You are listening to the new Mutual Audio Network. Welcome home. The following audio drama is rated PG-13, suggesting that all children under the age of 13 should listen accompanied with an adult. Welcome to the world's largest and longest running showcase of modern audio drama. I'm David Ott and my co-host is... David, have we arrived? Jack Ward, yes we have. Why are you lying on the floor of the tortoise? I'm just hoping my...
stomach will come down from the ceiling. Oh, well you took too long at your farm. You've not gotten your tortoise legs back yet. This is worse than when I took the cat across the ocean to Maine. Cats don't like water, Jack. They really, really don't. You should stop trying to float on them. I know. What did you mean last week that you're the common denominator?
You know, the commonality as to why the tortoise is making these grand leaps from disparate RSS feeds. That will take some time to explain. But for now, I can tell you we've arrived at someone just like you with the double feature of 1965. Lord Falcon, and Lifetime Supply of Paperclips. Lifetime Supply? Yes, that one is particularly familiar. Why is that? Because I'm in that episode. Oh, so it all begins right here. On the Sonic Society. Someone Just Like You is a horror series.
unsettling depictions of modern life. Check the show notes for episode-specific content warnings. Listener discretion is... My fingers bend backward and beg me, please, let us write a story for them. Let us peel back their skin to reveal the horror lurking beneath. Pain that feels all too familiar. torment that hits too close to home. This isn't an alternate dimension. This isn't a liminal realm or a divergent timeline. These horrors are here and now. This could happen to... Someone...
It's a beauty, isn't it? Custom dark blue paint. Clean body. The sportiness of a two-door. You won't find one like that around every corner, that's for certain. 65. No, the 66 is a little rounded, less squared off. A beauty, don't you think? The price is right. A steal at that price. And if you're at all serious, I'll let you in on a little secret. The price is not firm. You get me?
Now, you should know that this is not a museum piece. You can ignore the odometer. The engine is not the original. Oh, it's a Falcon engine, all right, but it's a rebuilt 67. So you got a 67 engine in a 65 car. If you're some kind of purebred vintage guy, this one's not for you. But if you want a car that actually runs, that'll make you the absolute coolest guy in town, that provides the long-lost all-American classic Motor City vibe, you cannot beat this car. Here, sit behind the wheel.
Yeah, the upholstery has been replaced also, but that's a good thing considering. Still got that classic bench seat, and the steering wheel's great, isn't it? Wider across than the ones they make now, and so thin with those grooves for your fingers. I swear that baked enamel plastic was designed for space travel. Totally cool. And again, the price. Seriously, you cannot, you will not, you will never beat that price.
I've owned it less than a year. It belonged to my girlfriend. I inherited it, you might say, when she left for Texas. Where should I start? Emily was something. Beautiful, thin, dark green eyes and long black hair. She was a mite neurotic and a tad obsessive, I suppose. She only slept three hours a night unless she had been drinking. She smoked a pack a day. She was exquisite.
She'd been the tomboy of her father's three daughters, and he taught her everything he knew about cars, which was a whole lot more than I knew. She loved to work on engines, especially, and wore black lacquered polish so you couldn't see the caked grease under her nails. Half the time, she had an oil smudge on her forehead. Trolling junkyards was her favorite way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Since I didn't even own a car at the time, things evened out.
She moved into my house, and before long there was a 61 Volvo in pieces in the driveway and a 64 Corvair engine in the garage. Most nights she prowled around the house. a cloud of menthol trailing her from room to room, drifting into the garage where she listened to Nick Cave croon through an old stereo while she rebuilt a carburetor or cleaned spark plugs or some such. her hair ponytailed, wearing three faded sweaters of various colors over her bony shoulders.
One day, the Falcon showed up in front. It was in great condition, she said, and she seemed really excited about it. After a couple of weeks, I noticed that she would only drive the Falcon in the daylight hours, never at night. We generally rode my motorcycle when we went out, so I didn't think much of it. But eventually I asked why.
She evaded the question. Turned out, being evasive was a pretty common thing with her. One weekend in April, I had to go see my brother in Bakersfield. When I got back... Emily was gone. Everything with her. Her clothes and music. The car parts. Even the Volvo. Pretty clean brakes. Except for the Falcon, which sat there, parked next to the curb in front of the house, the key hanging from a hook near the refrigerator. I felt like I'd been kicked in the chest.
