The Gentleman From Hell |S1| Ep. 1

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of the Cold Sparrow mass disappearance of 1999. In a bizarre and chilling case that has perplexed authorities and experts for over two decades, the small country town of Cold Sparrow. experienced one of the largest mass disappearances in modern history, leaving behind only unanswered questions and a lingering sense of unease. Called Sparrow, once a quiet and unassuming town,

found itself at the center of global attention 24 years ago when every single one of its inhabitants vanished without a trace. Among them was its most conspicuous resident, billionaire Benjamin Veers. known for his eccentricities and reclusive lifestyle. The disappearance of Veers, along with the entire population, turned Cold Sparrow from a mere speck on the map to the subject of one of the most baffling mysteries of the world.

has ever seen. Despite extensive investigations, the authorities remain as baffled today as they were on the day the town's population disappeared over the years. Theories have ranged from cult activity to mass kidnapping, but none have brought investigators any closer to understanding what happened to the residents of Cold Sparrow. The case, which has seen numerous leads and tips over the years...

none of which have panned out, continues to be a source of speculation and intrigue. Experts in various fields have tried to piece together the puzzle, but the lack of evidence and the sheer implausibility of the situation have left even the most seasoned detectives and researchers at a loss. As the years have passed, the story of Cold Sparrow has become something of a legend. A modern day mystery that challenges our understanding of what is possible.

The disappearance of an entire town, especially one with a figure as enigmatic as Benjamin Veers, remains a haunting reminder of the limits of our knowledge and the enduring power of the unknown.

False door was right where Phyllis said it would be. The vault it revealed was massive. Felt with all sorts of books, cassettes, journals, even what looked like some sketchbooks. This... was exactly the motherlode we were looking for. We'd traveled a long road to get here, the Villa's mansion. Between this moment and the start of the whole thing were a ton of false starts and dead ends, but we'd soldier through it all.

Primarily because the money was good and the story was compelling, which for me is a prerequisite for taking the job. It's hard to pay attention to details when the story's a snoozer. And I was getting up in age, so I needed to keep things interesting. When I sorted to the spoils, I couldn't help but side-eye the surroundings. The place had been abandoned for a while, but not long enough to take a look of a right and proper haunted mansion. And mansion...

was an understatement for the place, which is more on the order of a castle than anything else. Yet even though the aesthetic wasn't sufficiently morose to compel a belief in ghosts, there was something to the sprawl of the interior. Behind it, maybe. that despite its size, it was keeping a secret even bigger than itself.

For the first time in a string of Blue Mondays, I was about to know something in the mind of the guy I'd gone through so much trouble to find. I sifted through stacks of media looking for something suitable for a proper introduction. It took me a bit, but at least some of the stuff was dated. I eventually came to a journal mart, a brand new chapter.

According to the date, it should have been written around the same time Ben inherited his father's wealth, which was a blind spot I was looking to clear up, so perfect place to start. The first of any consequence. Despite embracing risks and leveraging what I believe to be my talents, my achievements were no greater than those of someone who had spent 35 years idly lying down.

The only distinction between such a person and me was my persistent illusion of hope. I was certain that with enough grit, a fleeting opportunity, or perhaps a stroke of luck, My moment would come, but it never did. I was a writer without a single published work, a man whose name faded from memory before it could ever matter. In the end, I was nothing more than static, the white noise of flesh, blood, and bone. Thirty years of life, and my efforts barely caused a ripple.

followed by the still waters of a sea I never truly dared to cross.

The letter had lingered on my counter for some time, forgotten in a haze of neglect. I usually tossed my mail without a second glance. No news was good news. even if it meant erasing the news altogether. This letter, though, caught my eye. It came from Charlie Prist, Esquire, which almost guaranteed it was a bill. But what finally pushed me to open it was the handwritten address, a personal touch that hinted at either a crafty or cash-strapped lawyer.

The letter read, Dear Benjamin, I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to share some important and unexpected news regarding your family. which I understand may be difficult to receive. Regrettably, your father, Edward, has recently passed away. Time often brings changes we cannot foresee. and in the wake of his passing, I must inform you that he has named you the sole beneficiary of his estate, which includes a considerable fortune.

