BUNKER: Stayin' Inside

Hi, I'm Ashley Flowers, creator and host of the number one true crime podcast, Crime Junkie. Every Monday, me and my best friend Britt break down a new case, but not in the way you've heard before, and not the cases you've heard before. You'll hear stories on Crime Junkie that haven't been told anywhere else. I'll tell you what you can do to help victims and their families get justice. Join us for new episodes of Crime Junkie every Monday, already waiting for you by searching for Crime Junkie wherever you listen to podcasts. This episode was produced with immersive audio. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hello, all you magnificent exiles and good after no good morning. Okay. Let me try again. Hello, all you magnificent exiles and good morning. You're listening to the shock wave and I am Mike madness, your host for anyone new to the show. It's your lucky day because you just hit the jackpot of jazz, soul, big band and a little band. Here we play all of your favorite songs, the only songs in this teeny tiny empty world. Believe me. Well, just call in. If you know what you want to hear, here's your chance to speak your mind. Speechless, huh? I understand. You want to jive and thrive to tunes we drive. Well, I don't want to hold you hostage, but before we swing back to the show you love, Mike, he's got to drop some news. And this is important. Okay. You listening? Good. Before you heard it from someone else, I wanted to tell you all in person that I'm retiring. Believe me, this was a tough decision, but I know it's the right one. And here's why. I'm going to die. No, this isn't a bit, although it is a bit frightening. I'm not being dramatic either. In fact, I'm as practical as a toilet seat. The truth of the matter is I am going to die plain and simple. Now I'm not dying. Let's be clear. I'm still kicking like authentic tie, but I've run the numbers. And no matter what weight loss program I choose to follow in two years or less, I won't have a lick of spam to salt my air. But Mikey, I hear you say, two years is a lot of time. Sure is. That's time enough to write a book. Time enough to write a song. Enough time to write my eulogy. But see, I don't want to do any of that. Because what would be the point? What I want to do is ride out my copper years, mic in hand with you through thick and thicker steel walls. You have been there for me listening, caring, and like a friend, I feel I owe you the truth. So when it comes time to bite the bullet, when this signal sings with silence, you'll know. Mikey's moved on to greener studios. But hey, let the news bum you out. We still got a long road ahead of us. And listen to me. I'm fine. So chill out. Relax. But don't get too comfortable because now it's time. We're a spooky story. We're on episode who knows and who cares. Why keep counting up when the time is counting down? But you know, on the topic of dying, I gotta wonder, what comes next? Is it really as binary as Sunday School Choir versus Slipknot? What happened to Dante and his hell-stacked cake? Is there a recycling bin for souls? I just want to know, where's the after party? Well, what if it was here? What if death was a little more close to life? What if what comes next is a little less great than good? Well, if you want to find out, gather around and listen close. Auntie Marcia always said I was good at staying inside. And right now I'm really hoping that's true. Not just like staying indoors, though. I mean, I kinda had to be good at that, too. I was sick a lot as a kid. Besides the normal infections and sore throats and stuff that some of the other kids dealt with, my stomach was never quite the same after Mama's Sacrament. Many of my days were spent in my bed, simply letting my body repair itself best it could. Or waiting for the town doc to come around when it couldn't. Of course, even that would sometimes take days. On account of Auntie's farm was way out, about six miles outside of Screvin. And even if the doc's car could make it that far, without breaking down, once or twice. He was so busy with all the railroad guys and their constant injuries, that he didn't have much time to come check on some kid with a sore throat and tummy ache. Much as Auntie might worry. So, as I said, I spent a lot of time indoors. But being good at staying indoors ain't really much of a feat. And anyhow, Auntie was not a woman easily impressed. No, she meant I was good at staying inside my own head. Which is a hell of a lot tougher for kids and adults too, now that I'm really thinking about it. Auntie said when I was little, like two or three, I would sometimes just... ...sit. Not saying nothing. Not playing with nothing. Not necessarily looking at nothing. Just kinda sitting and... ...being. At first, she said she thought I was not quite right in my head or something. But as I grew, I was walking, talking, reading and writing before all my siblings. The ones that made it to walking, talking, reading and writing age anyway. And when I wasn't so sick and made it to school, I did real well in my studies and made friends just fine. But even at school, during the lunch and recess break, I liked to just sit by myself, imagining different scenarios in my head. Pretending I was one of the Wright brothers, flying that clunky yet oh so futuristic