She called me from San Antonio and said that she was sorry things had not worked out. I felt like I was drowning and didn't say much. Finally, grasping for something to hold on to, I asked about the Falcon. Do you want it? Sure. I guess. I would have agreed to just about anything she said at that particular moment. After I hung up, I walked out to the Falcon and climbed in. I drove it around Midtown and filled it with gas.
Then I drove it down to Freeport, across the river, and on to Clarksburg near the Delta. I thought driving her car would remind me of her, that a scent would help me retain some connection, that a scratch on the dashboard would trigger a memory, but I soon realized that it was no good. This car held a personality of its own. She had owned it, but it was not hers. There was nothing about it that retained anything about her.
Or, rather, there was something about the car, some other presence, that eclipsed her. I drove back to Sacramento, parked in Midtown, and walked over to the Torch Club. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. I had some idea about a liberating ritual of loss involving alcohol and a dive bar. After a couple of hours and a few more beers, my mood had not improved at all. I figured the time had come for the sad sack drowning his sorrows to give way to the night crowd searching for fun.
I laughed as a blues band started playing. It wasn't late, and I swear I wasn't drunk. But it was dark. The Falcon was parked on 14th Street, near some apartments. The lighting wasn't too good and a couple of ash trees crowded the sidewalk, buckling the concrete with their roots and casting shadows with their branches. I was walking to the car past the other cars parked by the curb when I noticed something strange and stopped, dead in my tracks.
I saw a figure moving inside the falcon. I was maybe three cars back and stood there, trying to get a better look through the shadows and darkness. The other cars partially blocked my view, but I could see a head and shoulders, a black outline shifting in the front seat. Now I've had cars broken into before, if that was what was happening. I was upset. maybe a little afraid, and in a bit of an emotional whirlpool.
I stooped down, ducking, and started creeping slowly along the curb, by the side of the other parked cars. I glanced up, and it was hard to make out any detail in the darkness, but I'm sure there was something moving inside the Falcon. Crouching, I approached the car, soundlessly. When I got to the Falcon's rear panel, I slowly stood up, and felt very foolish. There was nothing there. The car has huge windows, in the old style, an uninterrupted slab of glass in the back.
I could take in the entire interior at a glance. No one was in the car. I stood there, watching shadows shift as the streetlights filtered through the branches, wondering. The foolishness I felt was gradually replaced by a slow, unspecific, creeping fear. I walked around and unlocked the driver's door, reached in and turned on the globe light. I looked in the back seat.
I went back around and checked the passenger side door lock. I opened the trunk and was mocked by the emptiness. I told myself that I was drunk. My heart was pounding like an overheating nail gun. I sat in the car, shut the door, turned off the globe light, took the steering wheel in my hands. I told myself I'd not actually seen what I thought I had seen. But now I felt something. An intangible but insistent, slow, rising darkness. I looked in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a face.
I turned and stared at the passenger side seat, cold and empty. I could hear myself breathing hard. Clutching the keys, I opened the door and pushed myself up and out of the car, stumbling as I propelled myself away from the interior. I straightened up, slammed the door, stepped back. then turned and walked away. I caught a cab home. In the sunshine of the next morning, I again felt foolish
I called into work at the bottling plant and begged off. Took a bus into Midtown. Whatever feeling of dread had risen from inside the car the night before was gone. I told myself that I'd simply been reacting to the shadows, the sadness. The alcohol. But a persistent, subtle anxiety tugged at my thoughts. I drove the Falcon over to the garage on P Street, where my buddy Freddy worked.
He's a stand-up guy, and I called in a favor. Freddy looked at the Falcon, put it on the lift, drove it around the block, rummaged around under the hood. That's when I found out about the 67 engine. Freddy told me some major work had been done on the car, but the chassis was sound, and it was in generally good shape. He ran the registration, and we found out that some guy named Eric White was listed as the legal owner. Emily had been vague about the pink slip.
I drove back to my house, parked the car in front. I stood next to it for a long time, looking at it. The dark blue paint reflected the midday sun. Nothing unusual here, I told myself. It's just an old car. I went inside and called Emily. I called even though it might give me away as a weak, broken-hearted jerk, inventing some excuse to contact her. I could tell by her voice and manner that she did not want to speak with me.
