The Shaving Man

Every year, millions of people head into the wilderness searching for peace, beauty, and adventure. But hidden in those same scenic landscapes are stories of violence, survival, and lives cut short. I'm Delia D'Ambra, and on my podcast, Park Predators, I uncover the true crimes that happened in the most amazing places on Earth. Listen to Park Predators wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, listeners. I have a story I want to tell you. There was this doctor over at St. Augury's who would kill his patients. Oh, yes, it was madness. Aren't you afraid the light take might get you? I'm sorry, I didn't listen to you. That adrenaline. I want more of it. I snapped. Totally lost it. He had no idea what was on those tapes. It was like a song. It's Ollie and the Outcast. So gather around. And listen. Close. Nothing but a name and a handshake. That's how Dad used to describe him. In the rare moments when we talked, he'd warn me about all those people who just woke up, went to work, pocketed their paycheck, and then went home. Dad was a scientist working on stem cell research. Even though the stress of the job aged him terribly, he was motivated by doing what he called good work. He had purpose. As for me, I'm not so sure. After college, I shuffled between a few odd jobs. Waiter, cashier, landscaper. But then, after dad died, I was determined to get my act together. That's when I saw the job listing. Subway security officer. It felt like a sign from the universe. I always knew subways were dangerous. For the longest time, me and my friends were obsessed with the subway stalker, an urban legend of a monster who lured hapless victims in the way of speeding trains. But that was just a story. I never took it seriously. At least, not until Dad died. They found his body near the end of a subway platform. His skin was torn to shreds, his insides scattered. Mom passed out when she went to go identify him. That's when I began to understand that all legends come from somewhere. The subway stalker might not be real, but there was a danger down in those tunnels. So I thought of my job like my opportunity to do some good. I applied. A couple hours later, I got the interview. A few hours after that, I got the job. My orientation was nothing but a couple YouTube videos. As of writing this, I've been working down there for three days. But after what I've seen, I'm not sure I could make it a fourth. When I arrived on the first day, I found my office next to the turnstiles, surrounded by a mote of piss and beer. Inside the booth, there was a printout with simple instructions. how to clock in, how to clock out, and how to call for help. At the bottom was my boss's signature, Winston, along with his phone number and a simple note. Only leave the booth if you absolutely have to. Since I was new, I got the night shift. 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. The first night bled together. The subway, a rotating door of drunks, squatters, and suits. The first wave came from the bars, mostly frat types with their tired girlfriends. I'd sit and watch them shove each other, spilling beer onto the platform as they argued about college rivalries. Once they left, down came the homeless crowd, inspecting the benches for a place to sleep. They'd spread out across any flat surface, wrapping themselves in unkept blankets and coats. They were the most peaceful part of my shift, although the most depressing. One woman was sleeping upright, her mouth wide open. Flies were going in and out like tourists, such that I wasn't sure if she was still breathing. Then there was an old man in a baggy suit, running a razor across his scalp. The gesture was smooth and slow. He hadn't much hair, but he shaved what was left, staring blankly like a sleepy tortoise. He reminded me a little of my dad, especially in his later years. Towards the tail end of my shift, the real suits arrived. Businessmen and women who moved through the turnstiles like a cold breeze. Eyes stuck to their phones. These were the people Dad warned me about. Nothing but a name and a handshake. I'm sure my job wasn't as complex as theirs, but it was no less important. If something bad happened, I was the one calling for help. But, so far, nothing bad had happened. So, I stayed in the booth. I spent my hours scrolling through social media, half watching the platform. As it neared 6 a.m., I was sliding off my chair. Crammed in that life-size Barbie box, I kept twisting around, kicking and pushing for any inch of space. Then I heard a knock on my window. A man was standing in front of the booth, his face close to the glass. He was about my age, tall and thin with a mannequin smile. His suit was impossibly clean, pitch black with a liquid sheen, as if it had been poured onto him. The only imperfection was his tie, wrapped a little too tight, as if it were duct tape keeping his head attached. Hey. I turned on the microphone and asked if he had a problem. Is there a problem? I waited for him to say something, to gesture toward the card machine or point at the map. But he just smiled, holding the silence like he owned it. I want to shake your hand, he finally said, to introduce myself. Then he motioned me toward him. I asked again if there was an issue. Anything I can help you with? But he didn't react. His smile was ironed flat. His eyes wide, nostrils flaring. The motion of his hand felt stiff, like the mechanical rat at an amusement park. I almost got up. I wanted to be a good security guard. The kind people knew. Trusted. The kind who would shake your hand. But I knew the rules. Only leave the booth if you absolutely have to. Maybe this was Winston testing me. I told the man that unless he had