Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcome 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 who 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 onfitun 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 anyone
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 doca 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. Pako 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 pasce 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 shelfeur there. There was
a chance our souper 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
intermented 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 Wittscombe, 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
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, may 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 moven
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 spittle 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 at 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 lowes. 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 storre'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,
when 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 gottn 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 drive 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 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 stalker,
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.