She admitted that she knew about the 67 engine, but didn't volunteer much else. I didn't want to mention what I'd seen or thought I saw the night before, so the conversation became an awkward mix of hints and half sentences. Finally, I asked, Why didn't you drive it at night? There was a long silence. Then... Remember? You never drove that car at night. You always made an excuse. Why?
Who is Eric White? She'd bought the car from a guy named Eric, who worked as a bartender over at the Whiskey West Saloon. You should talk with him. I will. Goodbye, then. I rode my motorcycle over to the Whiskey West, near the railroad tracks on T Street. It was quiet on a weekday afternoon, only a few hard cases at the bar. I lucked out because I found Eric easily, cutting lemons at the end of the bar in the dim light.
He had a salt and pepper goatee and wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed skinny arms tattooed with images that looked as if they had shrunken with the arms. How is Emily? He asked after I explained who I was. Fine. She's in San Antonio now. And she unloaded the Falcon on you? Yeah. I watched him slice a lemon into wedges. About the title... No worries. Just a detail. I sold it to her for cash.
I'll see if I can find the pink slip. He stepped away to pour a bourbon for a customer, then returned to where I was sitting. Lemon wedges lined up. Anything else? Yeah. A couple things about the car. Like... Well, the engine was replaced. Of course. The original was water damaged. Water damaged? Hello? She didn't tell you? He grinned in a lopsided way and raised his hands up. Oh, not cool. I was straight with her about the history, totally upfront.
The history of the car? It didn't bother her. In fact, I think she liked it. I think there was a certain fascination there. He laughed when he saw my mystified expression. I don't know what on earth- Yeah, that's obvious, but- Listen, I got work to do. He piled the lemon wedges into a plastic container and wiped the knife on his jeans. But I think I know where that pink slip is. I'll meet you tomorrow. I've got some other stuff that you should see.
The afternoon shadows were deep and long when I returned home. The falcon sat in front of the house. I opened the door and searched it, carefully. Glove compartment, under the seats, everywhere. I found some maps, a few coins, dull, impersonal things. I saw something I hadn't noticed before. Around the door handle, on the passenger side, three deep scratches gouged the vinyl lining of the door. When night came, I didn't sleep very much.
I kept getting up and looking through the front window at the car. Very late, in the quiet, I got dressed and walked outside. The falcon brooded in the starlight. I'd found some of Emily's cigarettes in the nightstand next to the bed, and I brought them out. For the first time in years, I smoked. you owe me a buck thirty eric said when he met me at temple coffee in midtown the following afternoon i made some copies at king
He slapped some pages down on the table next to my coffee cup and sat down across from me. He was wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt and he smelled like turpentine. She should have told you. I looked at him blankly. I was missing work again, and the caffeine I had ingested was inadequate to overcome my sleep deprivation. Just looking at him made me crave a cigarette. He watched me, and to my surprise, I thought I saw a small shade of concern come to his thin, hard face. It's a suicide car.
After they pulled it out of the river, it was a mess, but basically intact. Somebody loved Falcons and replaced the engine in the upholstery. Since then, no one keeps that car very... He laid one bony hand on my shoulder and held out another piece of paper in the other. And here's the pink slip. We sat looking at each other until I realized he was finished speaking, but still waiting for his money. After Eric left, throwing me a final look of pity, I read the pages before me.
There were copies of receipts for work on the car, dating from 1987. Then there were five articles from the Sacramento Bee, dated November and December of 1986. The articles told me of Peter Mallory and Julie Capello. Troubled sweetheart. He was 24. She was 19. He loved old cars, owned a 65 Falcon. He also loved cocaine. A week before Thanksgiving, a lady was walking her dog on Brinkman Street, high up where the road curves along the cliffs of Fair Oaks, above the American River.
It was 10 o'clock on a clear night with a full moon. She heard an engine, loud and strong, and turned to see the falcon churning up the road. She told the sheriff's department that she knew the car was going far too fast to make the turn. From what you could tell, the driver didn't even try.
The car jumped the curve, roared across the open field, straight through the undergrowth. A couple of hundred feet below, the river was running high after a rainy autumn. The falcon hit the water, nose first. The note written by young Mallory and found in his apartment spoke of shame, addiction, and drug debt, and a suicide pact.