looking aeroplane of theirs. Or that I was in the war, fighting some angry army before they plunged their dagger into the vitals of the Republic, as our fearless leader was wont to say. Or simply just sitting and thinking about life and the future. What was and what could be. He says, were my daddy still around, I'd be walking with a hide as tanned as a horse's saddle. On account of he wasn't exactly what you'd call a contemplative man himself. He was when he was and he was where he was. A present man was my daddy and he suffered no fool who would spend large portions of time thinking rather than doing according to auntie. But alas, daddy was the first one to take the sacrament, which I always thought was kind of strange because he was a Presbyterian and as far as I know they only believe a pastor in a church, which mama most certainly was not, could give out that kind of stuff. And now daddy, the man of action, simply isn't. And I, with all my thoughts, am kind of. My wife, Stephanie, always abided my staying inside just fine though. She ain't much of a talker herself, which is maybe why we ended up together and why we lived so well. Auntie told me later, once we was already married, the first couple times she saw us together, she thought it'd be our last on account of how quiet we were. We would sit and hold hands and just be silent with each other, enjoying one another's company in the way that we have, not necessarily needing noise for there to be a connection. We talked sometimes, of course, on account of there can't be a relationship without at least some kind of intentional communication. But neither she nor I ever babbled on about meaningless malarkey. And she never asked about mama and daddy besides just asking, where were they? And once I told her, I don't know where they were, but their bodies are right out back, buried next to the oak tree. She never asked again. And as far as I know, she never asked anybody else about it neither. And that's just fine with me, on account of what I remember ain't so nice and is not something I like thinking about. Though the more I stay inside, the more the inside fills with the scent and the sight and the presence of mama and daddy, my brothers and sisters, and that cursed sacrament. But see, that's the downside of being good at staying inside. Sure, it's nice when there ain't much to do and you got nothing but time to think, like I do now. And you ain't got no problem with doing just that. But the fact is, when you're staying inside, no matter how good you are at it and how long you can do it, you ain't quite as in control of the goings on as you might hope. I mean really, would a person, if they had a choice, choose to be all depressed and whatnot? Would they choose to think on the horrible things that have happened to them? To remember over and over the rejections they faced, or the embarrassments they've suffered, or the times they should have said something and didn't, or shouldn't have said something and did? Course not. And yet how much brain space is taken up with all that blather? And why? Because I want to dredge up things that make me feel bad? No way. Uh-uh. Crazy as it sounds, I sometimes think I'm not alone up here. It seems like there's evil little men hiding in the shadows, where all the dark memories are stuffed away, just waiting for the right moment to push out some long forgotten sin or tragedy right in front of me as I meander through my thoughts. They try tripping me up, making me fall into the pain and leaving me to gather myself and push the memory back to its place in the darkness. But of course, simply pushing it back in place is just that, pushing it back in place. Back into the domain of the mean-mind men. It ain't getting rid of it, just guaranteeing that I'll trip over again sometime soon, just as I have now. It was Stephanie's screams that woke me, at least in a manner of speaking. From what she said later, she had shaken and prodded me. But my hearing's always been better than my other senses, and I sleep about as deep as the landic. So I ain't totally surprised the shaking didn't do it. But when she started hollering, I roused out of my sleep pretty much right away. I woke, as usual, at the sound of her screams, on account as she has nightmares at least twice a week. Real bad ones that make her jump out of bed and run around the room until I can settle her down enough. When I tried to open my eyes, it was dark as the spots on a cow. Not too strange. As I mentioned, Auntie's farm where we live and help to all that needs tending to is way out in the country. And there ain't lights for at least a mile or so. What was strange was that no matter how much I tried, I couldn't get up. I tried to say something to soothe my wife, but I couldn't do that neither. That's when I thought maybe I was the one having the nightmare this time. One of those where you're stuck in place between sleeping and waking, and you can't fully cross over to either direction. But I wasn't sure. All I was sure of was my wife was having a panic, and I couldn't seem to do anything about it. After about a minute or so, I heard her run out of the room and down the stairs and then out the back door. While she was gone, I tried to do a mental assessment of my body. Problem was, it didn't seem to be there by my