Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. When I was twenty two, so
it seems like a lifetime ago now, I landed myself
a security job a steel plant here in Pennsylvania. It
was a pretty easy gig for the most part, but
there were a lot of overnight shifts, and depending on
who you were working with, those shifts could either suck
or be a whole lot of fun. I've been working
there for about a year, with the same team the
whole time, when one day one of the senior guys
announced that he was throwing in the towel. He was
moving someplace else to be closer to his family, so
naturally the boss needed to replace him. We all hoped
the replacement would be a good guide and a decent worker,
but what we got was a guy named Parker. A
decent worker, he seemed to have all the personality traits
of a serial killer. We first met Poker on day's ships,
because you had to complete a probation period before you
were allowed to work nights. He was about six feet
all with dark eyes, close crop, dark hair, and a
rough beard. He also had a weird scar on the
right side of his neck, like where a patch of
skin was paler pinker China than the rest. Then whenever
he took his gloves off, you could see that he
had the same patches of deep pink scar tissue on
the outside of his fingers, like near his knuckles. We
figured that he'd been in some kind of accident, like
a bad car wreck or something, but since it's not
polite to bring the kind of stuff up, no one
ever asked him. But then it wasn't Parker Scurs that
freaked us out. It was the way he acted. He
was quiet, real quiet, and whenever he speak it was
like English was a second language to him. He had
a distinct northeastern Pennsylvania accent, and by that I mean
like Scranton, Wilke's Bar and the Poconos, that kind of area.
But then when he spoke, it was like he was
frightening over every little syllable. He talk talk like this,
as if stressing over every little word. He'd get real
jumpy sometimes too, like a skittish horse. He wouldn't scream
and dive under the table anytime he heard a loud noise,
And we guarded a steel plants so in the daytimes
there were many, but he could see him softly flinch
or spin his head around anytime something took him by surprise.
The guy seemed like a turtle bowl of nerves, and
the fellows even jerked that he might kill a man
if he snuck up on him and spooped him back.
But then at the same time, he was a good worker,
so while we remained fairly cautious, we eventually accepted him
as one of us. About six months into Parker working
with us, I found out that I'd be working with
him for a whole weeks worth of night shifts, just me,
him and the supervisor. Needless to say, I was not
looking forward to the Arsia would be in a security
office watching Thomas and stuffing his face with letter pies,
but it would be up to me and Papa to
patrol the grounds of the punt onfit. And like I
said before, the few were with the right crew, knights
could be a dizzy. You'd walk around talking about the
birds or the fliers, just shooed in the breeze and
all of that. And then with Patha, I got the
feeling that the conversation wasn't exactly going to flow and
the idea of walking around at night with the button,
and so I could felt more of a wristlin chase
in junkies off the side. All in all, it came
down to do options work. The ships will lose out unpaid,
and so I worked them. My wisher could say working
those knights with Papa was like a Buddy Coop movie
or something of the nature, that we slowly warmed up
to one another and we've been pals ever since. But
that was not the case. Whenever Parker was sitting in
total silence, staring off into space like he was watching
a movie no one else could see, he'd be muttering
to himself. He'd mostly only do it when he thought
no one was a round, but I caught him doing
it once or twice, and when I did, he sounded
like he was real angry about something, and that's what
God is all thinking. He really was some kind of
ticking time bomb, a kind of guy to just snap
one day and go totally postal. Naturally, no one wanted
to be around him, and he did. And when I
said that, they tried to cozy up to him a
little so that he might just skip over shooting me.
When he finally did bring a gun to work. I'm
really only half joking with you. The second night shift
we worked together, we were walking around the plant's perimit
defense when I decided to ask Parker what he did
before security, and he didn't tell me much, but he
did mention having worked for a company that didn't have
his back after he got hurt, so he moved on
and that's how he ended up working security. I told
him he should just lawyer upon that he could probably
win millions if it was some kind of industrial extent,
but he told me it wasn't like that, and that
the best thing he could have done is just move on.
Whatever it was. From the way Parker talked about it,
it sounded bad, and with me not being a total jerk,
I asked him nothing more about it and changed the
subject as quickly as I could. Parker didn't follow any sports,
He wasn't into moves like me and some of the
other guys there, and he didn't drink, he didn't smoke,
and he didn't have any wife or a kid for girlfriend.
And it got to the point where I asked him
what the hell do you do when you're not at work?
And he told me he either worked out, worked on
his car, or read books. I asked him what kind
of books he read, and he started talking about a
bunch of old Russian guys whose names I can't even
pretend to remember or spell. I've never been much of
a reader, and the last thing I read was had
Finn back in high school. But Parker didn't strike me
as much of a reader EI though, so to hear
him talking all fancy like that, it was kind of surprising.
He finally managed to find a topic of mutual interests
and automobiles, and after Parker told me that he had
a two thousand and six Pontjact GETO, that was all
we talked about for the rest of the shift. It
was the most conversation any of us had ever heard
with him, and to me, it was a sign he
wasn't going to show up in a hockey mask one
day and start shopping us all up with a machete.
That's what I told my supervisor too, when he asked
how working with Parker had become the end of the shift,
I really did everything I've been told about Parker getting
out at the previous job, and how in spite of
him not giving me much detail, I felt I had
a rough idea of what had happened. I said, I
no doubt whatsoever that Parker had a messed up pass,
but that I figured that he was way more of
a threat to his former associates than he was to us.
And it turns out I was right about that in
ways that I could never imagine. On the fourth of
what was supposed to be five nights ships together, Parker
and I stopped by the guard chat by the main
entrance for some coffee. It must have been around one
thirty in the morning. It had been a real quiet night,
and I planned on working my way through a bag
of those many podded doughnuts before we got back on
our feet again. I was sitting at the little desk
where we kept the log book, reading through a copy
of the previous day's papers someone had left behind, while
Parker was standing by the shack's window, staring out into
the darkness and muttering to himself. Forty eight hours before,
i'd have found that kind of behavior creepy, but it's
amazing how quickly you get used to person's corks. After
working a couple of twelve I r night shifts with them,
he could stare off into space, mottered himself a little,
and I didn't think it was normal by any stretch.
But it didn't freak me out as much as it
did when I first met him. But what did freak
me out was when out of nowhere, Parker told me
there's something coming up the road. We never got any
one coming up that road at night, not unless it
was someone from security, but they always called ahead. But
what was even stranger was when I looked up and
saw absolutely nothing on the road outside the shack. Now
keeping in mind that I'm looking for headlights, so when
I don't see any, I'm assuming that there's nothing. I
also kind of assumed that I don't know Parker was
just being a little overzealous. On account of how jumpy
he always was. It wouldn't be the first time that
he acted like that. I made a mountain out of
a moleel, but the boss liked it and said that
we should all act a little bit more like that.