Given the estrangement in your relationship, I realize this news may stir a range of emotions. You may need time to process not only his death, but also this sudden change in your circumstances. It's my hope that this inheritance might serve as an opportunity to reconnect with a part of your father's legacy. and offer a chance for reflection or healing. As the executor of his will, I'm here to guide you through the legal process at a pace that feels right for you.

If you'd like to discuss the details, we can arrange a meeting or a phone call, whichever suits you best. Take all the time you need, and know that I'm here to support you however I can. Sincerely, Charlie Prist Hello, sir. Can I help you? Yes, my name is Benjamin Veers. I called earlier. Yes, of course. Please head right through that door. Mr. Prist is waiting for you. Thank you very much.

Mr. Prist? I'm Benjamin Veers. We spoke on the phone. Well, hello, Benjamin. Please come right in and take a seat, won't you? Thank you very much. Please, call me Charlie. You know I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look just like your father, right down to the stubble and spectacles. I don't mind at all, because I can't say if that's a good or bad observation.

You see, I didn't really know the man, to be quite honest. Well, to be equally honest, I didn't even know the old so-and-so had a son, so we're even. So, um... What are the formalities in a situation like this? Ah, just some signatures, here and there. Well, that seems easy enough. There are a few things, though. Just stipulations that are odd, but... By no means troublesome. Considering. Considering. Considering. After this, you're damn near the richest man in the county, if not the state.

Your father was a bit of a eccentric, I guess. He wanted to make sure you stayed in the house. You know, lived where he lived. He insisted upon it in several places throughout the will. Well, there's no problems there. I fully intend on moving into the house. Oh, well, that's easy enough then. I just thought, well, with the accent and all. I left England some time ago. I, um...

came here for my schooling. Well, there you have it, then. The only other thing was that you listened to, uh, in private, an audio tape that your father left for you. I take it that's not customary to the traditional process. Not really, but I've estranged your requests. Anyway, I'm ready to room for you shortly after you phone, so once we're all done with crossing T's and dotting I's, I'll get you right in there. That sounds fine. Well then, let's get down to business.

After you turn the player on, you can have a seat right over there on the couch. I'll be in my office when you finish. Would you like a drink or anything while you listen? No, no, that's very kind of you, but... Would you mind terribly if I smoked while I listened? Not at all, sir. Smoking myself. That's why all the fire detectives have expired batteries. Hmm. Well, I'll, um... See you shortly then. Yes, sir.

It didn't take long for the lawyer to start cozying up to me, no doubt hoping I'd secure his services, as my father had. But, to be quite honest, I was as ignorant of legal formalities as I was of opulence. But I suppose I'd learn my way about both in time. There was an ominous quality to the moment, waiting to hear my father's voice for the first time. I didn't want to make a moment out of it, so I simply pushed play on the machine and took my seat upon the sofa, cigarette in hand.

have every right to your apathy and or dislike of me, and the fortune I am bequeathing to you. All, no doubt, have been well earned. You should be aware that, while you know nothing of me, I have been watching you. I am aware of your trials. It has pained me to leave you to them. Unfortified by the good fortune, I have known my entire life. But I believe wealth is no healthy means by which to come into the world.

I speak from experience, certainly. No good has come from my fortune. Only the cloistered obsessions of the idle rich, the doldrums of a will unchallenged. But you, my boy, you have vision and the will to see it done. And now you have the means. There are no more limitations, Benjamin. Save this. You must stay in the house for at least one year. There are secrets you must learn so that, in time, you will understand.

As I listened to the voice of my dead father, I began to feel strange, mildly dizzy. And there was something else too, in the background of the recording. A murmuring. even a chanting, barely perceptible. I assumed it to be an artifact of vintage technology. But on this point, we share an experience. A clinical desire to understand it all, if only to dispel the dread of not knowing. Your most recent manuscript, Beneath It All.

A search for answers. Reads as if a page torn from my very mind. Though after inspecting it, I can see that your mind is by far the keener between us. Still, I can see that my obsessions have become you as well. But perhaps, unlike myself... You will acquire some peace with them by satisfying them once and for all. This, my lost son, is my gift to you. The possibility of final clarity. I wish you well on the rest of your journey. For if you are listening to this, mine has at last come to an end.

