hey everyone got a little something special for
you today something a little different we don't
normally do these but fear daily was kind enough
to offer to do a uh feed swap with us so that's
what's going on today so for those of you who
don't know fear daily is the brand new retro
horror show uh written by brendan store of the
ghost story guys and narrated by brendan schecksnyder
uh he's the creator of southern gothic And basically
what it is, every day from Monday to Friday,
Fear Daily, they bring you two new stories of
hauntings, monsters, and cults all from the 1990s
or before. Some of them may even be true, you
know, if you know where to look. Now with most
episodes, they're probably around like 25 minutes
or less. So if you're looking for like just some
like bite -sized daily horror, definitely check
out Fear Daily. If you want to find out where
to follow them, what they're all about, you can
find a link in the episode description. So with
that out of the way, enjoy. When the internet
began, bulletin board services, or BBS, became
the first online communities of the so -called
information superhighway. Using their phone lines,
people logged in from all over America to talk
about sports, games, movies, and on one BBS in
particular, share their ghost stories. Over time,
those communities all went dark, except for one.
lone server that continues to operate somewhere
in an unknown part of Pennsylvania's Rust Belt.
A relic of the 1990s, veiled in mystery, it is
a digital archive of humanity's strangest encounters
with the unknown, as told by the people who experienced
them. My name is Brandon Schechsneider, and you
are listening to Fear Daily. Subject, together.
User, alt melody. Posted, August 9th, 1998. From
the ages of 11 to 14, I used to have to spend
summers at my aunt's house in Great Neck. It
wasn't by choice, not that kids that age get
a whole lot of choice in how their affairs are
managed. My mom looked after me for the rest
of the year while working full -time, so I guess
she figured it was a way for her to get a little
time off without having to take me out of school.
She probably also worried about the kind of things
I'd get up to if I was left alone in the city.
It makes sense to me now that I've got a little
distance from it. Back then, I hated it. In the
run -up to the holiday, my friends would talk
about the things they were going to do together,
seeing Madonna and Bon Jovi at the garden or
having sleepovers. And what did I have to look
forward to? Piano lessons and walks along Manhasset
Bay with Aunt Amy. It wasn't that it was torture
or anything. It just wasn't Madonna. I never
minded going there with Mom for Christmas because
not as much was happening at home when my friends
would disappear into the cocoon of their family
lives for a couple weeks. Besides, Aunt Amy had
lived alone since Uncle David died in 1975, and
even a selfish teenager knew you didn't leave
family alone on the holidays. They had a beautiful
house across from Plum Point with big windows
that looked out over the water. Sometimes at
night, the three of us would all just sit there
in the living room with lights off, Aunt Amy
playing David's favorite songs on the piano while
outside snowflakes blanketed the bay. This past
Christmas, we got a call from the Great Neck
Police to let us know that Aunt Amy had passed.
The piano had been a focal point of her life,
so I suppose it's only fitting she died sitting
there, her hands resting on the polished ivory
keys. Being in Amy's house without her there
wasn't as strange as I had expected. At least
once during every visit should run out to what
had been David's favorite deli on Middle Neck
Road and bring back dinner. Standing in the living
room with Mom as the afternoon light faded, I
half expected her to walk in, shaking the snow
from her hair. Of course, she was never going
to walk back in there again. The kitchen was
empty, countertops wiped clean before her heart
had given out. Mom and I couldn't bring ourselves
to touch Amy's belongings that first day. Instead,
we decided to have a meal in her honor. The deli
is still there, so we ordered the same thing
she always used to. A pound of turkey, a pound
of roast beef, a dozen slices of seeded rye,
gravy. The elderly man behind the counter looked
up from where he was writing our bill. He knew
exactly who we were and offered his condolences.
When our order was bagged and ready, he held
his finger like he'd forgotten something. He
kneeled down out of sight, knees popping audibly,
and when he came back up, there was a can of
baked beans in his hand. Sometimes, he said,
David used to like beans. No charge. Back at
the house, Mom and I ate silently in the high
-ceilinged kitchen. We'd made it back just ahead
of the blizzard the radio had been threatening
all day, and Now, wind howled at the double -paned
windows. Once dinner had been finished and the
leftovers packed up, we turned off the pot lights
above the kitchen aisle and plunged the house
into total darkness. Together, we went into the
living room and sat on the bay window's long
bench seat to watch the storm. I leaned my head
back against Mom's chest, listening to the tick
of the clock. I miss her. Mom wrapped her arm
around me. Me too, baby. We cried ourselves to
sleep. I had a dream. In it, I was laying on
the bench seat in Aunt Amy's living room as wind
whipped thick snowflakes back and forth across
the bay. Next to me, I could feel the rhythmic
rise and fall of Mom's chest as she slept. Behind
us, Aunt Amy was playing Leo Ornstein's A Morning
in the Woods. My chest clenched with emotion,
and the tears came again. Wiping them away, feeling
the hot liquid against my fingertips, I realized
it wasn't a dream. I was wide awake, but the
music... continued to play. I so desperately
wanted to look behind me to know if Aunt Amy
was there, sitting at her piano the way she always
had. Something told me not to turn, that to see
would be to bring this moment to an end, and
I knew I didn't want that. Instead, I lay back
on Mom, who shifted against me, getting comfortable
again. Could she hear the music too? Would she
remember it all as a dream? I'd never ask. I
breathe deeply, letting the music fill the silence
as the three of us watch the snow fall one last
time. Subject, gumdrops. User, quiet witness.
