June 7, 2025

INTRODUCING: Fear Daily!

INTRODUCING: Fear Daily!

🎧 This Week: Feed Drop – Fear Daily! We’re doing something a little different tonight—and you’re going to love it. We’re featuring a feed drop from the brand-new retro horror podcast Fear Daily! Fear Daily digs into the creepiest stories of the...

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🎧 This Week: Feed Drop – Fear Daily!

We’re doing something a little different tonight—and you’re going to love it. We’re featuring a feed drop from the brand-new retro horror podcast Fear Daily!

Fear Daily digs into the creepiest stories of the 1990s and beyond—monsters, hauntings, cults, and unsolved terrors—pulled from a mysterious online bulletin board lost in the shadows of the Pennsylvania Rust Belt.

🕯️ Written by Brennan Storr (The Ghost Story Guys)
👻 Narrated by Brandon Schexnayder (Southern Gothic)

🕰️ Short, spooky stories—perfect for a quick scare

If you’re a fan of Magnus Archives, Archive 81, or The Black Tapes, this bite-sized horror show is right up your haunted alley.


Subscribe to Fear Daily wherever you listen to podcasts, and let them know Weekly Spooky sent you!

🎧 LISTEN NOW and subscribe for spine-tingling horror stories every week!

🎉 Unlock exclusive bonus episodes and support the show on Patreon!
👉 WeeklySpooky.com/Join

📬 Contact Us / Submit Your Horror Story!

🎵 Music by Ray Mattis 👉 Check out Ray’s incredible work here !
👨‍💼 Executive Producers: Rob Fields, Bobbletopia.com
🎥 Produced by: Daniel Wilder
🌐 Explore more terrifying tales at: WeeklySpooky.com
WEBVTT

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Well, hello, my spookies, I've got a creepy little treat

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just for you tonight. We're introducing you to our good

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friends at Fear Daily, because who better to compliment weekly

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spooky than Fear Daily. So I'm going to play for

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you a full episode of their program that I know

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you'll really enjoy. It's retro horror at its finest. Short

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spooky stories pulled from a mysterious nineteen nineties message board

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somewhere deep in the Pennsylvania rust Belt, featuring tales of monsters, ghosts, cults,

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and so much more. It's written by Brendan Store from

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the Ghost Story Guys and narrated by Brandon Check's native

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of Southern Gothic. Two masters of the maca who know

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how to deliver that spooky feeling we all love so much.

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So settle in as I press play and enjoy your

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first dose of Fear Daily if you dare, and if

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you enjoy it, make sure you subscribe to Fear Daily

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on your favorite podcasting app.

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When the Internet began, bulletin boards services or bbs became

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the first online communities of the so called Information super Highway.

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Using their phone lines, people logged in from all over

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America to talk about sports, games, movies, and on one

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BBS in particular, they're sure their ghost stories. Over time,

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those communities all all went dark, except for one lone

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server that continues to operate somewhere in an unknown part

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of Pennsylvania's Rust Belts. A relic of the nineteen nineties

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veiled in Mystery.

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It is a digital.

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Archive of humanity's strangest encounters with the unknown, as told

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by the people who experienced them. My name is Brandon Shechsneider,

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and you were listening to Fear.

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Daily subject together user alt Melody, posted August ninth, nineteen

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ninety eight.

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From the ages of eleven to fourteen, I used to

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have to spend summers at my own house and great Neck.

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It wasn't by choice, not that kids that age get

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a whole lot of choice and how their affairs are managed.

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My mom looked after me for the rest of the

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year while working full time, so I guess she figured

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it was a way for her to get a little

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time off without having to take me out of school.

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She probably also worried about the kind of things I'd

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get up to if I was left alone in the city.

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It makes sense to me now that I've got a

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little distance from it. Back then, I hated it, and

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they're run up to the holiday. My friends would talk

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about the things they were going to do together, seeing

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Madonna and bon Jovi at the garden or having sleepovers,

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and what did I have to look forward to? Piano

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lessons and walks along Manhasset Bay with thought Amy. It

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wasn't that it was torture or anything. It just wasn't Madonna.

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I never minded going there with Mom for Christmas because

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not as much was happening at home when my friends

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would disappear into the cocoon of their family lives for

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a couple of weeks. Besides, Aunt Amy had lived alone

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since Uncle David died in nineteen seventy five, and even

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a selfish teenager knew you didn't leave family alone on

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the holidays. They had a beautiful house across from Plum

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Point with big windows that looked out over the water.