Follow-up articles in the Bee tracked the aftermath of the tragedy. For Mallory was no ordinary drug-addled loser. He was the son of a state senator. There were photos of a double funeral. I read the articles through twice. And then again. My stomach felt queasy. My head throbbed. What a sad, depressing story. Two foolish kids, having a tough time, driven to the point of surrender. I sat and cradled my empty, cold coffee cup. Darkness had fallen when I left the cafe.
My cell phone rang, making me jump as I approached the Falcon. I'd been watching, almost without realizing it, for any movement or shadow as I walked towards the car, my nerves on edge. When I answered the call, I heard Eric's voice over the sounds of the saloon. There's something else I should tell you about that car. I wasn't going to mention it, but I decided that...
Go ahead. I was standing next to the driver's door, looking into the Falcon's interior through the windshield. Maybe it was nothing, but not long before I sold the car to Emily, I was driving home from a park. She screamed. She started twisting about like she'd gone crazy, terrified. She wouldn't stop until I pulled over. Yeah? Well, she said that something had grabbed her. She accused me. She had scratches on her-
Weird? I never touched her. We hung up. I got in the car. I set the pages Eric had given me on the front seat beside me, in the shadows. I turned the ignition and started the engine. It would take me ten minutes to drive home. I was very tired, drained from my lack of sleep, my broken heart, and the odd obsession with the car. And now I was weighed down with the story of Peter and Julie riding in a suicide car.
I tried to ignore the sense of dread that rose around me as I pulled out, the sense of fear that made me spin my head to look in the back seat more than once, that made me afraid to look in the rearview mirror. that made me keep eyeing the empty space beside me where a passenger would sit. Nothing happened until I turned left onto Broadway. The pages sitting by my side shifted. I was looking forward, driving, but I saw movement at the edge of my vision.
My initial thought was that they slid with the momentum of the car as it made the turn. But then they leaped forward, off the seat, and onto the floorboard. just exactly as if they had been pushed. Just then, I felt something strike my shoulder on my right side, just exactly as if someone was sitting beside me and leaned into me.
I barely kept control of the car. Somehow I finished the turn, though I jerked the wheel over. There was no car beside me, luckily, and I made the first right turn that I could, breaking shakily to a stop. I jumped out of the car and stood in the street, my left hand grasping my right shoulder, my breathing wild.
It took every last ounce of will to climb back in that car for the 15 seconds it took to park it legally. Having something bump your shoulder when you know nothing is there is not pleasant. Not at all. I walked home. The next morning I begged off work again. The boss started yelling and fired me over the phone. I didn't much care. I got dressed and walked to the Falcon. Then I drove to the Sheriff's Department.
A helpful clerk rewarded my patience and persistence. They charged me a buck a page, but I got a copy of the sheriff's report on the accident. I read it carefully. Peter Mallory and Julie Capello. dead when they were pulled from the car. The doors were locked from the inside. The windows rolled up. It must have taken a long time for the car to fill with water.
Time for a conversation. Time to think about the soft joys of life. Time to regret a foolish decision as the cold water poured in through the gaps and cracks. The car sank and shifted in the current. He had alcohol in his system, but no drugs. She was clean. How is it possible that they could have just sat there, waiting, the water rising over their legs, their chests, their faces?
The report gave me another name. Allison Harper. The lady walking her dog, who called the sheriff's office from her home in the cliffside neighborhood after she watched a vintage Ford drive straight over a cliff. It was still daylight when I drove to Fair Oaks. I knew it was a long shot, but as I got close, I could tell it was a neighborhood where people tended to plant themselves and stay put. Elegant ranch-style homes. I parked the Falcon in front of the address listed in the report.
A small lady with blue eyes answered the door, opening it only a crack. Two yapping Yorkshire terriers scratched and snuffled and yipped at her feet. I had the sheriff's report in my hand and tried to explain myself. She looked past me and saw the car. Her eyes widened, and her expression changed from distrust to curiosity as she swung the door wide open. Allison, for I knew it was her by her actions, strode out of the house, stepped off the walk, and was halfway across the lawn when she said,
That's the car? Yes, that's the car. The terriers sniffed at my shoes as I followed her onto her front lawn. She reached out and I handed her the report. A pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Her white hair was wrapped in a blue scarf, and she wore a pink sweater, frayed at the sleeves and the neckline. As she read the report, a small smile crept onto her face. They left a few things out, didn't they? She stabbed at the top of the report with a fingernail. See this?
