Speaker 1: Calorougu Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello, and Welcome to Ghost. This episode is titled Winter Escape,
Part two. Memory.
Speaker 1: I found the other wedding photo yesterday. It was tucked
into one of David's research files, the ones he brought
from the office just in case. The photo shows us
on our wedding day, but all the details are wrong.
My dress is different. We're standing in front of a
church I've never seen. His mother isn't there, but mine is,
which is impossible. My mother died when I was twelve.
The disturbing part isn't the differences. It's that looking at
this photo feels exactly as real as remembering our actual wedding.
Both memories exist simultaneously in my head, like perfectly overlaid
transparencies that don't quite match. I've been scanning the research
files for three days now while David takes his new
longer walks around the lake. At first, I told myself
I was looking for clues about the break in, but
now I'm not sure what I'm looking for or what
I'm finding. The files are all psychiatric trial data, experimental
memory and personality studies, pages of clinical observations, brain scans,
patient interviews. Most are heavily redacted, but certain phrases keep appearing.
Identity trans successful, memory overlay complete, subject demonstrates full integration.
I should tell someone, call the police, my old contacts
at the Bureau, anyone, but the phones have been dead
for two days. A storm took down the lines. Internet
comes and goes, and every time I think about reaching out,
I remember the other photo, the impossible memories. Who would
I even tell? What would I say? My husband has changed,
but maybe my memories have two. I found a wedding
photo that feels real but can't be. I'm starting to
remember a mother I never had. This morning, I asked
David about his latest walk. He described the north trail
around the lake's edge, but I watched him take the
south trail. When I mentioned this, he smiled and said,
I must be confused. Showed me his boots, no snow
on them at all, like he hadn't walked anywhere. But
I saw his tracks in the snow, followed them to
the lake's edge, where they simply stopped. The snow is
falling again, heavy wet flakes that stick to everything. David's
in the kitchen making coffee. I can smell from here
five scoops now twenty ounces of water six minutes to brew,
sweet enough to make my teeth ache just from the scent.
I've started keeping notes times, dates changes, the shift in
his routines, the disappearing scar the new memories layered over
old ones. But when I read back through them, the
entries change, details shift between readings. The notes are rewriting themselves,
or like my memory of writing them is being rewritten.
Last night I tried something, left my phone recording while
we slept, played it back this morning after David left
for his walk. The audio is mostly silence, but around
three a m. There's talking, his voice but not quite
his voice, reciting strings of numbers and words I don't understand,
except I do understand them. Part of me recognizes the pattern,
knows what the numbers mean, like accessing a memory I
shouldn't have. I found more files hidden in the research data.
Case studies of memory manipulation experiments. Subjects exposed to specific stimuli, images, sounds,
physical sensations, their memories, personalities, entire identities slowly overwritten, not erased, transformed.
The successes were called integrations. The failures were called rejections.
There are photos of the rejections. I wish I hadn't
found those. One file stands out. Subject twenty three to
seven b female, mid thirties, criminal psychologists specializing in behavioral analysis.
Perfect candidate for integration due to existing pattern recognition abilities
and high empathy scores. Integration protocol began sixteen months ago
through close contact with an already integrated subject. Sixteen months ago,
David's company promoted him to head of research. Sixteen months
ago I started working from home more sixteen months ago,
we started talking about getting away somewhere quiet, just the
two of us. I check my notes again. The entries
have changed. Now they're in David's handwriting, documenting my changes,
my new routines, my shifting memories. But that's wrong. I'm
the one watching him, aren't I. The coffee smells stronger,
now wrong. I check the kitchen. David's not there, but
there's a fresh cup waiting, made exactly how I like
it now, five scoops, twenty ounces, six minutes, sweet enough
to hurt. When did I start drinking it this way?
I find more wedding photos in the files, each one
slightly different, each one feeling perfectly real In some neither
of our mothers are there. In others they both are
in one. We're not getting married at all. It's a funeral,
my funeral from three years ago. That memory feels real too.
The snow is falling harder, the lake has disappeared into white.
I try calling out again, but the phones are still dead.
Internet still down. The nearest neighbor is five miles away,
but I can't remember which direction. David's boots are by
the door, bone dry, no snow, but I can see
fresh tracks leading to and from the house through the window.
I check my notes. They're in my handwriting again, but
now they're about a different David, a David who drinks
black coffee and sleeps on his right side, A David
who doesn't exist anymore, or never did. The recording from
last night is still on my phone. I play it again,
different voices now, both of us reciting numbers, both of
us changing. A new file sits on top of the
research papers. Subject twenty three to seven b's final evaluation
integration proceeding as planned. Subject's inherent pattern recognition abilities allow
for accelerated protocol recommend isolation phase to complete transformation. Previous
identity will be fully overwritten within thirty days of removal
from familiar environments. The date on the report is from yesterday, No,
two months ago. No, I wrote it this morning. The
coffee cup is empty. I don't remember drinking it. David's
back from his walk, snow on his boots, now right, boots,
wrong tracks. He's looking at me with concern, almost right,
almost perfect, Everything okay, he asks. His voice hits all
the right notes, but the melody is wrong, or maybe
my hearing is wrong. Just looking at old photos, I say,
But the photos are gone, all of them, just blank papers.
Now you should get some rest, he says. The isolation
can be disorienting. Isolation, integration, identity. I know these words,
wrote these protocols, designed these experiments, didn't I. The snow
erases everything now, tracks, memories, certainties. David watches me, watch him,
both of us changing, both of us becoming something new,
or maybe we already have. Maybe that's what I'm really
seeing in him, my own transformation reflected back. Maybe I'm
not documenting his changes, Maybe he's documenting mine. The lake
house creaks in the wind, another storm coming, more isolation,
more integration, more becoming. I should run, should fight, should
call for help, but I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be,
doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, becoming exactly what
I was chosen to become. I just can't remember who
did the choosing, or why it feels so perfectly right
to be so terribly wrong. David brings me another cup
of coffee, perfect temperature, perfect sweetness, perfect integration. I drink
it all, and somewhere under the ice, something finishes, becoming
something new. I just hope I recognize myself when it's done,
or maybe I hope I don't. The snow falls thicker,
the memories shift again, and I can't remember which of
us changed first, or if we were ever really different
people at all. Ghost is a Calorogu 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
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