Posted, October 3rd, 1996. The parking lot was
full of media vans this morning. A pack of blow
-dried hairdos trying to get as close to the
apartment building as the police cordon would
allow. Word had spread quick. The gumdrop killer
strikes again. This time, he left behind more
than his usual locked -door mystery. He left
behind a living victim. Cops hated the whole
gumdrop killer name, so the fact it was their
own fault is kind of funny. After details of
the first couple killings broke in the news,
Residents of high -rise apartment towers found
dead in their beds, poisoned by an unknown toxin,
their eyeballs missing. A reporter from the Times
had managed to catch one of the lead detectives
when he was half in the bag. The reporter asked
if the police had any idea what the killer wanted
with the victim's eyes, to which the annoyed
cop responded, Maybe he eats them like fucking
gumdrops, I don't know. The rest was history.
Who am I? I'm nobody, unless you're a fan of
comic books, in which case you might recognize
my name as the anchor on one of your semi -favorite
series. If you're not familiar with my business,
an anchor is someone who interprets the original
artist's graphite work in, you guessed it, ink.
There's more to it, but I'm not here to give
lessons on the finer points of the comic book
industry. You've got Kevin Smith for that. I'm
here because... I'm one of only two people alive
who's seen the gumdrop killer. No, this isn't
a confession. I'm not a killer of anything. It's
hard for me to swat flies, since I've always
figured they've got as much right to be around
as I do. Lord knows, Lord knows, I wouldn't have
made it out of short pants if the rules allowed
for beating me to death as soon as I got annoying.
The detective who interviewed me till sunup asked
me not to speak to the media, and I won't. The
last thing I need is that kind of attention.
The only reason I'm posting this here is because
if anything happens to me, I like the idea of
my story not getting buried in some cardboard
box at an LAPD lockup. Why would anything happen
to me? Because the gumdrop killer saw me too,
and... I'm not convinced the cops can do much
against something like that. I'll start at the
beginning. I moved into this a year ago after
one of my dates pointed out that an invitation
back to the house a grown man shared with his
mother was always going to get an automatic no.
It's a two -bed, two -bath, and a 20 -story new
build, so I'm the first person to live in my
apartment, same as my neighbors and theirs. The
Comstocks, the couple visited by Gumdrop last
night, had only bought their place last month.
I hadn't met them before last night when I watched
him die as something barely human plucked out
his eyes. The thing about living in a modern
building like this is that everything looks the
same. Same carpet on every floor, same gray paint
on the walls, even the same apartment numbers
just with a two -digit prefix beforehand to denote
the floor number. I'm 1020, my neighbor is 1022,
and so on. The Comstocks have, or at least had,
apartment 1122. One floor above me. That's why
when I stumbled out of a cab into the lobby of
our building last night and hit the button for
11 instead of 10, I didn't notice for a while.
You know that feeling when you've really got
a load on, like your field of vision narrows
to a point and all you can do is move toward
that point. It doesn't matter if you're on a
crowded street with cars whizzing past. The only
thing you see is what's at the end of that tunnel.
A burrito cart, a bathroom, some poor woman who
hopefully spots you before you can bother her
with your idiot drunkenness. That's where I was
last night. Completely moved on Singapore slings
and desperate to get into my place so I could
take a leak. I weaved my way down the featureless
hallway, saw a 20, and went for the doorknob.
The competing interests of gin and a need to
urinate completely bypassed any thought of a
key, and walking into a darkened apartment laid
out exactly like my own meant I didn't see anything
to suggest I was anywhere but home. Inside the
bathroom, I... Flicked on the light, and halfway
through a deeply gratifying piss, it occurred
to me that someone had redecorated in the few
hours I'd been gone. There was potpourri on the
toilet tank instead of stacked up issues of Wizard,
and the bar of soap next to the taps was a bright
pink instead of the hairy white bar of Dove that
did double duty between my shower and sink. Nothing
will cut through a gin fog like panic, and that's
exactly what I felt in that moment. This wasn't
my apartment. I had just broke and entered. Well,
I didn't break anything, but I doubt the cops
would be that discerning when they laid charges.
My stream finally reduced to a trickle. I wondered
about the etiquette of flushing while committing
burglaries, and that's when I heard sounds coming
from next door, the bedroom going by the layout
of my own home. First, I thought it was people
fucking, so I listened a little more. It's been
a while since I've had feminine company, but
even drunk me knew that the process didn't sound
like what I was hearing. It sounded like struggling,
whimpering, and something else, something wet.