I tried to look past her finger. It's dated the 19th, two days later. I stared at her, saying nothing. So they could fix it. The terriers were wandering about the lawn, bored with my shoes. Fix what? Allison lowered the report and looked into my face. She was screaming, you see, the girl in the passenger seat. I could hear her above the engine screaming in fear, and I think I caught a glimpse of her face.
It was a long time ago, and it happened very quickly, and it was dark, of course, but I remember the impression I had of a face absolutely terrified. Like that painting by Munch, and I told them. That's not mentioned at all. It was past midnight when they pulled the car out of the river. I was curious, so I went down to see, and I watched them wench it out, watched them smash the window to get inside. I saw the bodies when they pulled them out.
I looked from Allison's eager face to the Falcon, imagining the scene. The water-filled car. The taut winch line. The dead inside. The deputies fumbling at the handles of the locked doors. yeah the girl she had her her hands tied behind her behind her back Allison rounded up the dogs and invited me in. She made tea and served me lemon cookies on a round kitchen table covered with a macrame tablecloth. The terriers nuzzled my legs and circled for dropped crumbs.
So there was a cover of... After all these years... It's hard to understand why it mattered or why anyone bothered. But the boy's father was important in thought. He had a political future, I suppose. See, a family tragedy caused by a drug addiction must have been thought less scandalous than a... slaying. Maybe there is a sad romantic notion associated with a suicide pact that is not associated with a cold-blooded and cruel murder. Their funerals were together. Oh, that poor girl.
When Allison shut the door behind me, I realized that the day had ended and night had returned. I walked out to the Falcon and climbed inside. It was so still, I could hear crickets. I drove slowly down to the intersection with Brinkman. I suppose you would say I had a choice then, but I'm not sure I did. I suppose I could have turned right and gone down the hill, but I didn't. Thinking back, I'm not sure I was really in control. I turned left toward the curve and the cliff.
I remember having the impression how little the street had changed, and then realizing, with an increasing panic, that I had never been on this street before. But the houses, their shapes and sizes, the gaps in the vegetation, and the contour of the road were all familiar. The houses ended, and the curve at the top of the hill, where the road turned east along the cliff, approached. My foot snapped down, and the falcon surged forward, gaining speed.
Bitter dream. I couldn't control the car. I simply rode, a terrified spectator. I saw the curve coming toward me as the speed increased. I couldn't turn the steering wheel. Everything was happening as it should. the shadowed wave of inevitability driving it. The car jumped the curb, bouncing me into the roof, and the wheels churned in the dirt, propelling the vehicle toward the point where the land ended and empty space began. A roar of noise sounded in my head.
even than the engine, more even than the scream. With a supreme, blessed effort, I ripped my hands from the frozen wheel and turned enough to find the door handle. I pulled with everything I had and threw myself against the door. It sprang open, and I hit the ground, rolling away from the car. Then, like a nightmare suddenly run its course, the falcon quickly slowed and came to a stop, ten feet from the edge of the cliff.
The headlights shone out through the swirling dust, out over the river, off into the night. Without someone inside, there was no point in going over, was there? I lay in the dirt, watching the Falcon, listening to the warm hum of the motor idling as it waited for me to return. The tow truck guy thought I was nuts. The car had a flat tire, but was otherwise fine. Still, I made him tow it to a shop before I would even go near it. It cost me plenty, but I didn't care.
so i do have a few recommendations first don't drive it at night Second, don't drive it near any cliffs. And don't ever go down Brinkman Street, okay? Other than that... Wait. Don't go! Did I mention that the price is negotiable? 1965 Ford Falcon was written by Tim Foley, with performances from Graham Rowat, Josh Rubino, Lauren Grace Thompson, and Sarah Golding.
If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out the rest of Tim Foley's work. Right now, Tim Foley's incredible collection of creepy stories, Tales Nocturnal, is being released by PS Publishing. Check out the show notes for a link to where you can purchase the book. The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.
