We open on a pristine, tree lined avenue of some affluent North American suburb as a paper boy cycles merrily along, casually tossing papers towards the grand mansion houses that line the street. The camera pans to the left, centering on one such mansion. It's perfectly manicured front lawn and grand facade, offering up a vision of wealthy domestic perfection. But as we move in closer beyond the facade, we find a
very different story. In an upstairs bathroom of a draggled and hairsuit, Henry Morrison, early forties and in casual dress, stands at the sink, staring intensely into the mirror, his face covered in blood. After removing a pressed and cleaned suit from a pre prepared suitcase, he steps into the shower and washes the blood from his face before shaving his beard and trimming his hair. Moments later, he stands once again in front of the mirror, the image of
a calm go getting professional. Soon, the smartly dressed Henry, now with a briefcase in his hand, is walking down the stairs, pasted a blood stained wall covered in happy family portraits of Henry with his wife and kids, Finally, as he steps down into a large entry hall, stopping calmly to right and knocked over chair, we see the true horror within, ignored by Henry as he makes his
way to the front door. The floor of the living room behind is littered with the blood and bodies of those same wife and children, paying no attention to the dead, bloodied body of a young girl clutching a teddy bear in the foreground. Henry lets himself out and closes the door behind him. Outside he breaks into a whistle and collects the paper from the lawn, then steps into the
quiet of the street and disappears up the road. The opening scene of Joseph Ruben's nineteen eighty seventh film The Stepfather is widely considered one of the most effective and shocking in cinematic history. Sadly, it is also loosely based on a true story. In nineteen seventy one, John Liszt was a well respected father of three and churchgoing resident in the town of Westfield in New Jersey, USA, with a well paid job at City Bank and a mansion
on the hill to go with it. In November of that year, however, unbeknownst to his family, List had been laid off and found himself heavily in debt after surreptitiously skimming money from his elderly mother's credit card to pay the bills. Liszt's reaction to his predicament, in an all too common act perpetrated by men in similar positions, was to murder his entire family rather than revealed to them the truth of it all, believing the shame of it
would have been too much for them to bear. After carefully lying the bodies down together, he made arrangements to stop the milk and the mail, then packed a bag
and fled. Understandably for a small town like Westfield, which prided itself on its reputation as one of the safest towns in America, the shock of John lists crimes a violent reminder that all is never quite as it seems, opened a chasm of horror that took many years to repair, but as so often happens, no doubt, aided by the old Liszt family home being mysteriously burned down the following year.
The events were eventually expunged from the collective memory and passed off as an aberration until it was as if they had never happened at all, and before too long, the illusion of pretty perfection was soon restored to the small but cultured town. Forty years later, however, as the summer of two and fourteen approached, all that was about to change. You're listening to Unexplained and I'm Richard McClane Smith.
Located just twenty miles west of Manhattan, the leafy town of Westfield, described by the New York Times as wheret small town meets urban, was first established in seventeen twenty as a small village enclave of the much larger Elizabethtown,
first founded by English settlers in sixteen sixty four. Today, Westfield, comprised roughly of thirty thousand residents, is considered among the most wealthy in all of the United States, with average household income coming in at just under two hundred thousand
dollars per annum. Chances of becoming a victim of violent crime in the town are listed by the website neighborhood scout dot com as being one in six thousand and eighty seven, compared say, to the town of Bessemer on the outskirts of Birmingham, Alabama, which the site lists as being one in thirty four, all of which made it the perfect location for Derrick and Maria Broadus, who a few years previously had joined the increasing number of affluent
young families relocating to the town as they looked to escape the big city for a quieter life. In two thousand and fourteen, now with three younger children in tow, they were hoping to upsize, and after months of searching,
had finally found everything they were looking for. Built in nineteen o five, at almost four thousand square feet of prime real estate, six to five seven Boulevard was located in a neighborhood described by local paper The Westfield Leader as one of the most beautiful in all the town.