mental accounting anyway. I mean, it must have been there. Otherwise, how else could I be? But I just couldn't feel nothing. Although thinking about it further, I guess that's not completely true. I felt like I had been shrunk down real small. That what I thought of as the real me, the essential me, the one that thinks and feels and loves me. The one that thinks and feels and loves was the size of a little piece of corn kernel stuck in somebody's teeth. But that wasn't so much a feeling, in actual terms, as it was a sense that I couldn't seem to shake. After a moment, I heard the back door open again, and Auntie and Steph walk in. They spoke with each other very briefly. Steph, right on the edge of panic, and Auntie trying to keep her calm and to keep her own self calm. No, no! After a few back and forths, I heard Steph yell, He won't wake up, Auntie! And then I heard them both running up the stairs. I tried to turn my head, tried to tell them to cool down. Nothing wrong with a nightmare. Steph has them all the time. But I still couldn't move a muscle. So I just sat there and listened. As one of them, I figured it was Auntie, an account that I could hear Steph in the background, biting her nails, climbed onto the bed. I remember thinking then that I didn't know what all she was doing up there with me. For all I heard for about a minute was silence, and of course, I still couldn't feel a thing. After that very long minute passed, my eyes finally opened, and I could see around her fingers, which were, I realized, propping my eyelids that it was indeed Auntie leaning over me. Everything looked kind of dim and almost cloudy like, but I was so grateful to finally see that I completely missed what Auntie sat next, though whatever it was, couldn't have been good. Because Steph picked up the screaming again. I tried to roll my eyes that way to see her, but once again I was stuck. And now I was getting angry, really angry. The way a baby must feel when they're hungry and trying to reach onto their plate for food, but just don't have the coordination or strength to grab it, and they feel like it's the end of the world. But see, I don't want nothing like food or drink, or to be rich, or live like the Rockefellers or anything crazy like that. I just wanted to roll my eyes a little bit, just to look at my beautiful bride, and to comfort her, and to tell her, even if it was only in our silent, without words way, that everything was okay, and that if it wasn't, it would be with time. But the anger was replaced in an instant with a terror about a million times stronger. When I looked in a dark corner behind Auntie, and saw her. She was wearing the same black robe as she was 35 years ago, and the same hood over her face. Even the shadows in the same place, covering everything above her upper lip, leaving only her mouth. Her thin white lips were still spread in that nasty grin. Her cracked, and yet perfectly white teeth, shining dully in the dim light of the lanterns. And that's when the darkness closed back over me, and I fell inside. Hard. When I came to, Steph and Auntie weren't there. Everything was dark again. I heard voices, distant in the background, muffled like they were on the other side of a wall. Then a door creaked open, and I could see red light streaming through my eyelids. I heard two sets of footsteps walking towards me. Well, what do we got here? Don't know yet. The guy didn't wake up, the wife freaked out, the aunt who lived next door couldn't hear him breathe, or find a pulse, and hey, we got a brand new body to look at. And you're a lucky day. He ain't all mangled like them railroad guys that come in here. To put it in a good way, I think I'll be able to get to the bottom of this. But lightly, I was a little put off hearing them talk about me like that. Dead? I thought I'm still thinking. I can hear you. I can see the lights you just turned on. I'm not dead, you idiots. But of course they couldn't hear me. But surely they knew what they were doing. Surely they would be able to check my aliveness with instruments better suited for such things than Auntie's hands. And hey, if not, my school buddies told me a story once about this guy who hit his head real bad. They thought he was dead and they brought him into the room to cut him up and stuff. But right as they were about to do it, he got goosebumps. They took a deeper look and realized the guy wasn't dead. He was only sleeping real deep. So I figured either way, I'd be okay. Probably. Well, you've watched me do ten of these things so far. Are you ready to give it a try? The second voice, a much younger voice, responded... Uh, yeah, I think so, Doc. All right then, bad boy. Grab that there scoundrel and let's dig in. The older voice laughed at his little witticism and the younger nervously joined in. And I heard tools clattering along the tray and I started praying for some goosebumps. Beginning the first incision. I braced myself mentally and waited for the hot white pain of a knife cutting through my flesh. And I could troll over my eyes. I would have squeezed them shut as hard as you squeeze before a bucket of ice water hits your face. Good, good. Now remember, stop right down at the pubic region and then come back up for the arms of the Y. Which should go to where? To each shoulder joint? That's