What's this all about? What about nightmares? You are promised. We might have loved it. They can't tear out your soul anymore, Stuart. A rat. Ominous Thrill. A full-cast anthology of horror. Thriller is in suspense. I've done horrible things. Tell them what you did. I didn't do anything. To me. No! Character-giving tales of obsession. I'm no psycho. Spitting it on my door and streaming it on the internet. Revenge.
Don't mind if I sit here and watch the lights go out, do you? Don't leave me out here. We can't help her? We're leaving. I need the light. You want me to fall down the stairs? No. I want to push you. I love you so much. Ominous Thrill. Available now on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, and everywhere. Splash splits. Visa and OpenTable are dishing up something new. Get access to primetime dining reservations by adding your Visa Infinite Privilege Card.
to your OpenTable account. From there, you'll unlock first come, first serve spots at select top restaurants when booking through OpenTable. Learn more at opentable.ca forward slash Visa Dining. Someone Just Like You is a horror series. check the show notes for episode specific content warnings listener discretion is advised My fingers bend backward and beg me, please, let us write a story for them. Let us peel back their skin to reveal the horror lurking beneath.
Pain that feels all too familiar. Torment that hits too close to home. This isn't an alternate dimension. This isn't a liminal realm or a divergent timeline. These horrors are here and now. This could happen to... Someone just like you. The one thing I could probably live without, and I won the grand prize.
I enter a lot of competitions like these. The only other times I'd won something was five pounds off at a local restaurant and a raffle at a Christmas fair. I won a life-size chocolate Santa for that raffle. It was actually really nice, high-quality chocolate. I don't remember entering this paperclip competition, but me and my friends do dumb things when we're drunk sometimes. Entering a stupid competition didn't seem out of the realm of possibility.
It started when I received a single envelope full of paperclips. There were easily a hundred at least, probably more. You can imagine my confusion when I opened this first one. No letter inside, only paperclips. Red, green, blue, yellow, pink, black, white. It almost looked like something you'd sprinkle onto a cake as they poured down to my feet, pitter-pattering on the wooden hall floor.
I rolled my eyes and cleaned up. I figured an office had put the wrong address for a supply delivery. One shipment of a hundred paperclips is odd, but two? That's where I got suspicious. The second day had me question whether this was some form of prank. I was smarter this time, though. I recognized the weight and feel of the envelope. I recognized the outline of paperclips as I held it up to the light.
I didn't let them spill out at my feet, although my curiosity still had me open it to peek inside. You'd do the same. Is it really just paperclips? Yes. Yes it is. By the fifth day, I had stopped opening it. I just briefly hold it up to the light to confirm the outline looked like paperclips and then I'd toss it. I don't remember why I checked my spam folder in my emails, but when I took a look I immediately saw it.
Clippity-clop, you've won the Lifetime Paperclip Jackpot! Below is the rest of the email. Congratulations! You are the grand winner of our Lifetime Supply of Paperclips competition. From now on... you can proudly say goodbye to those chaotic loose papers and let our high-quality paper clips take over. No more sacrificing yourself to paper cuts.
And guess what? You didn't just win a box. You won an entire lifetime of daily paperclip surprises. You've really hit the jack clip. Starting from next week. you will receive a random amount of our finest, top-notch paperclips every single day. Just imagine the possibilities. Office organization. Creative paperclip sculptures. The list is never ending. With your new paperclip friends by your side, there's no end to the horizon of tidiness and creativity to the max.
Just like our paperclips. Durable. Strong. As we ship your first batch, let's get you started by sharing some mind-blowing paperclip fun facts. For example, did you know... I'll save you the fun facts section as it's not very fun. Although I did learn that they've been around since the 1800s. The only interesting thing that this email gave me was a company name, Clipagenic.
I promptly sent an email back asking that my prize be transferred to someone else. My exact words were, someone more in need of paperclips, although thinking about it, I'm not sure who that could possibly apply to. Spoiler alert, they did not reply and the envelopes kept on coming. Two weeks went by and I was still receiving paperclips. Six weeks went by, nothing changed.
