I write a lot of songs about relationships, but the truth is the song is never the whole story. Attachment Theory is a podcast about the things in relationships that keep us guessing. Why we stay, why we leave, and why we keep repeating the same patterns. Each episode is built around a song from my upcoming record. Not about the music itself, but about the love and heartbreak behind it. And the universal things that come up from our face to face with the mirror of a romantic partner. If you've ever wondered, am I asking for too much or just asking the wrong person? This podcast is for you. I'm Aubrey Sellers. This is Attachment Theory. Prime Video biedt het best in entertainment. This should be fun. Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista are completely out of the hilarious new action film The Wrecking Crew, inbegreed by Prime. Yeah, I'm pumped. Find the new Game of Thrones series A Night of the Seven Kingdoms, based on the bestseller of George R.R. Martin. Look by a member of HBO Max. So be brave, be just. So what you also seek, Prime Video. Here you look at everything. Abonnement is delayed. Inhoud can advertenties bevatten. 18+. The general rules are of use. Something's coming. Do you hear it? Can you see it? Trundling across the common, following the old hollow ways, sauntering down the lane, rocking up into the market square, laying out its wares. It reels you in with mysteries, trades with you fantastic tales, spins for you fascinating stories. Stories like the haunted pound stretcher, flying saucers, poisoners and body snatchers, haunted woodland and the secret tunnels beneath our feet. Weird in the Wade is on its way, a podcast that explores everything that is weird, wonderful and a little off kilter in the town of Biggleswade in Bedfordshire. If you like your spooky stories told with a dash of historical context or you like your history with a pinch of the paranormal, then this is the podcast for you. Never miss an episode. Subscribe to Weird in the Word wherever you're listening now. When the internet began, Bulletin Board Services, or BBS, became the first online communities of the so-called information superhighway. Using their phone lines, people logged in from all over America to talk about sports, games, movies, and on one BBS in particular, share their ghost stories. Over time, those communities all went dark, except for one lone server that continues to operate somewhere in an unknown part of Pennsylvania's Rust Belt. A relic of the 1990s, veiled in mystery, it is a digital archive of humanity's strangest encounters with the unknown, as told by the people who experience them. My name is Brandon Schexnider, and you are listening to Fear Daily. Subject, nothing left to burn. User, Breezy21. Posted June 15, 1999. I didn't run away because I wanted to see the world. I ran because home had become a place where every sound felt like judgment and every silence felt worse. I was 19 and convinced that disappearing would solve something, though I couldn't have told you what. I left with a backpack, a couple shirts, and the kind of certainty that only shows up when you don't have anything else left to lose. I drifted for a while after that. Bus stations, parks, floors I borrowed until the borrowing wore thin. Eventually, someone told me about the warehouse, and I followed directions that sounded like they'd been passed mouth to mouth for years. It sat a few blocks off the railspur, a brick carcass with busted windows and a loading bay door that never quite shut. Somebody had pried loose the plywood on one side and crawled in long before I got there. Inside, the air smelled like rust and damp paper, and the floor bowed in places from rot. It definitely wasn't safe, but it was dry, and nobody asked you why you were there. There were about a dozen of us living inside when I showed up, mostly junkies, though nobody liked that word. There were quiet people, tired people, people who kept their heads down and their belongings close. We spread ourselves out and learned the rules without talking about them. Don't steal, don't touch anyone else's stash, and don't go down into the sub-basement unless you absolutely had to. The sub-basement used to house the boiler room back when the place mattered. You got there by concrete stairs that lost their edges, leading down into a space that never warmed up, even in August Thick old pipes ran along the walls and ceiling sweating constantly The air down there felt heavier like it didn circulate right like it had been trapped too long and didn know how to leave The first person to disappear was Leonard. We called him Lenny. He slept near the loading bay and talked to himself when he thought nobody was listening. One morning, his blankets were still there. folded in a way that didn't match how he usually left them, but he was gone. No blood, no mess, no sign had taken his things. We shrugged it off because that's what you do when you live like that. People vanish all the time. They find a better spot. They overdose somewhere quiet. You don't ask questions until you want answers you can't do anything with. Then Marcy disappeared. Then Troy. And that's when I stopped shrugging. It wasn't just that people were gone. It was what they left behind. Shoes tucked under pallets. Jackets draped over chairs. chairs. One time, a backpack with everything still inside it, except the dope. Nobody leaves the dope. Not unless they don't get the chance. At night, I started noticing sounds that didn't belong to anyone. Not footsteps or voices, even. More like movement without weight. A slow dragging sound, like fabric