With its grand colonnaded front porch and imposing facade, and boasting six bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms, it was every inch the dream home, and on June second, two thousand and fourteen, after a short bidding war, it was all theirs sold for just over one point three million dollars. Eager to move in and begin their new life on Boulevard, the Broadesses immediately set about renovating the property,
employing construction workers to help. On June fifth, however, Derek broadus was at the property alone, having decided to carry out some light redecorating himself after work. It had just gone ten pm when Derek finished up and wandered out into the front porch and took a moment in the warm summer air to enjoy the serenity of his new surroundings as he pictured himself waving neighborly helloes to passers by, and his wife and kids welcoming him home from work.
There was just one last thing to do before heading back to the old house. Reaching into the mailbox, he found the usual bits of junk mail and some post for the previous owner, but then also something else, a peculiar looking letter made out to the new owner, with curiously no return address. Derek examined the thick black lettering for a moment and then opened the envelope. The letter was dated June fourth, having been written before the sale
of the house had even been made public. Dearest new neighbor at six five seven Boulevard, it began, allow me to welcome you to the neighborhood. How did you end up here? Did six five seven call to you with its force within the house has been the subject of my family for decades now, and as it approaches it's a hundredth and tenth birthday, I have been put in charge of watching and waiting for its second coming. My grandfather watched the house in the nineteen twenties, and my
father in the nineteen sixties. It is now my time, it continued. Do you know the history of the house? Do you know what lies within the walls? Why are you here? I will find out. I see already that you have flooded it with contractors so that you can destroy the house as it was supposed to be. You don't want to make six five seven Boulevard unhappy. You have children. I have seen them so far. I think there are three that I have counted. Are there more on the way? I asked the woods to bring me
young blood, and it looks like they listened. Was your old house too small for the growing family? Or was it agreed to bring me your children? Once I know their names, I will call to them and draw them to me. Who am I? There are hundreds and hundreds of cars that drive by the house each day. Maybe I am in one. Look at all the windows you
can see from six to five seven Boulevard. Maybe I am in one look out any of the many windows and six five seven Boulevard at all the people who strolled by each day, Maybe I am one of them. The boulevard used to be the street to live on. You made it if you lived on the boulevard. Welcome, friends, Welcome,
Let the party begin, signed the watcher. Derek stood for a moment in a complete state of shock, then, remembering where he was, looked toward the street, scanning hurriedly for any sign of a figure lurking behind a tree or a face at the window of the houses opposite. Seeing nothing, he dashed straight back inside, locking the door behind him, then switched off every light in the house, before returning to the window to check on the street as he
dialed nine one. The officer arriving soon after, wandered aloud if Derek had any idea why anyone would do such a thing. Did he have any enemies, perhaps that he was aware thereof. Derek couldn't think of anyone. After suggesting that he moved any construction equipment inside lest someone tried to throw it through a window, the officer could offer a little else than to suggest that Derek remained vigilant
and to let them know if anything else occurred. That night, as he made his way back to his family, Derek went through all the possibilities as to what this could be. A prank by kids, a disgruntled former owner, or was it perhaps even neighbors who had missed out on purchasing the place themselves. Though he hadn't wanted to worry Maria,
there would be no hiding this from her. That night, the couple did their best to reassure themselves that it wasn't anything to worry about, but couldn't help being drawn to one line in particular. They read it again. I asked the Woods to bring me young blood, and it looks like they listened. The Woods were the former owners of the house. Was it possible that they were already aware of this before they sold it? The couple emailed
John and Andrea Woods that night. The next morning, Andrea replied though they had experienced nothing remotely like it in the twenty three years they had lived at the property, she claimed. They did, however, receive a similar letter a
week before they sold the house to the Broadestes. The letter, also signed off by the watcher, had made it clear that whoever it was was well aware that a new family would soon be moving in and that the watcher believed themselves to be the true owners of six five seven Boulevard. Stunned and angered by the revelation, with the sale having already gone through, there was little option but to do what they could to find the culprit and
nip the whole thing in the bud. Later that day, on Maria's insistence, Andrea and John Wood drove down from their new home in Massachusetts to accompany her to the Westfield Police Department. Detective Leonard Lugo, who was assigned to the case, offered to do whatever he could to look into it, but, just as the officer had explained the previous night, in the meantime, with little else to go on, it was a case of doing their best to ignore
it and looking out for any other suspicious activity. Just as Andrea had suggested in her earlier email, Lugo also speculated that the culprit could well be one of their new neighbors. Maria did her best not to seem too awkward as she made small talk with the other guests, whilst also keeping an eye on her three young children, who were busy making the most of the spacious garden.