right. They were cutting me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And I couldn't feel a thing. Pretty soon, if the rumors I heard in the schoolyard were true, they were gonna start taking out my guts and looking at them and trying to figure out what killed me. Even though clearly nothing did on account of, hey, I was still thinking here. But they were going to if they didn't cut it out. No pun intended. Okay, great job, Billy. Now we're gonna open up the incisions and begin the removal of the innards. I tuned out the rest of their exploration as much as I could. Which honestly wasn't as hard as you might think. Considering I was trying to figure out how I could be dead but still sitting in on my own autopsy. That's when the thought came to me. Not for the first time, but certainly for the most serious consideration. That perhaps the nightmare wasn't over yet. That I was just dreaming all this. Maybe I ate something rotten or undercooked. Like that guy in the Christmas story he thought he did when those ghosts came to visit him. Of course, I knew it wasn't true. The way you can't describe the feeling of reality, it's just something you know deep down in your heart. And I knew I wasn't dreaming. Though the next couple days passed like a dream. After they finished the autopsy, they left me in the room for a while. Alone. Until somebody else came and picked me up and brought me somewhere else and did. This or that with me. But by that time, I was staying deep inside. And really had no interest in coming back out. Maybe ever. That is, until I heard Steph's voice. She sounded empty. Hollowed out. She talked about what she wanted to dress me in. And what kind of service. And would there be a minister? And where would I be buried? And I was screaming. Screaming with all my mental power. Screaming that they would hear me. That they would realize I'm not dead. But of course, they didn't hear me. I was staying inside for real now. And inside was airtight. Nobody coming in. And nobody going out. They finished up their arrangements. And then I heard Steph ask. Can I have a minute alone with him? And they said sure. And walked out. And it was just us. I don't know how I know. There's no way I could have known. On account of I'm pretty sure my eyes were glued shot at this point. When I still couldn't feel nothing. But I know in my heart that she put her hand on my cheek. And she kissed me. She just sat there for a minute. Not saying nothing. Just being with me. The way we always did. And for that one minute. The screaming in my brain stopped. And it was like it was before. Just us being with each other. In the way that we have. No need for words. The only place I'm better at staying and than inside. Is with her. And I could have stayed there forever. But of course, all things end. She said I love you. In a cracked voice. And then she ran out. Slamming the door behind her. The funeral wasn't nothing special. Everyone talks about how they wish they could go to their own funeral. On account of everyone wants to hear the nice things people say. Once someone is dead. But the fact is. If somebody has been forced to say nice things by an occasion like this. How seriously can you take what they have to say. For me. Not that seriously. It was nice to hear the voices of old friends and family. But the one voice I craved the most. States Island. I wasn't hurt by it though. She may not have been able to get through any kind of speech. And anyway. She was never much of a talkative woman. As I have already said. Auntie went last. She ain't the sentimental type. And has never been one to a sugarcoat nothing. Her speech was short and true. And meant the most to me. Out of anyone. She didn't cry or scream or go into hysterics. She just said how she loved me. And why she loved me. And that she would miss me. And if I could have. I would have been crying like a baby. Then came the part. I was really dreading. I never been scared of closed spaces or nothing. But when I heard the lid of the coffin thump down. And the little bit of light coming through my eyelids. Shut out completely. And maybe forever. The weight of the situation hit me again. Once more. I started hollering inside myself. But nobody heard. And they carried me away. And after a brief graveside service. They put me in the ground. Where I am now. They covered up my home with dirt. And then left me. Alone with silence for my friend. And darkness for my companion. Only. As I mentioned. Only. As I mentioned earlier. I ain't as alone as I would like. The little men in the shadows. Are extra lively in the dark. And they're moving around all kinds of stuff. And kicking up things better left buried. Buried. But not dead. Just like me. And I can't stop them. And they're pushing it out. Pushing her out. Pushing out the time. When I first met her. And when I'm pretty sure all of this began. All my siblings were on the ground. With the empty cups. Still in their hands. What was left of the medicine and grape juice mixture. Spilled into the small drops on the hardwood floor. Daddy was lying face down next to me. His arm draped over my chest. His paper cup right next to my ear. Making everything on that side. Sound as if it were coming over the ocean. I had taken it too of course. I was just as much a part of the family as anybody