And so I look up see nothing, and I respond,
are you sure, buddy, because I don't see nothing at there.
Parker then says something in response, they got head let's
switched off. But there's something there, all right? And then
no sooner had he said that. When the headlights of
what looked like a truck or a van switched on
so bright that it was almost blinding. I was halfway
through yelling at something just like who the hell are
those guys? When Parker turned and with this real angry
look on his face, he comes lunging across the shack
at me. I backed up, asking what the hell he
was thinking, but he didn't stop. He ran, lowered his
body like some football player about to tackle me in lamb.
He took me down so hard at knock the wind
out of me, and even though I was fighting for
my life, I didn't stand a chance of overpowering him.
I had flashes of thoughts running through my mind, stuff
about it inside job, about how Parker was a plant,
and that he was about to kill me to keep
me quiet. Hell knows where heister Tea would want from
a steel plant. But I guess I wasn't thinking straight
at the time. This also took place over the space
of a couple of seconds too. Like the lights came on,
Pocker turned and tackled me. Then I'm right about to yell,
what are you doing. When the whole godumbshack exploded in
a shower of glass and sparks, I could hear automatic weapons,
maybe half a dozen of them, all slinging lead at
the shack, the sort of doka doca, doca doca. The
glass came in first, but after that you could hear
ricochets and sea sparks, before a bullet hit the light
above our heads and plunged the shack into doctors before
showering us with even more broken blasts. Parker was on
top of me the whole time, but obviously, but then
I realized why he'd taken me to the ground, and
I quit trying to struggle. He didn't want to hurt
me very much, the opposite. In fact, the guy I
once thought might end up going parcel on us was
trying to save my life. The gunfire was over in
a couple of seconds, and I know it's a huge
cliche at this point, but it did feel like way longer.
But then the second it went quiet, Poker rolled off
of me and then scurried out of the shack at
a bit of a crouching pisce position. I wanted to
follow him, and I wanted to get up and run,
but my legs just wouldn't let me. All I could
think about was whatever automatic weapons they had outside, and
how if I stood up, they put so much fleet
in me that you could shave my head and use
me as a pencil. I wasn't certified to carry a
weapon yet, but Parker had shown up certified, which I
guess is half the reason he got the job. So
while I was on with nothing but my flask light
and some pepper spray, he'd gone running off carrying our
only weapon. I knew whatever a brief window I had
to escape the shack was gone. Parker had seem to
recognize that the guys outside were reloading and had ducked
out of the shack before they had a chance to
open fire again. I figured that meant I had second
before another hel storm of bullets ripped through the shack
and potentially meet you. But then get up and run
and I give them something solid to aim at, and
I'd be totally screwed, not just partially. And so I
waited and waited, half expecting that sound to return again
of gun fire and for my lights to go out.
But they didn't, and the only thing I heard was
the sound of footsteps getting closer and closer to a shack.
Unlike I said before, I had nothing but my pepper spray,
but I knew that I had to do something, or
whoever was out there was going to walk inside and
finish me off. And so I did the only thing
I could think to do and start making a lot
of noise. I started yelling about how if they took
one step closer, I was going to open up with
my shotgun, and how even though I wouldn't be able
to take all of them out, at least one of
them was going to die. The footsteps suddenly stopped and
there was a moment of silence, and then I heard
a voice. It sounded like a man who smoked exhaust
pats and a gravel for breakfast. And when he spoke,
he didn't sound mad or scared. He sounded almost smug, asking,
to which I obviously responded, we didn't have anyone by
that name working for us, so you can bet your
assa let them know that Licky split and I told
them there was no mackaide there, and that's who they
were looking for. They'd risked a hundred years in prison
for absolutely nothing because whoever that was was not here.
There was another pause, and then the guy said something
like I know he's there. I respect you trying to
protect him, but it's going to get you killed, and
a piece of shit like that isn't worth dying over.
I had to tell him a second time that I
had exactly zero clue what he was talking about, and
that no one had to die because they made a
dumb mistake. There was another pause, and I I heard
the Jews outside sort of whispering to one another, but
I couldn't make it out. Then the other guy who
smote exhaust pipe said all right, you got to count
a three to tell us from a kaye biszam, we're
coming in to kill you. And after that he started
his countdown. After Freda told him that there was no
point in killing me, and all he said in response
was too and that I started thinking that maybe I
could dive out of the broken windows they started approaching,
and then I could use the shack as cover for
a few seconds to run off into the night. The
guy shouted one, and I was thinking, Okay, I need
to clear this window in one try or I'm dead,
and then the guy shouted, all right, where And that's
all I heard, because whatever his next word, it was
drowned up by the sound of more gunfire. I had
maybe nine or ten shots, and then someone screened before
some fired again. I was so scared. I thought that
they were just shooting up the shack again, and instead
of actually risking sifty to get inside the shack to
kill me, they were just going to empty the bullets
into it again in the hopes that a shot went
through and hit me. But then I very quickly realized
nothing was hitting the shack. All the shooting was directed
at something else outside. I knew that was my golden
opportunity to run, But when it came to standing up again,
and I knew it was just too much of a
risqual lower bullets in the air, I had to say
put wait for the shooting to stop, and then wait
for a moment. But literally no sooner than the shooting
did stop, I heard footsteps printing over to the shat
before suddenly Parker was standing in front of me, pistol
in hand, and this absolute psycho kind of look on
his face. He barks at me, get out of here.
There'll be more of them coming. I don't know what
it was about him telling me all of that, but
all of a sudden, my legs suddenly remembered how to
work again. I didn't thank him, I didn't ask any questions.
I just ran full speed towards the plant security office
to take Shelfe there. There was a chance our super
had seen what was happening, but there was also a
chance that he hadn't either, So I needed to get
their SAP to make sure the cops got their SAP too.
And now, long story short, we watched the cameras the
whole time till the cops do show up, but all
we see is the shack all shut up and the
headlights of whatever vehicle the shooters had approached him. Parker mckabe,
whatever you want to call him, was nowhere to be found,
nor to my knowledge, did he have a resurface. Our
boss handed over all his paperwork to the cops, every
last scrap that we had to go on, and they
came back and told us all of it was false.