Under any normal circumstances, receiving an invitation to a neighbor's barbecue would have been something to celebrate, a perfect reflection of the general sense of benevolence they had first associated with the area. Now, however, despite their host's obviously good intentions, it had become little more than an elaborate lineup, as
the broadestes found themselves treating everyone with suspicion. It didn't help that the family was still to move into the property, but it was impossible to ignore the sense conjured up by the anonymous letter that they were still very much outsiders here, something which was especially hard for Maria, who had grown up in the town across the other side
of the garden. Deryck was on high alert when he soon found himself talking to John Schmidt of two doors down from six five seven, who inquired if Deryck had yet to have a chance to meet the Langfords who lived in the property between them. As revealed in an article written by Reeves Weedermam for the New Yorker magazine, the house was occupied by ninety year old family matriarch Peggy Langford, along with a number of her children, who were all in their sixties, one of whom Michael, was
described by Schmidt as somewhat of a reclusive character. The following day, after Derrick informed Detective Lugo about his conversation with Schmidt, Michael Langford was brought in for questioning. However, after denying or knowledge of the letters, he was promptly released. Despite letting him go, Lugo informed the Broadestes that they
were unlikely to be receiving any more letters. Though by no means conclusive, the detective's assessment offered some relief, and as the days went by, the Broadestes tried to focus their energy on completing renovations so they could finally move in to their new home. And so it was with a cautious optimism that Maria arrived at the house on June nineteenth to check on the progress of the works and to pick up any mail. But as she pulled the jumble of letters from the mailbox, Maria's heart sunk.
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Unexplained podcast today to get started. That's tela DC dot com slash Unexplained podcast. This time I am addressed directly to a mister and missus Braddyth. It read welcome again to your new home at six five seven Boulevard. The workers have been busy and I have been watching you unload castles of your personal belongings. The dumpster is a nice touch. Have they found what is in the walls, Yet in time they will. I am pleased to know your names now, and the names of the young blood
you have brought to me. You certainly say their names often. Having claimed to have seen one of the daughters using an easel on the back porch, the Watcher asked, is she the artist in the family? It has been years and years since the young blood ruled the hallways of the house. Have you found all of the secrets it holds? Yet? Will the young blood play in the basement or are they too afraid to go down there alone? I would be very afraid if I were them. It is far
away from the rest of the house. If you were upstairs, you would never hear them scream. Who has the bedrooms facing the street? I'll know as soon as you move in. It will help me to know who is in which bedroom. Then I can plan better. Who am I? I am the Watcher and have been in control of six five seven Boulevard for the better part of two decades. Now. The Woods family turned it over to you. It was their time to move on and kindly sold it when I asked them to. I passed by many times a day.
Six five seven Boulevard is my job, my life, my obsession, and now you are too. Bradas's family, Welcome to the product of your greed. Greed is what brought the past three families to six five seven Boulevard, and now it has brought you to me. Have a happy moving in day. You know I will be watching. The following day, Derek and Maria led Detective Lugo through to the back porch and pointed out the easel that was still set up there.