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Sometimes at night, the three of us would all just

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sit there in the living room with lights off, aunt

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Amy playing David's favorite songs on the piano while outside

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snowflakes blanketed the bay. This past Christmas, we got a

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call from the Great Neck Police to let us know

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that Aunt Amy had passed. The piano had been a

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focal point of her life, so I suppose it's only

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fitting she died sitting there, her hands ra on the

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polished ivory keys. Being in Amy's house without her there

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wasn't as strange as SCI had expected. At least once

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during every visit should run out to what had been

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David's favorite deli on Middleneck Road and bring back dinner.

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Standing in the living room with Mom as the afternoon

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light faded, I half expected her to walk in, shaking

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the snow from her hair. Of course, she was never

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going to walk back in there again. The kitchen was empty,

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countertops wiped clean before her heart had given out. Mom

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and I couldn't bring ourselves to touch Amy's belongings that

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first day. Instead, we decided to have a meal in

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her honor. The deli is still there, so we ordered

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the same thing she always used to a pound of turkey,

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a pound of roast beef, dozen slices of seated rye gravy.

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The elderly man behind the counter looked up from where

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he was writing our bill. He knew exactly who we

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were and offered his condolences. When our order was bagged

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and ready, he held his finger like he had forgotten something.

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He kneeled down out of sight, knees popping audibly, and

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when he came back up there was a can of

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baked beans in his hand. Sometimes, he said, David used

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to like beans. No charge. Back at the house, Mom

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and I ate silently in the high ceilinged kitchen. We'd

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made it back just ahead of the blizzard. The radio

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had been threatening all day, and now wind howled at

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the double paned windows. Once dinner had been finished and

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the leftovers backed up, we turned off the potlights above

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the kitchen island, plunging the house into total darkness. Together

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we went into the living room sat on the bay

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windows long bench seat to watch the storm. I leaned

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my head back against Mom's chest, listening to the tick

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of the clock. I miss her. Mom wrapped her arm

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around me, Me too, baby. We cried ourselves to sleep.

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I had a dream in it. I was laying on

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the bench seat in Aunt Amy's living room as wind

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whipped thick snowflakes back and forth across the bay next

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to me. I could feel the rhythmic rise and fall

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of Mom's chest as she slept behind us. Aunt Amy

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was playing Leo Ornstein's Morning in the Woods. My chest

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clenched with emotion and the tears came again, wiping them away,

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feeling the hot liquid against my fingertips, I realized it

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wasn't a dream. I was wide awake, but the music

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continued to play, so desperately wanted to look behind me,

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to know if aunt Amy was there, sitting at her

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piano the way she always had. Something told me not

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to turn that to see would be to bring this

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moment to an end, and I knew I didn't want that. Instead,

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I lay back on Mom, who shifted against me, getting

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comfortable again. Could she hear the music too, I wondered,

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Would she remember it all as a dream? I'd never ask.

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I breathe deeply, letting the music fill the sile, and says.

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The three of us watched the snowfall one last time.

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Subject gum drops user quiet Witness, posted October third, nineteen

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ninety six.

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The parking lot was full of media vans this morning,

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A pack of blow dried hairdoos trying to get as

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close to the apartment building as the police cordon would allow.

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Word had spread quick the gum drop killer strikes again.

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This time he left behind more than his usual lockdoor mystery.

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He left behind a living victim. Cops hated the whole

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gum drop killer names, so the fact it was their

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own fault is kind of funny. After details of the

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first couple killings broke in the news, residents of high

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rise apartment towers found dead in their beds, poisoned by

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an unknown toxin, their eyeballs missing. A reporter from the

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Times had managed to catch one of the lead detectives

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when he was half in the bag. The reporter asked

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if the police had any idea with the killer wanted

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with the victim's eyes, to which the annoyed cop responded,

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maybe he eats some like fucking gum drops. I don't know.

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The rest was history. Who am I? I'm nobody unless

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you're a fan of comic books, in which case you

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might recognize my name as the anchor on one of

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your semi favorite series if you're not familiar with my business.

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An anchor is someone who interprets the original artists graphite work,

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and you guessed it inc There's more to it, but

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I'm not here to give lessons on the finer points

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of the comic book industry. You've got Kevin Smith for that.

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I'm here because I'm one of only two people alive

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who's seen the Gum Drop Killer. No, this isn't a confession.