Carefully, I stepped out of the bathroom, wincing
at how long a shadow I was casting thanks to
the bathroom light. The noises continued like
I hadn't been seen, and I debated just sneaking
back out the door and believing whoever lived
there to wonder if they were being haunted by
a ghost with an enormous bladder. My curiosity
won out, however, and I creeped toward the open
bedroom door. My footsteps were almost inaudible
on the linoleum floors. I inched closer to the
black doorway, hearing the struggling more clearly.
Something was wrong. Really wrong. Dread blossomed
in my chest. A spike of adrenaline burned away
the rest of my drunk. Placing my hands on the
doorframe, I leaned into the room just enough
for my eyes to start adjusting to the dim. The
patio door was open, curtains across it fluttering
in a slight breeze. On the bed were two people.
No, three. Two in the bed and one. The third
figure was barely. person. Enormous, muscled
arms pinned the couple under the blankets like
butterflies in a display case. The body was thick
too, seeming rigid like the body of a beetle.
Its legs were long and thin, folded up under
it like it was doing some kind of isometric hold.
One of the figures, I'd later learn it was the
husband, Johnny, wasn't moving. The other, his
wife Anne, was shaking. side to side, losing
power with every moment as the third figure's
head got closer to her face. The more the curtains
blew, the more the light of the city filtered
in, outlining the tableau in front of me. Something
emerged from the third figure's mouth, long and
slick like a mosquito's proboscis. My stomach
turned, threatening to announce my presence with
a firehose spray of slightly fermented Singapore
sling. The rest of me was frozen. Turns out,
that's the third aft to fight or flight. Freeze.
All I could do was watch as the long... Rubbery
tubes split into two, one settling on each of
the struggling woman's eye sockets. There was
that wet sound I'd first heard in the bathroom.
I knew what it was now. Sucking. The proboscis
withdrew, tugging until the eyes popped right
out. trailing long, thick cords of their own
that could only be the optic nerves. The figure
withdrew the proboscis quickly, snapping the
stalks and sucking the stolen treats into its
own mouth. I heard them popping wetly as it chewed.
Oh, I thought dumbly, that's the gumdrop killer.
Hey, that cop was right after all. Having that
conscious thought brought me back to my body,
and the first thing I did was scream. Gumdrop's
head snapped in my direction, his eyes a bright
silver in the dark. I reacted by turning to run
at the same time as I vomited what must have
been a bright red fountain of pineapple juice
gin and benedictine across the wall in front
of me, out of the corner of my eye. I saw Gumdrop
throw himself on the floor, landing on his powerful
arms. He moved toward me at an impossible speed,
thumping forward like a combination of gorilla
and insect. I couldn't outrun him. There was
no way, but I was going to try. I passed the
bathroom with gumdrops close behind. I was only
feet away from the hall door. He was faster.
I knew it in my heart. This was it. Instead of
feeling gumdrops landing on my back, I heard
a grotesque, wounded cry, and I turned in time
to see him scuttling back into the bedroom. Why
wasn't he coming closer? It only took me a moment
to figure it out. A shaft of light cast from
the bathroom cut the hallway in half, his half
and mine. Did he not like the light? He was still
there, hiding in the dark. I could hear him breathing.
To test my theory, I reached behind me, fumbling
for the handle as I kept my eyes on the bedroom
doorway. When I found the door latch, I pressed
down and pulled it open. brightness pouring in
from the over -lit hallway, pushing the darkness
further back. For an instant, I saw Gumdrop's
face, and it's going to haunt me until my dying
day. If his figure had barely been that of a
person, his face was barely that of a man, pale,
blotchy, shot through with blue veins, his silver
eyes full of a deep hate I'd never known before.
Another roar followed by more frantic thumping
and what sounded like one of the curtains being
ripped down. People were coming out of their
apartments now, drawn by the war cries next door.
The cops were not far behind and I was held on
suspicion for a couple of hours. Then, a witness
who lived in one of the apartments across the
street came forward to say they'd seen a man
with huge arms and tiny legs climbing down the
balconies on our building shortly after the screaming
started. After giving my statement, I was released
from custody with the aforementioned stern warning
about not spreading my story to the press. All
the cops would tell me about Ann Comstock is
that she survived the attack and had a crazy
story about a monster kissing her husband before
sucking out his eyes. My guess is it wasn't a
kiss. I bet next month's paycheck on the creature
using that proboscis to inject something like
a paralytic agent into his victims so he can
take their eyes and Whatever else it is he does
to them, it's something he didn't get a chance
to finish with Ann because I'd wandered into
the wrong apartment. Now, the big question is,
does Gumdrops know which apartment is the right
one? And is he going to come back before I can
move? Fear Daily is an independent podcast hosted
by Brandon Schech -Snyder and written by Brennan
Storr, with Joanna Smith serving as the consulting
editor, audio production by Rachel Boyd and sound
design by Southern Gothic Media. This podcast
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, or to real
events or locations is entirely coincidental.
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