being pulled across concrete far away, or sometimes there was a faint hiss, not really like a sharp or animal, just air being pushed through something narrow, but no idea what. Then came the smell, and it wasn't rot, and it wasn't fire exactly. It reminded me of blowing out a candle and watching the wick keep smoking for a few seconds afterward. That bitter, oily smell that sticks in the back of your throat. It drifted through the warehouse in slow waves, strongest near the stairwell to the sub-basement. People started sleeping farther away from that end without saying why, but we knew. We were good at that, knowing something was bad and never giving it a name. I didn't plan to follow it. I just didn't want to be next. One night, I was lying awake, staring up at the beams, listening to the slow breathing of the others when the air shifted. The warehouse was still, but something was moving through it, pushing cold ahead of itself like a tide. The smell crept in, steady and patient. I sat up and watched the darkness near the stairwell grow thicker, not darker exactly, just more present, like it was being layered. It didn't step out into the room, it gathered there, accumulating the way smoke does in a corner where the air doesn't move. Except this wasn't drifting aimlessly. It pooled with intention, pressing against the shape of the stairs, and then it began to descend. I followed it at a distance, keeping to the wall, my hands slick against the brick. Down in the sub-basement, the pipes had started to hum. Not long enough to rattle, just enough to feel through your feet. The thing moved through the space without disturbing dust, thinning and thickening as it needed to, sliding along walls and ceiling like it understood the place better than I ever could. Up close, it wasn't black It was the color of old smoke trapped in glass Gray layered over darker gray Threaded with slow currents folding in on themselves Every so often, shapes surfaced inside it Suggestions of arms or faces or ribs But they never held long enough to make sense They collapsed back into the mass Like thoughts you don't finish Because you're afraid where they'll go It didn't have eyes, but it didn't need them It oriented itself toward people the way heat finds cold Troy was down there Slumped against the wall, half-conscious, needle still in his arm The thing flowed over him slowly, almost gently, like fog rolling in off a river. And where it touched him, his skin dulled. It lost its color. His breathing slowed and then stopped, not violently, just quietly, as if something essential had been taken and there was nothing left to argue with. When it pulled away, it looked emptied out in a way I still don't have words for. Not dead exactly, just finished. That was when it noticed me. Not with a sudden movement, not with aggression. The currents inside it shifted, reorienting, the smell sharpened, the air pressed inward, the way it does before a storm breaks. I backed away slow and careful keeping my eyes on where it was densest It didn rush me it didn have to it waited patient as rot knowing I have to move eventually I ran I didn pack I didn warn anyone. I crawled out through the broken plywood and didn't stop moving until the sun came up and burned the smell out of my clothes. I told myself I was leaving the thing behind, but even then, I knew better. The warehouse burned a few months later. Electrical fires, what they said. The homeless squatters. A tragedy, but not a mystery. The paper listed the dead they could identify and guessed the rest. Nobody mentioned the sub-basement. Nobody mentioned the bodies that didn't burn because there was nothing left to burn. on wrong or cold-blooded murder. Either way, Boston will never be the same. Listen to American Criminal, the murder of Carol Stewart, wherever you get your podcasts. Or to get early ad free access, subscribe in Apple Podcasts, Spotify or at AmericanCriminal.com. These applications show art concepts, integrateoffs and integrated processes toש spaced time for starters and grew businesses, both online as personal as as a student. Shopify is developed for providers such as you. Please call 1 euro per month on Shopify.Face. INTEigo Subject, the choice. Useraus?, PLX. Posted april ninth, nineteen thirty-inch. 1998. You ever wonder who you are? I mean, who you really are if you strip away all those stories you tell yourself about yourself? You know, the composite image you've drawn from all the things others have reflected back at you and the way your insides made you feel or the personality you claim to have that might actually be built less on reality and more on avoiding discomfort. Do you really know? Well, if you're curious, I've got an offer you can't refuse. 100% money back guarantee. It's simple. you sit in this chair. Close your eyes and when you open them, you'll see yourself as you could have been. Not just one version, but all of them. Every turn you didn't take, every door you let shut, every risk you dodged, every love you walked away from. All standing there in front of you, talking, moving, breathing. Friend, this is the real deal, and don't bother asking how. I've had customers laugh, weep, scream, and beg. Some try to fight. One guy even threw up. I won't lie, it's a lot to take in. Seeing yourself as the person who chased the dream, as the one who played it safe, the one who never left, or the one who left everything behind, it can be emotional. But the most unsettling to most is seeing how small choices ripple into entire lives. It rattles people to their core. But friend, here's the kicker. You don't just see these versions of yourself like a movie passing before your eyes. You feel what they feel. That rush of adrenaline from the version of you who took the big risks, the contentment of the you who found peace in the ordinary, the aching regret of the you who let someone special slip away. I'll be honest. This is not for the weak-hearted. It's not for the ones who want to sleep easy at night. Once you know, you know. But if you really want to know, if you can handle the weight of truth, I'll set up the chair. No strings attached. 