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I'm not a killer of anything. It's hard for me

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to swat flies, since I've always figured they've got as

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much right to be around as I do. Lord knows,

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Lord knows, I wouldn't have made it out of short

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pants if the rules allowed for beating me to death.

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As soon as I got annoyed, the detective who interviewed

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me till sun up asked me not to speak to

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the media, and I won't. The last thing I need

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is that kind of attention. The only reason I'm posting

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this here is because if anything happens to me, I

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like the idea of my story not getting buried in

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some cardboard box at an LAPD lockup. Why would anything

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happen to me because the Gum Drop Killer saw me too,

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and I'm not convinced that cops can do much against

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something like that. At the beginning. I moved into this

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a year ago after one of my dates pointed out

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that an invitation back to the house a grown man

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shared with his mother. Was always going to get an automatic. No,

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it's a two bed, two bath and a twenty story

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new build, So I'm the first person to live in

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my apartment, same as my neighbors and theirs. The Comstocks,

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the couple visited by gum Drop last night, had only

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bought their place last month. I hadn't met them before

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last night, when I watched him die as something barely

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human plucked out his eyes. The thing about living in

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a modern building like this is that everything looks the same.

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Same carpet on every flour, same and gray paint on

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the walls. Even the same apartment numbers, just with a

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two digit should prefix beforehand to denote the floor number.

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Now I'm ten twenty, my neighbor is ten twenty two,

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and so on. The Comstocks have, or at least had,

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apartment eleven twenty two, one floor above me. That's why

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when I stumbled out of a cab into the lobby

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of our building last night and hit the button for

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eleven instead of ten, I didn't notice for a while.

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You know that feeling when you've really got a load on,

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like your field of vision narrows to a point, and

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all you can do is move toward that point. It

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doesn't matter if you're on a crowded street with cars

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whizzing past. The only thing you see is what's at

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the end of that tunnel, burrito carta bathrooms, some poor

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woman who hopefully spots you before you can bother her

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with your idiot drunkenness. That's where I was last night,

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completely boofed on Singapore slings and desperate to get into

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my place so I could take a leak. I weaved

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my way down the featureless hallway, saw twenty and went

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for the door knob. The competing interests of gin and

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the need to urinate completely bypassed any thought of a key,

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and walking into a darkened apartment laid out exactly like

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my own meant I didn't see anything to suggest I

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was anywhere but home. Inside the bathroom, I flicked on

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the light, and halfway through a deeply gratifying piss, it

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occurred to me that someone had redecorated in a few

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hours i'd been gone. There was potpourrie on the toilet

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tank instead of stacked up issues of Wizard and the

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bar of soap next to the taps was a bright

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pink instead of the hairy white bar of dove that

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did double duty between my shower and sink. Nothing will

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cut through a gin fog like, and that's exactly what

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I felt in that moment. This wasn't my apartment. I

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had just broke and entered. Well, I didn't break anything,

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but I doubt the cops would be that discerning when

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they laid charges. My stream finally reduced to a trickle.

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I wondered about the etiquette flushing while committing burglaries, and

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that's when I heard sounds coming from next door the bedroom.

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Going by the layout of my own home, first I

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thought it was people fucking, so I listened a little more.

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It's been a while since I've had feminine company, but

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even drunk me knew that the process didn't sound like

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what I was hearing. It sounded like struggling, whimpering, and

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something else, something wet. Carefully, I stepped out of the bathroom,

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wincing at how long a shadow I was casting thanks

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to the bathroom. Why the noises continued like I hadn't

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been seen, and I debated just sneaking back out of

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the door and believing whoever lived there, to wonder if

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they were being haunted by a ghost with an enormous bladder.

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My curiosity went out, however, and I creeped toward the

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open bedroom door. My footsteps were almost inaudible on the

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linoleum floors. I inched closer to the black doorway, hearing

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the struggling more clearly, something was wrong, really wrong. Dread

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blossomed in my chest. Spike of adrenaline burned away the

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rest of my drunk. Placing my hands on the doorframe,

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I leaned into the room just enough for my eyes

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to start adjusting to the dim The patio door was open,

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curtains across it, fluttering in a slight breeze. On the

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bed were two people, no. Three, Two in the bed

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and one. A third figure was barely a person. Enormous

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muscled arms pinned the couple under the blankets like butterflies

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in a display case. The body was thick too, seeming

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rigid like the body of a beetle. Its legs were

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long and thin, folded up under it, like it was

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doing some kind of isometric hole One of the figures.