The only thing that was real was Parker's face, and
that it did match a guy named mccabees who used
to be part of some prison gown until his relationship
with his associate Siren for some reason, and that's all
the explanation we ever got. And as far as I know,
Poker or MacCabe is still on the run. I don't
know what he did to pest his guys off so much,
but I know he made a mistake coming after him
like that, a mistake they paid for with their lives.
My name is Father Thomas, and I've been with the
parish priesthood at Saint Nicholas's Catholic Church here in WENSCHKINMB
for the past three and a half years. Winskim is
a small town here in rural Gloucestershire, and about five
thousand people are very proud to call at home. It's
about as quaint a rural English town as you are
ever likely to find, with a beautiful village, green, a
trio of tinlessly charming pubs, and even a fifteenth century
to Uda castle on the town's outskirts. There's nowhere on
earth I'd rather be living or serving God. But it's
also true that Winchkim has a history steeped and strange
and sometimes rather sinister occurrences. Visit the local museium and
you'll be told that Winschum started life as a Roman
hamlet around the middle of the first century, but but
three miles to the southeast atop a place called Cleave Hill.
Though fine traces of Neolithic burial ground the dates back
five thousand years. The area's inhabitants would take their dead
to a chambered lawn barrow atop the hill, which was
not only a place of reverence, but also a place
of right and ritual weather living cocommune with the dead.
There was a focus on collective memory and kinship, emphasizing
the dead as part of a community rather than isolated individuals,
and befitting my profession, that something I find profoundly moving.
Yet I've often wondered how much influence those ancestral spirits
have today, or if the strange events have observed around
Winskimba the echoes of much more recent events. In a
sixteenth century scandal rocked a nearby monastery known as Hales Abbey.
For hundreds of years, the monastery had been home to
a religious relic known as the Holy Blood, which consisted
of an ornately decorated wooden box containing a glass vial
of Jesus Christ's blood Supposedly, the vile had filled with
the blood which dripped from Christ's featuring his crucifixion, and
had been delivered from the Holy Land by Crusading Night.
Some time in the thirteenth century. The Night claimed the
relic had been given to him by the monks of
hermitage somewhere near the dead See after defending its occupants
against the Sarisen raid. The monks guaranteed their various souls
and the relics authenticity, claiming it had once belonged to
one of Christ's apostles. Following its interment Hailes Abbey, the
monastery became one of the most prominent in all of England.
But sometime in the sixteenth century, an inspection of the
Holy Blood uncovered something deeply shocking. The vile containing Christ's
blood had been stolen. Following an investigation, the official story
became that the Holy Blood had been stolen by a
group of professional thieves at the behest of all wealthy benefactor. However,
someone was rich enough to finance the theft of such
a relic. You can bet that they had a large
house with a large stuff a staff, which, if they
believed the blood of Christ was secreted somewhere in their
home would have had a very hard time keeping their
mouth shut about it. Yet, as history shows, neither the
thieves nor the buyer were ever found. Many believed the
Holy Blood would still be intact, hidden away somewhere until
its inevitable discovery. Others have a much more disconcerting explanation.
Shortly after the theft of the Holy Blood, a royally
sanctioned which finder arrived in Gloucestershire. The King of England,
James Eye, was obst est with stamping out witchcraft and
other heresy, and so when he heard the Holy Blood
had been stolen, he believed devilry was afot and sent
as Chief were Trender to root it out. The witch
Render's investigation led to the Burly witch Trials, whereby Joan
Flower and her two daughters, Margaret and Philippa, were accused
of cursing the Earl of Rutland. After half a dozen
of the Earl's family and friends suffered southern and tragic deaths,
many blamed a hidden coven of witches. Margaret and Philip
of Flora were hunted. Dan arrested then hand following convictions
for communing with the devil. Their mother, heartbroken and impoverished,
died in prison not long after. A few years later,
a woman named Alice Colin was accused of causing illness
and death by using curses and charms. She was convicted
following tessamonies from her own neighbors, and was executed to
the cheers of the gathered Tantzuk. It's clear that at
the time many believed that the Holy Blood had been
stolen by the accused and used in a seige of
profane rituals. They believed these rituals had brought a great
and terrible darkness to the region, and it seems there
are some who still believed this even hundreds of years later.
I've seen some rather unsettling graffiti around town over the years,
things quite unlike the usual drostinages like to dall, but
those will not be the focus of this memoir. What
I've told you are things I wished on you before
I arrived in Wittscomb, and because at the very least,
I feel like they have helped me understand some of
the things that have happened here since. For although I
now live a life of peace, harmony and simplicity, I
had to endure a living nightmare to obtain it. I
won't stultify you with the finer details of entering the priesthood,
but let's just say it's neither quick, nor easy nor painless.
For some prospective priests it takes years of discernment before
they commit themselves. Then after that you're looking at a
decade of training until you're even considered for priesthood. Then
when you finally do become a priest, you have to
serve under another much more experienced counterpart before either taking
over the parish should being assigned one of your own.
That's the exact position I was in when I arrived
in winchkimb back in early twenty twenty. Saint Nicholas's church
was under the care of Father Michael, an elderly priesthood
held the position since the Midmanus one thousand, nine hundred seventies.
He was set to retire in the summer of twenty
twenty one, so the idea was I had spend eighteen
months under his tutelage before taking over as guardian of
the church in parish. The usual period of tutelage is
two years, so as you can imagine, I was rather
surprised at the offer of a rare shortcut. Needless to say,
it came with a caveat. Father Michael, who was almost
seventy nine years old when we first met, had been
in a state of mental decline for quite some time,
and his condition had become of deep concern to many
of his parishioners. People spoke of strange sermons, troubing outbursts
while settling remarks during cloystood conversations, and to aboss the
Bishop of Clifton this was unacceptable. If I could keep
Father Michael's behavior under wraps and prevent the situation from
progressing into a full blown scandal, then one of the
most coveted parishes in England would be mine for as
long as I could serve it. I knew it would
be a challenge. I was taking on the role of
a car as well as a priest, But at the
same time it was an absolute no brainer. As they say,
I considered it an honor to be able to attend
to a veteran of the church during the twilight of
his tenure. I just didn't realize how terribly taxing it
would prove to be, both to my faith and to
my sanity. I first visited Winschkem in December of twenty nineteen.
Prior to my confirmation there, Father Mike had something in
the final say on whom he transferred the parish to.
But after some afternoon tea and a long conversation on
equomanical matters, the man himself told me that I've gotten
the job. Father Michael wasn't anything like I'd imagined him,
and in so many words, I've been told that he
was losing his mind and was a liability to the church.
