from the Rosemount Mansion. There is a big front porch and some of my fondest memories are of sitting out there with him on summer afternoons, sipping Dr. Pepper and watching the world go by. When mom decided we needed to get started on cleaning out the house, my sister Chrissy and I were pretty torn up about it for a couple of reasons. First, we knew that it was going to be hard because everything in grandma and grandpa's house reminded us of them. Second, 40 years is a long time to accumulate stuff, and so there were going to be a lot of things to deal with. The plan was that we would each pack a bag and just stay at grandma and grandpa's house over the course of the time it took to clean it out. We all work, so on those days we would go in as usual, then come home and clean at night. It was a haul, believe me. The first night, we had a little bit of a wake for our grandparents. It wasn't anything official or even intentional, but a couple of drinks in their memory turned into a full on party with several neighbors bringing over bottles to join in. Everyone finally hit the road just before midnight and the three of us were in our room shortly thereafter, a little tipsy, a little sad and very tired. I woke up briefly around three to hear what sounded like pounding on the wall of my room. I was worried that Chrissy or my mom was going through some stuff, so I got up and checked on them. They were both fast asleep. I waited in the family room for a while and the only sound I heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock, so I eventually decided it must have been a dream and just went back to bed. The next morning, I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee and ran into my mother who looked kind of annoyed. She said she thought we had agreed to tackle grandpa's office together and was disappointed I had gone in without the two of them. Of course, I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about and told her so. She frowned and told me to follow her. When we got to the door of grandpa's office, she said, So you didn't do this? And pushed it open. Inside, the bayonet and gun he had taken from a German during the war which had been mounted on his wall for years was on his desk in pieces like someone had taken it apart to clean it. The pieces were neatly placed next to one another. Guys, I couldn't figure out how to take apart a gun with a manual and a life code shouting both encouragement and detailed instructions at me. I told mom that and of course she asked who could have done it as Chrissy still hadn't gotten out of bed. My suggestion that Chrissy could have done it before she went to bed was then proven wrong the moment she woke up as my sister had slept the night through. So who the hell took that gun apart? I like to think that we partied hard enough that night to catch grandpa's attention for a little while longer.

Speaker 5:
[09:52] So you're saying with Hilton Honors, I can use points for a free night stay anywhere?

Speaker 1:
[09:56] Anywhere.

Speaker 5:
[09:57] What about fancy places like the Canopy in Paris?

Speaker 1:
[10:00] Yeah, Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 5:
[10:02] Or relaxing sanctuaries like the Conrad and Tulum?

Speaker 1:
[10:05] Hilton Honors, baby.

Speaker 5:
[10:07] What about the five-star Waldorf Astoria in the Maldives? Are you gonna do this for all 9,000 properties?

Speaker 8:
[10:14] 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:
[10:23] Spring just hits different. One day, cold mud. The next, warm sunshine. But the hard-working men and women in Carhartt don't wait for the forecast to get to work. Patching roads, clearing trails, planting crops. Their hands turn this season's uncertainty into possibility. So get out there. Spring into action. We've got you covered for whatever the season throws your way. Carhartt. Made possible.

Speaker 7:
[10:55] Subject, Pete's Auto & Alignment. User 56MECMARC. Posted May 25th, 1998.