100% money back guarantee. Although I can promise you won't leave the same person you arrived as. Now, over the years, people come to me for many, many reasons. Some want validation that the life they have is the best one they could have lived. Others want answers to see if the one that pretty lady who got away was truly meant to be, or some just want to scratch the itch of what if, thinking they can handle it like a funhouse mirror at a carnival. They're always wrong. I had a guy once, a doctor, mid-40s, married, three kids. He walked in cool as ice, told me he had no regrets, that he was just curious. I strapped him in, told him to close his eyes and let the journey begin. When he opened them, he saw himself, a different self, standing tall in a lecture hall. unmarried, childless, but a world-renowned researcher on the cusp of curing something big. The weight of discovery in his eyes the fire of a life spent chasing knowledge untethered by domestic obligations He stared for what to him must have felt like hours barely breathing Then he reached out, tried to touch the version of himself standing before him. I told him not to, but he either wouldn't or couldn't listen. The vision shattered like glass and he started sobbing Not just crying, sobbing like a man who had just lost everything Except he never had it to begin with They all think they can handle it, most can't A woman once came to me, she was in her mid-60s, a widow She told me she just wanted to see if her late husband was in fact the love of her life, or if there had been another path she should have taken. She sat in the chair, closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw herself at 24 standing at a crossroads. One path led to the life she lived, a warm, stable marriage with children, grandchildren, comfort. The other, a life of adventure, of running away with someone else, a man who made her pulse quicken, who made her feel alive in a way her husband never quite did. She saw herself boarding a train with him, her hand in his, laughing, weightless. She saw what would have been a whirlwind romance, spanning continents, a life lived on passion and spontaneity. But then she saw how it ended. A life of loneliness when he left her for someone younger. She was penniless and beaten down. That day, she saw a love that burned too bright and too fast. When the session ended, she just sat there, staring at the wall. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it. she shook her head, left, and never came back. I wonder sometimes if she regretted it. But look, obviously, this isn't just about seeing a better life. I'm not here to pick at your choices. No, it's about seeing different lives. And once you know what else was possible, the life you return to never feels quite the same. For some, that is the type of empowering knowledge that leads them to create a future so beautiful even the chair couldn't have expected it. But most, well, money back guarantee. As for me, I don't sit in the chair. I won't. I know better. Unlike my customers, I made my choice a long time ago. This podcast is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events or locations, is entirely coincidental. Ad-free versions of Fear Daily are available now on your favorite podcast apps. For more information, visit feardaily.com. But move fast before the server goes offline. Hi, I'm Cassie, and I've always been fascinated by people's real-life paranormal experiences. That's why I started Tell Me Your Ghost Story podcast. Each episode, I sit down with someone who's had an encounter with the paranormal, and they share their story in their own words. There's a shadow about the size of a person, and it slowly turns around. It reveals a pure white face, empty eye sockets. He goes, I used to live here. He's like, I went to the war, and then I never came back. And then suddenly he was gone. On my way home, I called my wife and I was like, I just delivered to the craziest place. You have to look it up and tell me what it is. So I'm on the phone with her and she looks up at the desk. She's like, David, this place is vacant. Whether you're here for the spooky, the storytelling or both, tell me your ghost story has you covered. Listen now on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or your favorite podcast app. In every small town, behind every closed door, a story waits to be uncovered. On our True Crime podcast, we dive deep into the cases that haunt communities around the world, from chilling cold cases to crimes with unexpected twist. No detail is too small. Hosted by us, Jen and Cam, two lifelong friends who love telling a good story. This isn't sensationalized news. It's real cases, real people, and the chilling details that keep you up at night. Our True Crime Podcast brings the facts, a little perspective, and just enough humor to remind you you're not alone in being fascinated by the darker side of life. Our True Crime Podcast, where bizarre crimes, meticulous research, and genuine friendship collide. Subscribe today if you dare, because sometimes the scariest stories are the true ones.