Lugo looked out to the garden beyond, searching for any clear sight lines from the neighboring properties, since no one could have seen their daughter painting from the street, either the watcher lived directly next door or behind the house, or they had walked up off the street and observed
her while hiding in the garden. Once again, however, Lugo had nothing but circumstantial evidence to go on, and though they had by then established that the letters were being rooted through a northern New Jersey distribution center, there was no way to pinpoint the culprit through the letters alone. Frustrated by the police response, the Broadestis took matters into their own hands. Webcams were installed and diagrams drawn up outlining which of their neighbors could possibly have seen or
heard the various incidences referred to in the letters. Some nights, Deryck would just sit alone in the house, surveying the street of any sign of the enigmatic Watcher. On July eighteenth, a third letter arrived. Six five seven Boulevard is turning on me. It is coming after me. I don't understand why. What spell did you cast on it? It used to be my friend, and now it is my enemy. I am in charge of six five seven Boulevard. It is
not in charge of me. I will be patient and wait for this to pass and for you to bring the young blood back to me. Six five seven Boulevard needs young blood. It needs you come back. Let the young blood play again like I once did. Let the young blood sleep in sixty five seven Boulevard. Stop changing it and let it alone. It cries for the past and what used to be in the time when I
roamed its halls. The nineteen sixties were a good time for six five seven Boulevard, when I ran from room to room imagining the life with the rich occupants there. The house was full of life and young blood. Then it got old, and so did my father. But he kept watching until the day he died. And now I watch and wait for the day when the young blood
will be mine again. With the arrival of the third letter, it was clear that the watcher was not about to go quietly, so the Broadestes decided it was time to take their investigation to the next level. They began by
hiring a former FBI agent to analyze the letters. Though such an approach is by no means concrete, their assessment presented two intriguing notions, one that the writer was more likely to be female or at least not aggressively masculine, due to the general inoffensiveness of the language, and the other being that they were not merely a prankster, but someone with a genuine sense of resentment toward the new owners.
A private detective was also hired, but proved ultimately ineffective, and all the while, the couple found themselves in an increasingly precarious position. Having already sold their current home, they had to decide whether to bite the literary bullet and move in to their new home or seek alternative accommodation.
In the end, being too afraid to risk their children's safety, and crippled by the pressure of keeping the truth about the letters from their neighbors, they decided eventually to forego the switch to six five seven and moved in with Maria's parents instead. In early December, having run out of leads, Detective Lugo informed them that the police were ending their investigation by the end of the year. Seeing no other option, the couple made up their minds to sell the house
and be done with it all. In February two thousand and fifteen, six to five seven Boulevard was put back on the market for an asking price just short of one point five million dollars, over a hundred thousand more than the broadestes had originally bought it, taking into account the recent renovations. Having felt lied to in the original sale, the couple also decided to be completely open about the sinister letters to any prospective buyers. Only there was one problem.
Rumors about the letters had already begun to circulate. Within three months, the couple had dropped the asking price by a quarter of a million dollars, but it was to no avail. In the end, there was no need to disclose the letters because nobody made an offer and the house was taken off the market. Having continued to make mortgage payments, not to mention spending thousands of pounds and property taxes for a house they didn't want. The couple
reached their last resort in June twenty fifteen. They filed a legal complaint against the former owners for failure to disclose their awareness of the watcher. Since all such legal disputes become a matter of public record once they are filed, it wasn't long before the extraordinary story of the Westfield Watcher was picked up by the press and soon after became international news as the Broadesses and Woods prepared to
battle it out in court. The sudden spotlight on the picturesque town and the sinister goings on concerning six five seven Boulevard left many residents feeling exposed, and the local police scrambling to explain they hadn't caught the suspect yet another, detective, Baron Chambliss, was promptly assigned to look into it again.