But our meetings suggested nothing of the sort. Father Michael
was aged, but his mind was as sharp as his wit,
and as I said, we spoke at length on a
number of different topics, all of which he displayed a
vast knowledge of. He was a sort of bewelcoming, charming,
but humble, and displayed wisdom without arrogance. He embodied everything
I thought a priest was supposed to, so quarks were
no quirks. I was thrilled at the prospect of being
minted by him, even if that mentorship came with its
unique set of challenges. In early February of twenty twenty,
I moved into the spare room of the cottage that
stands behind Saint Nicholas's Church. It's a beautiful little cottage
with a thatched roof and a small rose garden. It's
also my current home and the place at I presently
sit and tied this memoir. But back when I first arrived,
it was a place of great uncertainty from me. But now,
almost five years to the day since I moved into
their cottage, I have more unanswered Christians than ever. My
first month or so under Father Michael's tutelig went smoothly.
I helped him perform mass I helped him perform baptisms,
and we went through procedures for both weddings and funerals.
I accompanied Father Michael in visits to hospitals and nursing homes,
and I sat down on pastoral counseling sessions to learn
how to provide guidance and support to my future parishoners.
I shadowed Father Michael in preparing sermons and homilies, and
then when it came to my own personal duties, I
would organize Bible steady groups or youth group meetings. I
also had to manage the daily administrative duties of the church,
which kept me very busy, I can assure you, but
that first month, aided by the warmth of the Christmas season,
made for a very smooth transition into my new life.
There were no signs of Father Michael's decline, none of
his episodes as people I had taken too calling them,
and at first it appeared the whole thing had been
quite overblown. But then it happened. One evening after dinner,
Father Michael and I were enjoying a cup of tea
and a few biscuits when the subject of parish funerals
came up. A conversation on the topic then meandered in
to one about death in general. And while that might
sound like a subject too heavy for tea and biscuits,
discussion of the afterlife can be a rather common thing
for those who take the cloth. Father Michael and I
had very briefly touched on the subject while discussing parish
funerals on a previous occasion, but that marked the first
time that we delved into the subject in depth. He
mentioned how his time on earth was drawn to a
close and how he'd been pondering on what that meant
for his eternal soul. Father Michael knew he'd lived a
good and decent life, one dedicated almost entirely to the Church,
no less, but he still found himself preoccupied by matters
of faith. In a remark I thought was a passing one,
Father Michael mentioned how he sometimes envied the holy martyrs,
those whose dedication to the faith had cost him their lives.
He quite rightly said that while priests occupies special place
in heaven, martyrs, by virtue of this sacrifice made bypass
progatory and enter Heaven immediately, as their suffering is considered
a purification in itself, and it's this that was the
source of his self confessed to envy. The subject of
the church as martyrs is something were encouraged to reflect
on often, but at the time I was only familiar
with some of the more well known martyrs. Their saints Stephen,
the first Christian martyr, who was stone to death after
preaching about Jesus. Then there Saint Peter, who was crucified
upside down as he felt unworthy to die in the
same way as Christ. But perhaps the most famous is
Paul the Apostle, one of Christianity's greatest evangelist, who was
beheaded in Romander Emperor Neer. Yet although we touched on them,
it was in these Marty's father Michael wanted to discuss.
He asked if I was aware of Saint Sebastian, and
I was, but I discovered I was privy to the
whole story. Sebastian was murdered by being shot full of errors,
but bizarrely, and unbeknownst to myself, he'd survived this phase
of his execution. His awestruck killers who had never seen
such corporeal with silients, thin a tymn cut from the stick,
he was tight and then beaten to death with clubs.
They broke every bone in his body one by one
until massive internal bleeding caused his heart to finally give
out and he passed into martyrdom. Father Michael said that
when he recently revisited the tale of Saint Betholomew, who
was skinned alive prior to his beheading to ensure maximum suffering,
he felt a deep and shameful sense of envy. He
felt the same comfortousness when he re read the story
of Saint Kavin of Alexandria, who was put to death
using a spot white breaking wheel and for the unfamiliar.
The breaking wheel is a method of execution which involves
being tied to a large spoked wheel before your legs, arms,
and ribs are broken, usually in that order to again
cause maxim suffering. The wailing victims shattered Lindsa then woven
into the breaking wheel spokes in the sickening cyclical recreation
of the human form before being displayed as a warning
to others. The fate of thus objected to the breaking
wheel is similar to those who underwent crucifixion in that
they didn't expire right away and sometimes spent days at
a time clinging to life. Their body is rat with
acony until they finally expired, And to put Saint Catherine's
suffering into perspective, it said that the breaking wheel broke
before she did, shattering from the force of the blows
to her body before she was even close to expiring. Then,
much like Saint Sebastian, her executioners were so awestruck at
her dedication to her faith that they ordered her beheaded
less he's ill proved contagious. Father Michael said that he
also envied Saint Agnes, who was so touched by God's
grace that the flames of her execution, Piet could not
set her ablaze. He felt the same towards Saint Better
and Saint Felicity, who in the Roman Colsium were torn
apart by wild animals before being put to the sword.
Father Michael claimed to feel a deep melancholy alarm, with
the sense of frustration that God had never provided him
with a similar opportunity to prove his faith. He acknowledged
it was a dark, potentially perturbing point of view, yet
it was one he wrestled none the less as ye
can all imagine. I found his confession to be deeply unsettling,
but relatively enterprising. I'd received prior warning that Father Michael
might say or due some rather unusual things. Preventing such
instances was half a reason I was there. But what
I was not prepared for was what he said next.
In known certain terms, Father Michael told me that he
was not only envious of the Church's Holy martyrs, but
also enid those who made them so. Unbeknownst to those
who beheaded, flayed, or burned the faithful alive, they'd been
a part of God's plan, and without their actions, the
Holy Martyrs would not be so venerated to day, even
if he himself could not achieve martyrdom, he would gladly
swap places with one of the many martyrs executioners, simply
to be closer to the act itself. Father Michael said,
if he'd known the implications of his actions, he'd have
tortured Saint catherin Lon after the wheel brooke, knowing her
continued suffering would only elevate her status in heaven. As
he talked, he became more and more animated, and then
and more mannic, until suddenly there was spitt of flying
from his lips as he made his case with wide
frant guys. I'm not ashamed to say that I was frightened,
because the fear wasn't for myself. It was entirely for
the health and well being of Father Michael. It had
been the first time he'd exhibited any objectively disturbing or
upsetting behavior, the kind of thing I'd been warned about
before my arrival. But still seeing it a close for
the first time, and knowing justtoographically he could speak, it
made for a chilling revelation. I reported the incident back
to the Bishop of Clifton, the head clergyman for all
of Glercshire, and he essentially told me to keep up
the good work. I'd managed to talk Father Michael Dan
from the mild form of mania he talked himself into,
and he seemed rather self aware regarding his deteriorating condition,
So there was no comfort following my intervention, But the
same could not be said for the next instance of
de escalation. Some time after our conversation on Martyrs, Father
Michael asked if he could share something with me, something
he believed might make me rather uncomfortable. When we got
back to the cottage, I put the kettle on, put
on a few biscuit and cream cakes, and then sat
down for some tea. Before he made his rather daunting announcement.