A few weeks ago was a three-month mark, over 90 days of paperclips. Yes, I had considered selling them, but I really don't know how much money I could make. Also, yes, they even arrived on Sunday. I couldn't understand who was delivering these. I never caught them, although I assumed the person posting them had no association with the company themselves, so talking to them is never something I tempted to.
Around that three-month mark I was going through my normal daily routine. Make a cup of coffee, pick up the envelope from the hallway floor, hold it up against a light and toss it in the bin. Only this time, the light revealed the outline of one single paperclip and something else.
I had to admit, deep down, part of me was almost excited. A real-life plot twist? Something to spice up an otherwise mundane part of my day? I reached inside, pulling the mystery object out. What could they possibly have sent me? A severed finger. A dry, almost slightly green, severed finger. I'm not sure which happened first, my scream or dropping the finger to the floor. I noticed only then that the paperclip was lodged under the fingernail, piercing right through the flesh.
It was golden this time, a colour I had not been sent before. I'd like to say I stayed calm, but I didn't. I ran to the bathroom to throw up. I contacted the police and they took the finger and envelope away. I explained everything that I knew and showed them the email. They told me that they'd investigate. It's crazy, isn't it? One of the police officers began his thought to me. What? How dangerous simple production can be.
Some poor idiot has lost a finger over something as simple as a paperclip. You think it was an accident? I don't know what exactly I thought it was. A threat, maybe? I'm still not sure. Of course, probably someone in the production line packaging these things. Finger gets caught in the machinery. Oh no, whoops. Before you know it, the finger's lost. Weight of the finger makes the machine think the envelope is now full of paper.
lips and off it goes to your door. Somehow, a calm explanation of this situation actually helped me. It almost convinced me that it was just normal. I was assured, though, that the company was at fault for health and safety and that something would be done about this. A couple of weeks went by and the police hadn't contacted me with any new information.
The envelopes kept coming daily, but I was too afraid to open them, for fear of tossing away evidence, though I kept them piled up in the corner. As the pile grew taller, I decided to bite the bullet and open them, but not before carefully inspecting each one. My hands shaking, I held the first up to the light, and it was just full of paperclips.
Perhaps the incident really was a one-off, and the fault had been fixed. I held a few more up, and my heart almost skipped a beat when I found one with a solid shadow. No outline of paperclips. This envelope had a letter. I carefully opened it up and read. Dear valued customer. We would like to formally apologize for the incident that occurred recently. We understand that the events were likely traumatic. And whilst we may never make it right, we would like to offer you a one-time compensation.
Attached to this letter using one of our sturdy high-end paperclips, we have written a check for £2,000. We hope we can continue our partnership professionally. We understand you may want to cancel your lifetime supply of paperclips. Unfortunately, we must decline this request. We hope you understand. Clipagenics Customer Service Team No, I did not understand. Do you? Do you understand what the fuck they're talking about?
I contacted the police to update them, letting them know that I had received this message. They sent somebody to collect it. The following day, assuming all was well, I picked up the daily delivery from the floor. Before I had a chance to check it there was a knock at the door. I folded the envelope and put it in my back pocket. I opened the door and was surprised to see a man in a suit looking very concerned.
He wasted no time in getting to the point. Hello. We're relocating you. Pack your things and tell nobody. We have a temporary hotel book for you. My lack of response showed that I had many questions. Look, it's just precautionary. We can't find any evidence of a clipogenics ever existing. And what? And the finger matched the DNA of a recent assumed suicide.
I had a feeling there was more. Unfortunately his next sentence confirmed that. The person in question was found to have also won the competition. I did not need telling twice. I got my essentials packed and was at the hotel in less than 90 minutes. It was only in the next town over which I found odd, yet comforted that I was still so close to home.
After the man left and I was left with my own thoughts, I was surprised at how quiet my head was. I was just content. I wasn't happy or sad or scared. I was just existing. It took about an hour before I remembered the envelope in my back pocket. I held it up to the light and knew from the resulting darkness that this contained another letter.
I hesitantly opened it, peeking inside to check for hidden surprises. Upon taking it out, I thought it to be a blank piece of paper. It seemed entirely empty. until I unfolded it to reveal the few words printed upon this letter. Dear valued customer, Suicides don't lose fingers. The police don't wear suits. The world spun. The world crumbled. The world felt like it no longer existed. Then all at once reality came back to me as I felt a rush of anxiety-driven energy.