When a DNA sample taken from the envelopes was found to be from a female, he turned his attention to Abbey Langford, the Broadest's neighbor and sister of Michael Langford. One afternoon, after instruction from Detective Chambliss, a security guard at the local department store where Langford worked waited for the perfect moment before secretly confiscating a plastic water bottle she had been using. The bottle was in turn tested
for DNA, but the result wasn't a match. The investigation was back to square one, and soon another theory was beginning to emerge. For those who aren't familiar with the Netflix documentary Making a Murderer, directed by Laura Richardi and Moira Demos, it details the trial of two men who
many believe may have been wrongfully convicted of murder. Watching as the story progressed and the prosecution's case became increasingly problematic, what struck me as particularly interesting, almost more than the possible injustice of it all, was the ferocity with which many members of the local community refused to accept that
there was any doubt to the guilty verdict. It is a strangely common reaction, this compulsion for a community to come together and, in the absence of any clear truth, commit to some kind of closure, whatever the cost be it by finding a hapless scapegoat who best fits the profile or by denying that a crime was even committed
in the first place. It is almost as though the continuation of the illusion that nothing bad could ever happen, or at the very least finding a way to neutralize that bad thing, is more important than getting to the real truth of the crime, or, in the case of making a murderer. For many in the local community, having somebody locked up for the crime and being able to move on from it appeared to take precedence over whether
the accused were innocent or not. In the case of the Westfield watcher, no doubt scarred by the not two distant crimes of John List, the community prompted for the latter, driven by concern for house prices and local reputation, many began to wander aloud, a view shared on social media and in homes throughout the town if the Broadestes hadn't merely got out of depth with their purchase and made
the whole thing up to cover themselves. After attempting to sell the house in two thousand and sixteen, the Broadestes once again came up short. As a last resort, they put in a bid with a local planning authority to sell the property to a developer who would replace it with two separate homes. The proposal was later defeated at a town hall meeting when over a hundred local residents,
including Abbey Langford, turned up to vote against it. By then, Derrick and Maria had spent over a hundred thousand dollars in taxes for the house with no compensation. Some relief arrived, however, when soon after they finally succeeded in renting the place out. Efforts continued meanwhile to put the house back on the market. Despite all the ensuing drama, it had been almost two years since the Broadestes had received their last letter from
the Watch. Perhaps their luck was beginning to turn after all. Two weeks after the renters moved in, Derek arrived at the property to carry out some routine maintenance work when they handed him a familiar looking letter. It was dated February thirteenth, twenty seventeen. You wonder who the watcher is? Turn around, idiots. Maybe you even spoke to me, one of the so called neighbors who has no idea who the watcher could be. Or maybe you do know and
are too scared to tell anyone. Good move. I walked by the news trucks when they took over my neighborhood and mocked me. I watched as you watched from the dark house in an attempt to find me. Telescopes and binoculars are wonderful inventions. Six five seven Boulevards survived your attempted assault and stood strong with its army of supporters barricading its gates. My soldiers of the boulevard followed my
orders to a t all hail the Watcher. As the letter continued, it was clear that revenge was on their mind. Maybe a car accident, maybe a fire, Maybe something as simple as a mild illness that never seems to go away but makes you feel sick day after day after day after day. Maybe the mysterious death of a pet. Loved one suddenly die. Planes and cars and bicycles crash, bones break, you are despised by the house and the Watcher. One. Thank you to Hannah Jones for suggesting this week's story.
If you enjoy listening to Unexplained and would like to help support us, you can now go to Unexplained podcast dot com. Forward slash support. All donations, no matter how large or small, are massively appreciated. All elements of Unexplained are produced by me, Richard McClain smith. Please subscribe and rate the show on iTunes. But feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation
of your own you'd like to share. You can reach us online at Unexplained podcast dot com, or on Twitter at Unexplained Pod and Facebook at Facebook dot com. Forward slash Unexplained Now, it's time to take care of yourself. To make time for you. Teledoc gives you access to a licensed therapist to help you get back to feeling your best. Speak to a licensed therapist by phone or video anytime between seven am to nine pm local time, seven days a week. Teledoc Therapy is available through most
insurance or employers. Download the app or visit teledoc dot com. Forward slash Unexplained Podcast Today to get started. That's t e ladoc dot com Slash Unexplained Podcast