Speaker 4:
[11:09] I've been a mechanic my entire life. Started turning a wrench with my dad when I was only eight years old. Since that day, I ain't never known how to be anything but a mechanic. But now, I honestly don't know what I am, how to act, what to do. Those little fuckers stole it all, and now I've got nothing. The shop was called Pete's Auto & Alignment. It was just past the Shell station out on County Road 46. My dad built it in 72, and I got it after he keeled over, changing a timing belt in July heat. I kept the place going as best I could. I lived in the single-wide trailer out back, drank black coffee, paid bills late, fixed engines all day. It was a simple life. I didn't need much. I never married, never cared, and never really gave much of a shit for anything. Cars made sense to me, so that's what I did. Then six weeks ago, something changed. I was running a little late that morning, had a few too many whiskeys with Jamie down at the pool hall the night before. So when I sauntered in with a pounding head, I didn't think much of the smell, as bad as it was. But as the hangover lifted, the smell didn't, and I knew there was something going on. It was like sulfur and hot grease, only worse, real sharp, chemical like battery acid mixed with wet metal. I figured maybe a mouse crawled up under the heater and died. It happens more than folks like to admit, but then I saw the real source. It was just one. At first, I was sliding under a Ford Ranger when I caught movement near the jack stand. The thing was about the size of a matchbox, black and slick and fast. I thought it was a baby roach, but when I shined my light, it froze. It had too many legs, way too many, and they weren't roach legs, they were jointed like little coat hangers. There was a tail, too, curling up over its back like a scorpion's twitching, dripping something clear that hissed when it hit the concrete. I ain't never seen anything like it before. So I smashed it with a socket wrench. Easy enough, right? A thing crunched wet like a grape wrapped in foil. I thought that would be the end of it. Just some weird freak bug. Well, two days later, the smell was back, but worse, way worse. This time, there were three. They moved together almost like they were thinking the same thought. Every time I got close, that scatter, but not like normal bugs. No panic. It was calculated. Well, you can bet I was pissed. I might live in a trailer, but I'm busted my ass to keep my workspace clean. So I dropped what I was doing and laid down traps, sprayed at least a gallon of poison and filled every damn corner with boric acid. That'll get them, I thought, but nah. The next morning, I found that one of them and chewed through the plastic on the rat trap like it was a flimsy piece of wet cardboard. Another one was dead by the compressor, its body smoking from the acid, but as if just to spite me, there were two more crawling on it, like they were studying the way it died. I smashed the ones I could and made it a point to stop leaving food in the shop. Maybe that would help. Plus, I started sleeping with the lights on and that seemed to work, I guess, but about a week later, I pulled a brake drum off a dodge and found a nest. Underneath the rotor was this horrific black mass, must have been 50 of them, tangled together, writhing. Tails flicking like they were sensing the air. I backed up so fast, I tripped over the creeper. One of them darted across the floor, right over my boot. It stung me on the ankle before I could shake it off. I couldn't help but scream like a baby. Son of a bitch burned like hell. My skin swelled up with this red, shiny blister that wouldn't quit leaking. Now, I ain't too proud when it comes to shit like that, so that evening, I went to see Natalie, my brother's ex-wife. She was a nurse down at the hospital, been working there for years, and was pretty generous helping out. She said it was a spider bite, and gave me some witch hazel, said to come by her work tomorrow, and she'd get a doctor to get me some antibiotics. When I did, he took a look, too. Yep, that's a nasty one, he said. Doesn't look like a brown recluse or nothing, though, but definitely a spider. I didn't bother correcting him. That was the last time I tried to kill them with traps. I was not having none of that weak shit anymore, and I turned to fire, torching the corner with carb cleaner and a blowtorch. Black smoke, melted insulation, whole place reeked for days, but, you know, it felt good. I was fighting back, damn it, and over the next few days, I left gas cans around the shop, just in case I needed to go nuclear again. Thing is, they learned. They stopped coming out during the day, started hiding in the walls, in the ceiling, in the rafters. I'd hear them at night clicking and scratching like they were pacing, waiting. Every now and then, one would fall, and not long after that, I started to find them in my trailer. Now, this was bad, cause they were not just bugs, but still, it felt like I had it under control, at least until I popped open a customer's Malibu one morning and saw two of them nested behind the fuse box. But they weren't just inside the engine, they were integrated, like they'd wrapped themselves around the wires, feeding on the current or heat or God knows what. When I yanked one out with pliers, it made this screaming sound real low, almost like a baby crying. Then it burst in my hand and soaked me in whatever the hell passes for blood in this thing. It was then I started to think I was losing it, that maybe my shop was cursed, maybe I'd cracked a gas line and was just hallucinating this shit. But then the mailman saw one crawling on the shop door. He just looked at me and said, you got a scorpion problem, Junior. But here's the thing, scorpions don't look like that, and not around here. That night, it all came to a head. It was storming, steady Southern rain, kind that slicks everything with grime and turns the air thick. Power flicked off and on, and I was under the hood of a Camaro when I heard it. The rafters, they were up there again, but this time they weren't just scratching. There was clicking, hundreds of tiny feet tapping in rhythm. I looked up and the whole damn ceiling was moving. Slick, black bodies were crawling over the beams, tails waving like antenna, and they started dropping a storm of bodies coming down on my head. One hit my back, another my neck. One landed on my cheek and stared at me. It didn't sting me, it just looked. I could see its face, if you could call it that. No mouth, just little black eyes that reflected my own gaze back at me, wide and terrified. And then, all at once, they moved. It was like they got some signal I couldn't hear. They poured down the walls, crawled over the toolboxes, the tires, the lifts, covered the floor like a black tide. Ran, slipping on oil and slick bodies, sprinted out the side door without grabbing a damn thing. Not my wallet, not my jacket, nothing. I doused the shop in gas. Everything I had left in the cans, I threw it through the broken window, onto the tools, the lift, the damn Camaro. And then I lit a cigarette and flipped it into the office and watched it all go up. The fire roared. Orange and black smoke billowed up into the rain. I heard something inside scream, not like a person and not like any animal I've ever known. It was deep and wrong, like the metal itself was dying. I then stood there till morning, rain coming down on my head as I watched my life, my livelihood be consumed by the flames. And when it finally came to an end, nothing moved, nothing crawled out. I think I won the war, I think, but what do I do now?

Speaker 7:
[23:45] 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 9:
[24:43] Something's coming. Do you hear it? Can you see it? Trundling across the common, following the old hollow ways, sauntering down the lane, rocking up into the market square, laying out its wares. It reels you in with mysteries, trades with you fantastic tales, spins for you fascinating stories. Stories like the haunted pound stretcher, flying saucers, poisoners and body snatchers, haunted woodland, and the secret tunnels beneath our feet. Weird in the Wade is on its way. A podcast that explores everything that is weird, wonderful, and a little off kilter in the town of Biggleswade in Bedfordshire. If you like your spooky stories told with a dash of historical context, or you like your history with a pinch of the paranormal, then this is the podcast for you. Never miss an episode. Subscribe to Weird in the Wade wherever you're listening now.

Speaker 4:
[25:53] Y'all, I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for sunglasses. Recently, I came across a new brand that has given us a great deal for listeners. It's called Akela, and it's an independent eyewear brand making high-quality, handcrafted sunglasses with a focus on durability, style and sustainability. Akela sunglasses are built to last, and they've got this clean look that works just about anywhere, from the car on your way to work to the beach for a vacation or, you know, maybe even a humid trip down to the cemetery for research. With Akela, there are tons of styles to choose from, some that you ain't even gonna see anywhere else. So go and check it out now at Akela.la. That's A-K-I-L-A dot L-A. And if you do find something you like, and I bet you will, use our code gothic for 10% off. That's A-K-I-L-A dot L-A. And use our code gothic.