Father Michael had been talking to an angel, and my
heart sank the moment he said it, realizing his condition
was far more severe than mere vobal diarrhea. If he
was suffering audible or even visual hallucinations, then he evidently
required urgent medical care. And as you can very well imagine,
I was keen to get to the bottom of his
angelic interactions to determine if they were harmless metaphors or
yet more worrying manifestations of his encroaching madness. Father Michael
told me that for the past few years, an angel
had visited him in the middle of the night around
once a week. He'd waken in the wee, small eyeOS
of the morning, not to her voice, but her feeling,
and then after walking downstairs, he'd sit in the darkness
in the chair in the corner of the room and
he'd listened to the angel speak to him. I asked
what form this angel appeared to her, then that Father
Michael didn't know. He sat in the corner facing the
wall as a means of protecting himself. He believed looking
upon the angel's form without the proper permission would burn
his eyes out and set his very mind flame. I
asked Father Thomas what made him think that he didn't
have permission to look if the angel was present and
conversing with him, And without going into the long winded
explanation he gave me, let's just say that his answers
were best inconsistent. I knew he needed help, and he
needed it as soon as possible. But when I tried
contacting the Bishop with my concerns, the only person I
could reach was his assistant priest whom to save his
own embarrassment or remain unnamed. Now, Father Nameless or should
that be Father Spineless claimed the Bishop was very busy
with prior engagement, but that he'd be more than happy
to assist me. Obviously, my request was that he put
me in touch with the Bishop because I had a
very important development to report to him. But after almost
a week of all forscutting, I realized the Bishop was
deliberately avoiding my calls. I was furious, but the Church's
strict hierarchy is just that strict. I had no choice
but to deal with Father Spyness, and the process was
as frustrating as it was fruitless. Much like the realization
that the Bishop was avoiding my calls, there came a
point where I realized Father Spyness was acting in a
manner one might describe as deliberately obtuse. When I explained
that Father Thomas needed urgent psychiatric care, he asked for
more details, but when I gave them, he appeared to
completely misunderstand both the timeline and the severity of the events.
I hadn't dealt with this assistant much, after all, I
was only a few months into my winch contenure, But
it didn't take me very long to figure out that
he wasn't in a besselle. He was merely acting like
one and all with a view to frustrating my attempts
to get help for Father Michael. Without going into too
much detail, if Father Michael needed serious psychiatic care before
his retirement, the Church would be obligated to pay for
his medication and potentially even expensive private medical care. But
if his condition stayed a secret until after his retirement,
then any expenses incurred would be Father Michael's responsibility. The
Church would still technically be paying for his treatment, but
it had come out of his pension and not their
own personal coffers. Break into too much of the budget
and our bishop might lose his standing with the Archbishop,
which would no doubt affect his chances of climbing the
parochical ladder. I didn't find that out from Father Spyness,
but when I did, you can bet your ask that
I sensed some very ungodly language as way when I
called him back. The audacity of the bishop to try
and further his career, and at the cost of such
a senior and well respected member of the church seemed
nothing short of criminal wha The spinelist simply told me
that he'd pass on what I'd said to the Bishop,
and I assumed there was thinly veiled sarchism. It was not.
Just a few hours later I received a call from
none other than the Bishop himself, and to say he
wasn't pleased with me would be the understatement of the sentry.
Without giving details of the entire exchange, he rather furiously
asked if his instructions had been unclear. He reminded me
of what I'd been told prior to accepting my position
in Winchcombe, and then asked if there's anything I misunderstood.
I told him now that I hadn't misunderstood anything, but
that Father Michael needed the kind of urgent care that
I was incapable of providing as a mere priest. The
Bishop then simply told me that if I was incapable
of fulfilling my duties, he'd find some one that could.
The whole point of me being there was to prevent
any kind of scandal, be it moral in this case financial,
and in all fairness, that had indeed been made clear
to me prior to being formally offered the position. It
was either put up and shut up or hit the
road and potentially wait years for the chance to take
another parish, because I would most certainly be blacklisted by
the Bishop. Not formally, you understand, but blacklisted nevertheless. And
so I issued a formal verbal apology to the Bishop
and then reassured him I was capable of the task
at hand. And that was the late spring of twenty twenty,
and as many of you will remember, lockdowns followed shortly after.
I thought the temporary cessation of church services would give
Father Michael a well deserved break and to an extent,
function exactly as I'd hoped, But over time, the prolonged
desolation led to a serious and rapid decline in his condition.
In the end, I actually considered the social distancing to
be something of a double edged sword, because as much
as it played havocne Father thomas mental health shielded his
deterioration from the public eye. He became increasingly erratic, having
difficulty sleeping, and was prone to increasingly maniacal upbursts, which
both concerned and frightened me deeply. He remained fixated on
the concept of martyrdom from the perspective of both the
saint and the killer, and I took to locking my
door at night for fear that he might do something unspeakable. Thankfully,
the easing of lockdowns in the autumn of twenty twenty
helped a great deal with Father Michael's condition. Being thus
back into public life proved something of a shop to
the system, and one he desperately needed, and so for
a while anyway, he was able to get back into
a steady routine and was able to focus his mind
on much healthier thoughts than those of martyrdom and murder.
But one's limitations were reintroduced towards All Saints Day, and
Father Michael was limited in even the the number of
funerals he could attend. His conditions sank back towards the severe.
He became increasingly fixated in the idea that he was
about to be the recipient of what he called a
heavenly communication. But whenever I pressed him on the matters,
he began speaking in scritural riddles and avoided giving any
straight answers. Obviously, it was something I found deeply concerning,
but it marked something of a new phrase in Father
Michael's state of mind. Instead of brooding irritable and quick
to anger. He was euphoric. As I said, it was
deeply concerning. But this new phase came with behaviors that
proved considerably more manageable than those previously exhibited. The approach
in Christmas season gave him something to focus his mind on,
something that wasn't as ghastly or gory as his former fixations,
and that I most warmly welcomed. Yet after New Year's
Day came and went, things changed dramatically. The isolation of
the January lockdowns and the desolation of the bleak British
went to prove devastating to Father Michael's state of mind.