an issue... Sorry, but unless there's an issue... I wasn't leaving the booth. I can't leave my station. Then, slowly, he dropped his hand. His smile followed suit and so did his eyes. His whole demeanor visibly sagged as he turned away from me and went through the turnstile Once he was gone I felt my shoulders falling back down A second later, a kid in a mountaineer's jersey slipped by and spat on the window. He jumped the gate before I could even wince. Stunned and not the least disgusted, I craned my neck in order to see him running down the platform. down a vacant path still under construction. I lost him in a patch of darkness that seemed too black to be real. The sleeplessness was beginning to blot out my vision. The only thing that kept me awake were the sounds of people rushing by. The morning commute was rising to a steady hum. I remember that same feeling of holding off sleep from when I was a kid. back then i was trying to catch dad before bed at first it was just coming home late then he'd go two or three days without seeing us each time it felt like he'd been gone for years his wrinkles deeper skin paler eyes more vacant he and mom would scream at each other She'd slam cabinets. He'd throw those stupid corporate mugs. The company logo, two black silhouettes, arms entwined, became shattered and separated. He always had excuses. Some project, some deadline. But his eyes told a different story. Haunted. Hollow. Weekends were more the same. always caught up at the lab. It was only my mom and my brothers. They were the ones at my basketball games, at my graduation. Dad always had an excuse, just never one that made any sense. I kept thinking about Dad as I clocked out. After walking the half mile back to my apartment, I could barely sleep. The morning light was bright and unforgiving. The hours moved slow, and then all at once. Before I knew it, I was back in the booth like I'd never left. More drunks. More homeless. Same old man with a self-styled haircut. Bodies in and out, in and out. Then, another knock on the glass. Like clockwork. He stood in front of the booth, smiling with just his teeth. It was the same guy from yesterday. The one with the skin-tight suit. He didn't say anything, even though the train was pulling in. He acted like he had all the time in the world. Hi. I turned on the microphone and asked if everything was okay. Is there a problem? I recognize you. He said slowly, as though each syllable tasted of honey. You were here yesterday? I couldn't tell if that was a question. He laughed, and I wondered if his tie was cutting off the circulation. Yeah. Was he high? Do you need anything? Again, I asked if he needed anything. He stopped laughing, but his smile got bigger. he raised his arm. I'd like to shake your hand to introduce myself. Right. This guy had to be tripping. I'd had enough, let's say, college experience to know that party people often play dress-up. Judging by the size of his eyes, the sweat on his skin, I bet Buddy came straight from some rager flying into work on his leftover fumes. Look, I don't diss the grind. I was just amazed he hadn't been caught. That's when I noticed the ID tag tucked in his pocket. I couldn't see his name or photo, but I saw that familiar logo. Two bodies melding together. I always found it strange that dad's company didn't have a name, but he claimed it was due to privacy since stem cell research was so controversial. I asked the guy, so do you work in biotech? I pointed to his badge and I think I must have blinked or his smile was losing steam because just then glistening under the fluorescent lights. I watched the corners of his mouth turn down, down, and down like melting wax. His features were dripping, slipping out of place. Now his left eye sat a little too low. I'd never seen anyone have a stroke before, but this must have been it. I reached for my radio to call Winston, struggling with the hook. My hand was shaking, but when I raised my head. The man was gone. It took me a second to catch my breath. As I looked around the platform, I realized everyone's face looked a little bit off. Maybe I was the one who was a little too buzzed. It was probably from the lack of sleep. That morning, when I got home, I passed out until late afternoon. Then I slumped over to the local pub for what would be breakfast. As I picked through a bowl of fries, distracted, dragging their broken limbs through ketchup, I thought about Dad's accident. From what I could see, the subway was sketchy, but it wasn't monstrous. Based on Dad's injuries, I was expecting runaway trains or bear-sized rats. But, so far, all I found were men in suits, people down on their luck, and a long, dark hallway. Before I knew it, I was walking to work. It was Saturday night, so the subway crowd had a different energy. Drunk girls poured beer onto the tracks. Frat bros shadowboxed. Every once in a while, someone would fall face first on the platform. It was a circus. At least the tent wasn't on fire. Some of it was even funny. But, like every other night, the energy died around 2 a.m. Tonight, the benches were mostly vacant. except for the old man shaving his head. He had a razor in his hand, but he wasn't using it. A slight tremor in his fingers caused the metal blade to keep knocking on the bench. His face was composed, but distressed, like he was having a bad dream. As he raised the blade to his scalp, I looked away, opening TikTok. I scrolled through a few videos, but my distraction didn't last long. I looked out my window. Shit. The booth across from mine had exploded. There was a brick on the ground, surrounded by shattered glass, and nearby was that same idiot kid in the Mountaineer's jersey. He flipped me off and took