Farewell, Benjamin. Perhaps we will meet again in a world more welcoming than this one.

The first time I'd ever heard my father's voice, and all he really had to say to me was, Goodbye. what you found. About a metric ton of Ben's personal journals, all sorts of cassettes and whatnot. Just what Phyllis said they'd be. Going through all this stuff's gonna take forever. How's the city look?

You know, you've seen one ghost town, you've seen them all. Though, the place does look pretty good for being abandoned as long as it has. By the way, I found the spot where the FBI set up shop while they collected evidence. Probably been gone through by every thrill-seeker and legend-tripper within a hundred miles of here. I doubt there's anything left to find. Yeah, but it does like to check. You never know.

Not like someone couldn't drop evidence on their way out of a crime scene. Jesus Mace, am I ever going to hear the end of that? And I wonder who it was that caught Laszlo. You or me? Yeah, yeah, I never doubted your business acumen for a second. Anyway, I'm gonna head out and set up the generator. Keep an eye out for Phyllis. I told her to meet us at the mansion, but the city's set up like a maze. I might have even had to consult the map a few times myself to find the place.

Pick up. Pick up. Hello. You've reached Leon Oates of Apex Intelligence Solutions. I'm currently unavailable. but please leave a callback number and a brief message, and I'll be sure to return your call. Thank you. It's me, Phyllis. I must have turned down the wrong road. I can't be more than a few minutes away from you two. I'm just outside of Cold Sparrow, somewhere in the Pitchpot Woods. Call me back as soon as you get this.

I don't care if I quit. If I'm going to be lost in the woods, I'm at least going to have a cigarette. Hurry up, boys. Call me back, won't you? Is... someone... out there? the message. Reception is garbage out here. So I'm realizing that, and once you turn on to Pitch Point Drive, there's no online maps of these other roads. Thus... I'm afraid I have no idea where I am. Don't sweat it, Phil. I'll find you soon enough. And is that a cig I hear you puffing on?

I'm very particular about how I choose to quit things. Now, please, just hurry up and come get me, won't you? Sure thing. Be there in a... Leon? Damn. lousy service. Phyllis, my dear. I've a feeling you're not going to enjoy this one.

Come on, come on, you... That should do it. Hello, water and power. got herself lost in the woods apparently zigged when she should have zagged headed out to bring her in now so much for being psychic i got the journey up and running so i'll be inside when you get back Sure thing. Be back in just a few.

The three of us have worked a lot of cases together, but nothing like this one. You generally don't see an entire ton of people go missing. Not since the last colony of Roanoke, at any rate. Anyway, we were only being paid to hunt for the one guy. The rich one. Ben Veers. After the snippet I'd read from one of his hidden journals, it was about time I heard the guy's actual voice. The mini cassettes were no particular order, so I just swiped the first one that caught my eye. It was titled...

Existential obsessive. Loneliness is the inordinate sum of absences one experiences as an outlier. Trust, camaraderie, or even truth. I am alone because I cannot make peace with my own ignorance. The ignorance that all of us must reckon and eventually yield to. I have not, because I cannot. My stubbornness is inscribed upon my very genes, or so current science would have us all believe. Disorder, they say.

My need to know more than anyone could, or probably should for that matter. One medicine after the next, and still that yawning vacancy. I must know why. Where do we come from? Why are we even here? Where will we go when the sun ceases to rise? Is there a heaven? Or, God forbid, a hell? The Gentleman from Hell is a Maltopia production. Today's episode was written by Mark Anzalone and performed by Stephen Zivik, Sam Stark, Aubrey Eckers, and Mark Anzalone.

Sound editing was completed by Stephen Anzalone. And script editing was conducted by Walker Kornfeld. Be sure to rate and review us on iTunes, Spotify, or your favorite podcast platform. and follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter at Maltopia. If you want unique art and animations of Maltopia's stories, visit our YouTube page or click on the link in the show notes.

And for more exclusive content, such as additional lore, stories, and art, be sure to check out our Patreon at www.patreon.com forward slash Maltopia. ACAST powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend. Unless you've been living in a cave or counting your breaths at a silent retreat for the last decade, you may have noticed that the world is burning down around you. In fact, you may start to believe that the ancient gods are cursing you and your fellow humans.

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