His conversations with that Angel went from being a weekly
to an almost nightly affair, which in TURNE meant as
sleep hygiene was atrocious. He became irritable, angry, sometimes even violent,
and he smashed household items, snapped at parishoners, and in
one instance I had to physically intervene during a mass.
After he took a disturbing diversion relating to commning with angels,
I began to wonder if I could survive another year
of Father Michael's tutelage, and I used the words survive
in the literal sense. Little did I know, but he
begne within a month. Throughout most of February twenty twenty one,
Father Michael had been taking a break from his paracal duties.
He had refused previous suggestions he undertake a period of rest,
but following the cessation of the Christmas period, his mania
had been replaced by a rather crippling depression. His public
absence was relatively easy to explain, and I was experienced
enough to effectively replace him during that period. But then
one Sunday morning, the twenty eighth of February, to be exact,
I worked to find Father Michael dressed, composed and ready
to administer mass. It was like all his depression a
mayniad suddenly evaporated, and not only did he seem perfectly
fit unwell, but he seemed positively excited to perform mass.
The service itself went impeccably, and the parishoners were positively
beaming to see him up and about again following his absence. Then, afterwards,
over ap parst tea and a few custard creams, I
began acting Father Michaels about his rejuvenated state I asked
a few gentle but probing questions. His responses were quite direct.
He told me that over the previous twelve months he'd
ask God many many questions, none of which had received
an answer. But in the early eye it was a
Sunday morning, he'd finally received a response from the angel
he'd been communicating with. The angel told him how the
very night Father Michael would be given a sign, and
he would not know where, how, or exactly when, but
he would be given a sign. Again. I did nothing
but worry. He had piques and then troughs, and then
hire his peaks, the lower his troughs. And if his
so called angel failed to reappear that evening, if he
didn't receive his so cold sign, there would be a
change in his mood and it might plummet toward a
manageable or even dangerous lose. All I could do was
hope for the best and be ready for anything. But
nothing could have prepared me for what happened that night. Nothing.
Father Michael's usual bedtime, the one he stuck to when
he wasn't feeling mannic, was usually around nine point thirty
at night. He taught her off around nine and that
was under the impression that he was undertaking his evening
bed time routine. But then suddenly he reappeared fully dressed
and began to put his coat on. I asked him
where he was going, but he didn't respond. He just
walked towards the front door of the cottage, and then
as he opened it, he looked at me and said,
you're going to follow me. He didn't say it an imperative.
It wasn't a command. It was a statement, an emotional
statement of cold, hard fact. Because as he stepped out
of the cottage and began walking off into the night,
I rushed to put on my own coat and hat
and then followed him. All of my questions went unanswered.
Father Michael simply told me to be patient, and Anne
led me on a short walk out into a field
just eae of sut Mel Lane. I walked through the trees,
crossed the public footpath, and then stopped some place in
the middle of the field, looking out toward Rushie Lane.
I once again asked Father Michael what he was during,
but instead of further dismissal of my question, he told
me were waiting, and then took something small from his
pocket and unfolded it. It was a penknife. It's blake,
glinting in the pill moonlight. I pulled up my phone
and placed to phone call to the local police. Exactly
nine point forty seven pound I remember. I told them
Father Michael was having another of his episodes, but that
this was one much more severe than the others. The
despatcher taught me officers would be there with the minutes,
and then after that, dehun up and went about trying
to talk Father Michael out of doing whatever I believed
he was planning on doing. But he struck me, really
struck me. I mean, and it wasn't the knife that
he produced, It was how calm and collected he was.
As I bit him to fold away the knife and
reconsider or whatever he was planning. Father Michael simply smiled.
He told me all I needed to do was wait
a few more minutes and then all would become clear.
I told him the police were on their way, and
that in order to prevent scandal, he needed to make
sure that the knife was out of sight before they arrived.
Father Michael didn't listen, and once again simply told me
to be patient. A wave of relief washed over me.
As I saw the blue flashing lights of the police
car behind us, and I began calling out to them
as they advanced in our direction. Once they drew level,
I told them Father Michael had a knife, at which
point the officer produced an electric stun gun. I saw
him produce the stun gun, then turned back towards Father Michael,
intent on begging him to put down the knife, and
something happened that I have yet to reconcile with my
own sanity. Father Michael was looking up into the skies,
completely deaf to the police, of both myself and the
police officers, and then out of nowid there was a
great grip flash in the sky before a sharp streak
of bright white light bursts from the green flash. It
was one of the most incredible things I had ever seen.
And then as the strange lights faded and a great
boom echoed across the sky's, Father Michael turned He told
me his question being answered that he was to be
martyred at the hands of the man standing in the
field at him, and that man was Meet. He approached
Meet with the knife, holding it up by the blade
as the police screened at him to stand still and
put the knife done. All three of us, myself and
the two offices began backing away from Father Michael, begging
him to stop what he was doing before somebody got hut.
He commanded me to tell him over and over again,
and each time I refused, he became more and more
of it. Then finally he completely lost his mind. He
turned the knife for an, charged at me with it
raised above his head, and was instantly shot by the
stun gun wilding policeman. He dropped to the gun, felt conscious,
and was swiftly transported to hospital, where I was assured
that he had every hope of making a full recovery.
But Father Michael never woke up. The stun gun's charge,
in tandem with an a diagnosed heart condition, had a
terrible effect on Father Michael's cardiovuscular health. He grew worse
and worse, until eventually he simply passed away in the
early hours of the following morning. I was the first
to hear the news, and when I did, I wept.
But it wasn't so much shock or grief that brought
tears to my eyes. It was that Father and Michael
had been proven right. Father Michael believed God had told
him how he be martyred that night by some one
standing in the field with him. He believed the Winchkom meteorite,
which has since been completely and scientifically blamed, was his
sign that he was indeed to become a holy martyr.
He didn't believe he'd leave that field alive, and in
more ways than one, the actions of that policeman proved
him exactly right. I've no idea how Father Michael knew
about the meteorite. Sometimes I think it was all just
some terrible coincidence, and that its sudden appearance was a
matter of misfortune. But other times I think differently. Frankly,
I'm not sure what to think any more. The only
thing I know for certain about the incident is that
it joins the long list of other strange occurrences that
have taken place in Winchham over the years, and doubtless
there will be many many more. Back in twenty thirteen,
I was a deputy manager at a hardware store here
in Delaware. For my morning's shifts, I'd open the place up,
get the computer and registers up and running, then I'd
head into the office to check our answering machine. This
was probably one of the more crucial aspects of my
morning routine, because that was my way of finding out
if any the liverers had canceled, if anything was arriving
outlier than expected, and also if anyone had called and
sick that morning. So I sit down with my coffee
and I listened to maybe two or three fairly routine messages.