I paced back and forth in the limited space I had weighing up my options and trying to come up with a plan. Could I leave? I was probably being watched. Could I contact the police? I certainly no longer felt comfortable doing so. Could I talk to my friends or family? The last thing I wanted to do was to put them in danger. I knew I had to do one of these three options and opted for the first. It was still bright out, surely I'd be safe in Crown.
So that's exactly what I did. I stuck to busy areas and travelled across the country using as many different types of public transportation as I could. I didn't stop until night fell. I booked a new hotel under a fake name and paid in cash. I rested surprisingly well that night. My sleep was interrupted at around 7am to knocking at the door. No, thank you. I sleepily yelled at what I assumed to be room search.
Something arrived at reception for you I'll slide it under the door A white envelope emerged through the crack under the door I wanted to stay away from it but I knew that being unaware of the contents would scare me more than anything else. Feeling my heart pounding through my chest, I reached for the envelope, noticing a thick object within. Another finger? No, a letter, this time with a vial of liquid and two golden paperclips.
Dear valued customer, we're glad you're settling in well to your new surroundings. Sorry for the little show. We needed to assure that you'd get as far away from your hometown as possible. Your true prize isn't the paperclips. That would be mundane. No, your true prize... is immortality. Paperclips are beautiful, aren't they? Connecting paper to paper as the universe connects life to life.
And as the flow of life continues, it has connected us to you. The chain of our will continues, as the chain of paperclips continues with you. The vial within has a unique purpose. It will kill you and help you live all at the same time. You do understand, don't you? Drink the vial and stab a paperclip into yourself. You will slowly drift away for a moment, but you will stay connected to the universe.
You must. You will awaken in your new body. One of the many that we have cryogenically frozen here. It worked for me. You saw my finger. Every single paperclip we have sent you has had a purpose. Each has been blessed with a new connection for your new life. They have all been through your home. Many have touched your skin. And all have been held up to the light. Their blessings will reach you in your new life.
The green ones bring you wealth. The red ones bring you health. The blue ones bring you happiness. All you have to do is drink the vodka. Before the poison sets in, choose a paperclip. Your decision will always be the right... We know how your brain ticks. Every word we've ever written and every color we've ever chosen have all been designed to sway your decision in this very moment.
You'll fall asleep as a valued customer. But you will awaken as our valued employee. Clipogenics Customer Service Team. I am not letting them control my destiny. I will not sacrifice my life to their company to become one of their puppets to control. I know this company has a far greater reach than I first understood, so I might not be able to tell anybody. But I can tell everybody. I hope this post reaches their next big winner, and I hope they are as strong-willed as I am.
Paperclips was written by Ben Wooding and performed by David Ault and Josh Rubino, Jeremy Ellett and Ryan Philbrook. You're obviously loving someone just like you, but did you know that you could get bonus episodes? ad-free versions of existing episodes and early access to new episodes, all for as little as just $3 a month? Check out patreon.com slash goodpoint. That's patreon.com slash g-o-o.
d p o i n t e don't forget the e sign up for as little as three dollars one price for everyone three bucks gets you in no higher tiers or secret channels just three bucks keep this And since we just launched, you can say that you were there on the ground floor. Check out patreon.com slash goodpoint. That's patreon.com slash g-o-o-d-p-o-i-n-t-e. Don't forget the E. The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.
What's this all about? What about nightmares? You are promised. I love it. They can't tear out your soul anymore, Skyward. It's a rat. Ominous Thrill, a full-cast anthology of horror. thrillers and suspense. I've done horrible things. Tell them what you did. I didn't do anything. To me. No! Character-driven tales of obsession. I'm no psycho. I'm banging on my door and streaming it on the internet. Revenge.
Don't mind if I sit here and watch the lights go out, do you? The unexplained. Don't leave me out here. We can't help her? We're leaving. I need the light. You want me to fall down the stairs? No. I want to push you. I love you so much. Ominous Thrill
And that's our show. Be sure to go to the Sonic Society website to find this week's features and links to them. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. But if you were in Ethics Town last week... Yes, and I got an Audioverse Award for that. And an Audioverse Award for that. Wow. And... That's right, we're headed to another show I performed in. Hold on. You're listening to a Sonic Cinema production.