Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Resolution.
Speaker 2: The clock on my desk reads one forty seven am
January First. Everyone else is still out celebrating, but I
needed to be alone. That's become a pattern this past year,
being alone. My New Year's resolution list sits blank in
front of me, just empty lines waiting to be filled
with the usual lies about gym memberships and better habits.
The pen feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it should.
Six months. That's how long I've managed not to think
about it. Not directly anyway. It lives in the corners
of my mind, in the seconds before sleep, in the
moments when I catch myself staring too long in mirrors.
It was raining that night. That's the detail that keeps
floating back. Not the sound I try not to remember,
but the rain. The way my wipers couldn't quite keep up,
the way the street lights blurred. I've told myself a
hundred times that's why I couldn't be sure what I hit.
But I did slow down. That's the thing that scratches
at my thoughts in these quiet moments. I slowed down
enough to know enough to make a choice. The newspapers
said she was wearing a red running jacket reflective strips,
the kind designed to be seen on dark, rainy nights.
The article mentioned she always ran the same route, same time,
training for a marathon. I detailed my car the next day,
told the guy at the shop I'd hit a dog.
He didn't ask questions, but there was something in his eyes,
like he was memorizing my face. I should turn on
a light, but the darkness feels appropriate, safer. Somehow. The
city glows outside my window, and I keep seeing flashes
of fireworks in the distance, celebrations, fresh starts, second chances.
My hands are shaking as I write one on the paper.
Just that single mark feels like a confession. The text
messages started three weeks ago, unknown number, no words, just
an address, my address, Delete another one two days later,
the make and model of my car. Delete yesterday a
single word resolution. I've started taking different routes to work,
avoiding that street, that corner, that street light that still
flickers exactly like it did that night. But you can't
escape your own mind? Can You can't delete those kinds
of messages? The running community put up posters everywhere her
face smiles out from telephone poles and shop windows. Missing,
they say, But that's not accurate, not really missing, implies
there's a mystery missing, suggests no one knows what happened.
I know what happened. I know exactly what happened. Last
week I found a piece of red fabric with a
reflective strip caught under my front bumper. Six months it
sat there, hidden, waiting, like evidence, has a patience all
its own. I burned it immediately, but I can't burn
the memory of holding it, can't burn the knowledge that
while I've been living my life, going to work, eating dinner,
watching TV, there's been a piece of her attached to
my car, coming along for the ride. The shop guy
who detailed my car. I saw him at the grocery
store yesterday. He was behind me in line. Just a coincidence,
except I'm certain it's not the first time I've spotted
him lately, not the first time I've felt watched. My
phone sits dark and silent on the desk, but every
few minutes I check it anyway, waiting for another message,
another piece of proof that some one knows. The anxiety
of waiting almost feels worse than a confession would almost
I should have stopped. Everything that came after the sleepless nights,
the paranoia, the slow burning horror of what I am now,
all of its stems from those few seconds when I
made a choice keep driving, just keep driving. The police
came to my office last month, just routine, they said,
interviewing every one in the area. I managed to keep
my voice steady, to meet their eyes with just the
right amount of concerned confusion. But Detective Rivera lingered after
his partner left, just stood there watching me with this
look that made my skin crawl, like he wasn't seeing me,
but threw me into me. I've started imagining her family's holiday,
their empty chair, their unanswered questions. Their new year's resolution
has to be finding answers, finding justice, finding me. Do
they sit around their dinner table and talk about the
monster who just kept driving? Do they imagine my face?
Do they get close in their imagination to who I
really am? The thing that terrifies me most isn't jail.
It's not even the guilt, though God knows that's eating
me alive. It's the fact that I've proven what I'm
capable of, not just the accident, accidents can happen to anyone,
but the choice, the decision to drive away, to wake
up the next morning and go to work, to live
six months pretending to be normal while a family searches
for answers, what else might I be capable of? A
car door slams outside, footsteps on wet pavement. I hold
my breath, waiting to hear if they're coming toward my building.
Not yet, not this time, but soon. I know that
now evidence has a gravity to it, pulling everything toward
a center of truth, toward consequences. Resolution list still sits
empty except for that single one. What do you write
when you're a monster wearing a human suit, when your
one phone call, one witness, one confession away from your
life imploding. The red light on my phone blinks, new message,
unknown number. I saw what you did. Another times up.
The footsteps are back closer more than one person. This
is how it ends, not with a dramatic chase or
a clever escape, just a man alone in a dark room,
listening to approaching footsteps, finally facing what he's become. My
pen hovers over the paper in the growing sound of
footsteps on stairs. I finally write my resolution one face
what I am. The knock when it comes is almost gentle,
like judgment, having the patience to be polite, like horror,
knowing it doesn't need to rush, like truth finally coming
to collect its due. I stand to open the door.
Some monsters where human suits, some guilt becomes a cage,
And some new years don't bring fresh starts, they bring
endings as they should.
Speaker 1: Ghost is a Caloroga Shark Media production written and hosted
by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers
Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may
have been created with the assistance of AI. This show,
along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media, is
available commercial free on any player hassel free. Just look
for the link in the episode or show notes. Calaroga
Shark Media