Then when I hit play on the next one, I
recognized a voice right away. I'd been half expecting to
hear Gregg's voice on one of the messages, because he
was supposed to be there that morning to help me
open up. Hearing his voice was kind of a relief
of furze, because at least to neither he was okay
and just sick. But that's not what he'd called to
tell us. Gregg was an older guy, close to retirement age,
and he was quite possibly the sweetest man i'd had
the pleasure of walking with, so naturally, when I didn't
see him that morning, I was concerned. I figured he
was going to say how he wasn't feeling too good,
how he was going to take the day off, and
as much as it was going to stop trying to
find coverage for him, I was just glad to know
that he was okay, but what he had to tell
us was anything but reassuring. The message started with good morning, ladies,
which made me smile right away because it was how
he greeted us every morning. But then he went on
to say, I'm reel sorry, but I don't think I'll
be making it into work tomorrow morning. I'm going to
see Sherry. I didn't know who the Sherry Pusson was,
but I also wasn't super close with Greg, not like
he was with the ladies who worked in the store's
floor or registers, and so I went to ask them.
I asked my co worker, a woman named Jeanine, who
Sherry was in relation to Greg, and then a way
that she looked at me told me almost everything I
needed to know. Sherry was Gregg's wife, at least she
had been until she passed away. I guess that doesn't
make her not his wife, but you see what I mean.
And so when he said he was going to see Sherry,
I figured that he meant that he was going to
visit her grave or something. But then when I said that,
An expressed why, I wasn't sure that warranted a sick day.
Jeanine totally agreed. She says it wasn't like Gregg to
out of a call and sake, and he only ever
visited Cherry's grave on the anniversary, the birthday and usually
once around the holidays. I dun't ask Jeanine, well, what
does it mean when he says he's going to see Cherry?
And after she turned a whiter shade of pale, she
simply responded with, I think you'd better go make some
phone calls, to which I did. I called Greg on
his cell maybe two or three times, hoping maybe he
just wasn't hearing the phone, and I tried his home
phone number, but again my calls went unnounswered. I put
the phone down, and then I swear to God, not
even two seconds goes by before it rings. I'm hoping
it's Gregg, but it's not. It's Greg's son. Then why
I asked if his dad was okay. He told me no,
Greg was not okay. In fact, he passed away during
the night. Gregg's son said that this is what he
figured from having seen a scene appeared as dad of
gotn a bunch of paperwork done, including his will, before
laying down in an easy chair and just slipping away.
During the night, He'd watered his house, plants, paid his bills,
put on his best suit, and shined his shoes, And then,
after leaving messages for us and one for his quiet
director letting him know that he wouldn't need a right
to practice, Gregg laid down in his recliner and just died.
There was nothing to suggest that he'd expedited his exit,
so to speak. There were no pills, no blood, no
clear plastic bags or anything of that nature. Everything looked
entirely painless and entirely natural. But then somehow I find
that all the more haunting. The thing that scares me
is sort of how he knew it was his time.
Do we all know when we're close to death? And
do we all feel so God uncheery about it? Or
was Gregg just not afraid to go? The whole thing
with Greg isn't the scariest thing that's ever happened to me.
I've bean in a fourteen car palep where a family
afore died, and let me tell you that was way
more terrifying than finding out Gregg had passed away peacefully.
But that accident doesn't stick with me the way Greg's
sudden passing to us, and I guess that's because all
of those unanswered questions regarding one of the few things
we all share, man, woman or child, east or west,
north or south are unthoppable and inevitable. End I know
this is a bit of an unusual request, but I
was hoping you could give me some advice on how
to handle a situation with a male colleague of mine. Now,
I'd rather not say where I live or work or
anything like that. I'd like to just try and keep
this as anonymous as possible. But here is the gist
of my story. We first met when I started working
at a large retail store that had lots of employees.
He was the first person to really make an effort
to be friendly with me, and I thought that we
might end up being work friends, But I was wrong.
It quite quickly progressed from him being warm but platonically
friendly to ask him to go out for drinks with him.
I wasn't looking for a relationship at the time, and
I knew exactly what the implications of his invitation were,
so each time he'd asked me, I politely declined helping.
He'd eventually take the hint, but he didn't. He seemed
to think that if he just kept asking that I'd
eventually say yes. I didn't have the heart to tell
him that I didn't like him like that, but I
also didn't want to lie and say that I had
a boyfriend. In the end, I thought the best thing
to do would be to transfer to a different department,
but it became this sort of cat and mass game
of him following me wherever I went in terms of
departmental transfer. In the end, I had to go to
char about it, and only then did this stop his
transfers without cluing him into the fact that I'd approached them.
I'd made the mistake of giving him my phone number
when I first arted, as he'd offered to work here
any shifts I needed covering, But after realizing he was
only going to use that to pester me, I blocked
his number. I made my social media private, but he
sent me a follow request anyways, and I chose to
just ignore it once again, assuming that he'd have the
emotional maturity to just understand his attention was not appreciated,
But again he did not. His increasing his stoker like
behavior wasn't all that much of a problem. At the time,
I'd made sure our two departments were just about as
far removed from one another as it was possible to be,
so it was like we bumped into each other often,
and when we did, it was just sort of a
smile and a not kind of exchange as we went
about our duties. That Then, one evening, after we'd all
closed up and I was walking to my car, I
looked up from my phone to see him standing near
my driver, as I'd like he'd been waiting for me.
It was early winter, so it had long gone dark
by the time we got out. I'd parked my car
quite far from the store, so there was hardly anyone
else around as I was walking, and then suddenly there's
my cheerful stalker who's basically cornering me in a dark
car park. I was a mix of startled and nervous,
but I just did what I usually did in that
sort of situation and tried to be as friendly and
disarming as possible. I asked what I could do for him,
and he started trying to make small talk. I humored
him for a moment or two, and then very politely
asked him what he wanted. Then When he asked if
I could give him a left home, I felt my
heart jump into my throat. I knew he lived on
my rat home close to it anyway, but I knew
he knew that too, So turning him dumb wasn't going
to be easy without cunning cross as rude or selfish.