else in the room. But mama always said I had a hole in my lip. On account if I couldn't eat a meal. Drink something without getting a little on my shirt. And this was no exception. Special as it might be. I also had been the pickiest of the family. So I eaten, drank pretty packishly. Like a bird you might say. And if I'm being completely honest. The sacrament tasted awful bitter. Not at all like how mama's fresh muscatine grape juice usually tastes. And so while mama was pouring a cup for my little brother Timmy. I let a little more spill out and might have happened on its own. I had some of the same jiggles and wiggles as my siblings. Once I finished my cup. And got a real bad tummy ache. And fell on the floor and couldn't move. Just like now. Except then my eyes were still open. And unfortunately now they ain't. I looked around the room as best I could. On account if I could still move my eyes a little. And so mama standing by the table. With a cup in her own hand. And a whispered prayer on her lips. She finished her prayer. A single tear sliding down her cheek. And then she drank her cup. And walked across the room. Out of my field of vision. Probably to her favorite rocking chair. Where she liked to sit and look out the window. Right as she started to make some awful choking noises. Another wave of pain went through my tummy. And I got all dizzy. And things went blurry for a minute. When I came to again. She was there. At first I thought it was mama. On account of she was about the same size and height. And her back was too big. She was standing over my big sister Anna. Reaching down towards her face. And pulling something I couldn't see out of her mouth. Then she turned around. And my heart turned to ice. I realized this definitely weren't mama. Not unless the medicine did something really awful to her. She saw me. And her lips. Peeled back over her teeth. In a grimace. That turned to grin. I remember thinking. That her mouth was too wide. That she wouldn't be able to shut that smile. On account of her skin was like. Old crinkled paper. Both in color and texture. And looked like it had withered. To the point where stretching it to cover all those terrible teeth. Would rip it. Like ten pounds of manure. In a five pound bag. In an instant she was beside me. Maybe it was the sacrament still working in my system. Or maybe it was just her. But I swear I never saw her walk. It was like. One minute. She was standing over Anna's body. And the next. She was standing over me. She bent down. And I could smell something like. Old cabbage. And spoiled meat hanging around her. Like flies to a pigsty. She smiled that awful. Cracked smile at me. And said in a voice that was gravelly. And yet somehow priming with excitement. Not yet. Seem soon. And the last thing I remember thinking. Before blacking out. Was how strange it was. That she was able to talk. With those awful. Cracked teeth. Still locked together. It's impossible to say how long it's been. I don't get hungry no more. And I don't have no light to judge by. And I don't go to the bathroom. Or cough. Or sneeze. Or get tummy aches. Or nothing. May have been days. Or hours. Or years. Or seconds. Since they left me here. But what does it matter anyway? All I know is. That I'm in the dark all alone. For now. And as scary as that may sound. It's actually a comfort. Because. As the little men. Do their wicked work. And push more and more. Out of the shadows. I can see it dull. Whiteish glow through my eyelids. Like when you hold your breath too long. And start seeing them little dots in your eyes. It's getting closer and closer with each thought. And I can hear her laughing now. Laughing to bust a gut. Laughing through then closed cracked teeth. Her paper white skin. Not moving like it should be. With such a laugh. Her black robe. Billowing around her. As she draws near her. I think it's finally time. That. Soon has come. Because the light is getting brighter. And the laugh is getting louder. And I'm so scared. I'm starting to think that maybe staying inside ain't so bad. Staying inside has got to be better. Than wherever she wants to take me. So I think I'll just lock the doors. Keep staying inside. As long as I can. Until she knocks down my door. And drags me out. And takes me to mama. Let me out! Ahhhh! Ahhhh! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! Ahhhh! Let me out! Ahhhh! I'll never fly away from here. That's my home. My home. Whatever I see in my dreams. That's my home. Full Body Chills is an audio chuck production. This episode was written by Joseph This episode was written by Josiah Personiti and read by Jake Webber. Intro and Outro Written by David Flowers and read by Anthony Coons. So, what do you think Chuck? Do you approve? I'll never fly away from here. That's my home. My home. Whatever I see in my dreams. That's my home. Whatever I see in my dreams. That's my home. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. I'll never fly away from here. Everyone's told a lie, but what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy? I'm Josh Dean, host of Chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These aren't strangers, they're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes, they feel personal. Listen to Chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.