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I'd later learn it was the husband. Johnny wasn't movie

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the other is wife. Ann was shaking side to side,

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losing power with every moment. As the third figure's head

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got closer to her face, the more the curtains blew,

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the more the light of the city filtered in, outlining

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the tableau in front of me. Something emerged from the

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third figure's mouth, long and slick like a mosquito's probiscus.

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My stomach turned, threatening to announce my presence with a

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fire host spray of slightly fermented Singapore sling. The rest

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of me was frozen. Turns out that's the third aft

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to fight or flight freeze. All I could do was

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watch as the long rubbery tube split into two, one

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settling on each of the struggling woman's eye sockets. There

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was that wet sound I had first heard in the bathroom.

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I knew what it was now, sucking the probiscus withdrew,

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tugging until the eyes popped right out, trailing long, thick

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cords of their own that could only be the optic nerves.

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The figure withdrew the probiscus, quickly snapping the stalks and

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sucking the stolen treats into its own mouth. I heard

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them popping wetly as a shoe. Oh, I thought, dumbly,

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that's the gum drop killer. Hey, that cop was right

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after all. Having that conscious thought brought me back to

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my body, and the first thing I did was scream.

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Gum Drop's head snapped in my direction, his eyes a

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bright silver in the dark. I reacted by turning to

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run at the same time as I vomited what must

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have been a bright red fountain of pineapple juice, gin

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and benedictine across the wall in front of me. Out

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of the corner of my eye, I saw a gum

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drop throw himself on the floor, landing on his powerful arms.

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He moved toward me at an impossible speed, thumping forward

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like a combination of gorilla an insect. I couldn't outrun him.

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There was no way, but I was going to try.

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I passed the bathroom with gum drops close behind. I

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was only feet away from the door. He was faster.

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I knew it in my heart. This was it. Instead

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of feeling gum drops landing on my back, I heard

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a grotesque, wounded cry, and I turned in time to

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seem scuttling back into the bedroom. Why wasn't he coming closer?

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It only took me a moment to figure it out.

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The shaft of light cast from the bathroom cut the

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hallway in half, his half and mine. Did he not

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like the light? He was still there, hiding in the dark.

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I could hear him breathing. To test my theory, I

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reached behind me, fumbling for the handle as I kept

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my eyes on the bedroom doorway. When I found the

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door latch, I pressed down and pulled it open. Brightness

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pouring in from the over lit hallway, pushing the darkness

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further back. For an instant, I saw Gumdrop's face, and

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it's gonna haunt me until my dying day. If his

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figure had barely been that of a person, his face

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was barely that of a man, Pale, blotchy, shot through

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with blue veins, his silver eyes full of a deep

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hate I'd never known before. Another roar, followed by more

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frantic thumping and what sounded like one of the curtains

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being ripped down. People were coming out of their apartments,

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now drawn by the war cries next door. The cops

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were not far behind, and I was held on suspicion

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for a couple of hours. Then a witness who lived

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in one of the apartments across the street came forward

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to say that seeing a man with huge arms and

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tiny legs climbing down the balconies on our building shortly

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after the screaming started. After giving my statement, I was

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released from custody with the aforementioned stern warning about not

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spreading my story to the press. All the cops would

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tell me about Anne Comstock is that she survived the

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attack and had a crazy story about a monster kissing

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her husband before sucking out his eyes. My guess is

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it wasn't a kiss. I bet next month's paycheck on

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the creature using that probiscus to inject something like a

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paralytic agent into his victims so he can take their

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eyes and whatever else it is he does to them.

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Something he didn't get a chance to finish with Anne

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because I'd wandered into the wrong apartment. Now the big

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question is does gumdrops know which apartment is the right one?

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And is he gonna come back before where I can move.

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Fear Daily is an independent podcast hosted by Brandon Shecksneider

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and written by Brennan Store, with Joanna Smith serving as

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the consulting editor. Audio production by Rachel Boyd, and sound

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design by Southern Gothic Media. This podcast is a work

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of fiction where names, characters, places, and incidents are either

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products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

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resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real

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events or locations is entirely coincidental. Add Free versions of

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Fear Daily are available now on your favorite podcast apps.

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For more information, visit feardaily dot com, but move fast

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before the server goes off line.