So I'd note this also might seem like a perfectly
normal exchange, and I might seem selfish in not giving
him a left home, but this was not a normal exchange.
This guy couldn't take the hint that I wasn't into him,
so he clearly wasn't playing with a full deck. And
now he's blocking me from getting into my car in
a dark car park, after making sure that there's no
one else around but me and him. I'm not trying
to use this to slag off men, so please don't
think handing that. But sometimes guys just don't appreciate how
punt's shittingly terrifying that kind of behavior is to girls.
He was quite capable of overpowering me if he wanted to,
which is why I'd stay on my best behavior and
keep him sweet. But he made that very very difficult
for me. In part of me thinks he did it deliberately.
In the nicest voice I could possibly muster. I told
him I was too busy to give him a left,
and then made up some excuse about having to pick
up my mom from her friend's house. I just really
didn't want to be alone in the car with him.
I had visions of dropping him off his flat, asking
me to come inside, and then making a big scene
and refusing to get out of my car after I
rejected him, none of which I am emotionally equipped to
deal with, and so quite naturally, I didn't want him
anywhere I couldn't physically remove him, specially the passenger seat
of my car. I gave him my excuse, and he
seemed to take it in the chin, but then made
a sharp segue into the ignored Instagram follow request, and
when he asked me if I'd seen it, I lie.
I told him I hadn't and I'd been taking a
bit of a mental health break from social media, which
was partially true. He then counted that since we were colleagues,
to be nice to be able to keep in touch
on social media. I tried the path of least resistance
and told him I checked my install the first chance
I got. But then instead of leaving me alone, he
started asking about my phone number and why I wasn't
answering my phone. I had to tell him I got
any number and hadn't memorized it yet. But he smelled
the lion an instant, and in that moment, the way
he looked at me, she'll meet to the bone. Upon
detecting the light, the smile was immediately white from his face.
He went cheerful and warmed a frighteningly cold, and it
took just a second for it to happen. I started
to feel very unsafe around him. He said the calls
when connecting, but that the little robotic voice didn't say
the number wasn't in service. It said the person wasn't available.
And apparently my now not so cheerful Stocker understood the difference.
He started asking if I blocked his phone number, and
then before I could even answer, he asked, why did
you do that? What have I ever done to upset
you so much that you'd block my number? I tried
to dig myself out of the situation as best I
could by giving the sunniest, most non confrontational answer possible,
most of which involved me, claiming that I essentially was
a ditzy d who barely knew how Instagram a phone
carriers even worked. But that wasn't good enough for him.
He kept asking why and how in what questions, sometimes
without even letting my answer go from the previous, and
in and day completely lost my rag and I went
mental on him. I told him I wasn't into him,
and that he should have gotten the message weeks ago,
and that he needed to leave me alone or I'm
going to h R without telling him to be for
the second time, he gave a bit more math, asking
if I was messing around and if I was really
that petty, but he knew what he was doing. I
rejected him, and now he wanted to shame me. It
adouances old as time. Really, only after he was satisfied
with brating me did he relent and walk away, but
the damage had been done. I knowed that might sound
a bit overly sensitive, and I absolutely hate any kind
of conflict, and I find myself welling up with tears
every time the adrenaline starts to subside, and that incident
was no exception. It might sound naiven retrospect, but after
that I really did think it was all over. I
tried to be strong, but I think all my stocker
soul was weakness. And now I know his little car
park confrontation is only the beginning of what he had
in store for me. He was quiet for a while,
my stalker. I mean, he stayed away from me at work,
and whenever we did run into one another, he didn't
even acknowledge my presence, and it suited me. But I
could tell he felt severely humiliated. But to be brutally honest,
I didn't care. I wish he'd taken the hint way
back when he first started asking me out. But that's
just the way the cookie crumples sometimes, isn't it. And
the point is I thought it was over. I thought
he'd finally leave me alone, but he hasn't, and now
it's only gotten worse. Last week, I woke up in
the middle of the night I text on my phone.
I also needed to we so while I was there,
I checked the notification to see who it was from,
and saw it was from an unknown number. I was
half asleep when I first started reading it, but by
the time I was maybe two or three lines and
my heart was pounding. The Decks was from my stoker,
and it said something along the lines of hay my name.
I think I'm part next to your car. Do you
live at my address? Because I swear it to your
car I'm parked next to What are the chances? Huh?
He even sent a picture just to make sure that
I knew that he hadn't made some kind of mistake
or was just messing with me as revenge for scolding him.
My heart was in my throat again. I was wide awake,
a thousand million different questions all running through my head
at once, with the primary one being how the hell
did he find me? My overarching theory is that he
followed me home. He obviously got in self a car,
didn't he, And obviously, with me not talking to him,
there was no way of me knowing that he bought one.
He could have followed me home, been right behind me
the whole time, and unless I really looked into my
rear view to see who the driver's behind me were,
there's no way I'd have known that he was following.
I think I'd have figured that part out. The only
thing I can't figure out is what to do next.
I know this might be too much of an ass
But is it possible you could read this out let
your listeners know what I'm going through right now, and
then they could give me maybe the best advice in
the comments. I'm not talking about legal stuff either, because
I have absolutely no faith in a police to be
able to keep me safe. I also don't think moving
back in with my parents is an option because they
live within five minutes drive of the place we work,
and I don't want my car sitting outside the place
in the off chance my stalker spots and then knows
where they live to I'm more than willing to quit
the place where I work, and I think there's probably
what I'm going to do the first available opportunity. But
I just want to know if any one else has
had the same issue, doesn't have faith in the police
to put a stop to it, and ended up to
you in something that I don't know made it all
go away. Also, my dad's not around any more, but
I really don't want to tell my brother about this
because if I do, he'll probably just end up going
to prison. I just know he will. And they say
that because people are inevitably going to ask why don't
you get your dad or are the male relatives involved.
And the short answer to that this I don't have
any I know this probably wasn't the scariest thing you've
ever read, and I feel a bit weird sending it
to you when there's people who's leg it nearly died
and the experiences they tell you about. But please, when
I say I'm really scared, I mean it from the
bottom of my soul. I'm scared. This isn't going to
be something I laugh about in ten or fifteen years,
that obsessive admirer roll eyes about when my future husband
reminds me of it. I'm scared this is going to
be the last chapter of my short life. The sky
is escalating, and I really will try anything to make
it stop, because there's only one way these things end.
If that escalation doesn't stop, I'm scared. I don't think
I can even bring myself to say what that end
result might be. And that is the end. Thank you
for listening, and I will see you in the next one.