off running. I got up, catching Winston's note out of the corner of my eye. Only if I absolutely had to. I looked at the other booth. Passerbys were staring anxiously, cupping their ears while trying to avoid the broken glass. This was vandalism, a crime. I had to do something. I couldn't be a booth coward forever. I opened the door and chased after him. Between my grease-filled meal and lack of sleep, I wasn't going fast, but I kept pushing. I was angry and delirious. These were small fires now, but I seen what happens when you ignore smoke He turned down the dark tunnel and I stopped to catch my breath The narrow passage led forward a burrow of black mud Its low ceiling crossed with rusted pipes and sagging cables. Dank water dripped onto the floor. Faded caution tape and old construction tools laid scattered in dust. An insult echoed, one I don't care to repeat. The punk was baiting me. I took one last breath to gather myself, and I took off. I squeezed between scaffolds, trying to catch that voice, but every time I thought I was close, I heard him swap sides. It was like I was racing through a funhouse. I tried to take out my phone for a little bit of light, but my tool belt was slipping, and as I was adjusting it, something caught my foot. I heard the little rat laughing in the distance. Then pain shot up my shoulder. I sat up, groaning, then turned to see what caused me to trip. It looked like some kind of bucket. I shined my light. It only took a second for me to realize what was in there. I tensed up to stop myself from vomiting. A coppery stench met my nose, coating the back of my throat. At first, I thought it might have been multi-fabric scraps from a nearby factory. The bucket was full of body parts. I'd never seen detached human skin before. How pale and wet it was. How glistening. Pieces clung in damp, sagging sheets. Their edges curled like burnt paper. Some had ridges of fingerprints. The faint lines of knuckles, the ghostly imprint of veins. A portion of a face lay near the top. An eyelid still attached, half closed in a lifeless wink. The air around it was damp. Humid with decay. Time slowed to nothing. It sped ahead uncontrollably, like waking from a nightmare. I grabbed my radio and called for help. When Winston arrived, he was more intrigued than disturbed. I had made my way back to the booth, my shoulder still stinging. He shook my hand and introduced himself. which only made it worse. This was my first time seeing him in person. He was twice my age, a burly man with kind eyes, fit to be a sitcom husband. He told me the police were on their way. The station was only a block down, but I guess they were taking their sweet time. After 30 minutes, they still weren't there. When I asked if he could call again, he told me to take tomorrow off. Apparently, I looked affected. I had no idea how he wasn't. I got back to my apartment around 5 a.m. My roommate was asleep with a controller on his chest, his video game playing at full volume. Through the window, I saw the sun growing between two high-rises. I went to the fire escape and smoked a joint, nailing the quiet street. With each breath in, I saw the bucket of guts. With each breath out, I saw Dad's shredded skin. Of course, I never saw his body, or the photos. Mom protected me from all of that, But my imagination made it so much worse. As a kid, I thought Dad had the coolest job. Stem cell breakthroughs were all over the news. People talked about cancer cures, eradicating paralysis, erasing the common cold. Then the documentaries came out. People went to court. These details were never confirmed, but I read every Reddit theory about Dad's nameless company. Why wouldn't they disclose more information? What, or who, could a person generate with the right cocktail of genetic material? After that, I started to wonder what he knew. How much did those secrets weigh on him? Why did he never talk to us about his work? Or, more importantly, who wouldn't let him? The sun was over the buildings now, and the air was warm. I was properly stoned, so I went inside and poured myself a gin and tonic, scrambled some eggs, and plotted my day-long vacation. I was hammered by 3 p.m. I stumbled down to my local pub and ordered the usual. Another G&T and a basket of fries. I tried muting my thoughts with whatever game was on TV, zoning out. When I finished my drink, I flagged the bartender and ordered another. I was starting to feel good. Or at least feel less. The pain in my shoulder barely buzzed, and my sleepless paranoia was growing groggy. I must have consumed half a bottle of gin. Whenever I blinked, I saw the skin beneath my eyelids and shook it away. Drink, blink, shake. Again and again. Then, the bartender slid me the check. I nodded, mumbling, thank you. But as I reached for my wallet, I felt something. Someone's eyes. I turned over my shoulder. There was a man. I knew that man. He was standing in front of the window, staring. Not at me, though. He was staring at himself. the razor pressed to his old gray skin trimming cutting carving a drop of blood oozed out of his head where the razor cut too close people on the street passed behind him avoiding the site I couldn't, though. I was transfixed. The cuts were growing, but he was unfazed. Mouth slightly open, just staring. Staring at himself. The shaving man. Then, he was leaving. I paid for the check and pushed it forward. Excuse me. I shouldered through the crowd and ran outside. Excuse me. He was down the block, moving twice as fast for someone his age. I followed behind. Not too close, but close enough. I knew it was none of my business, but there was something about the old man. Something sad and familiar. Maybe someone was awake and waiting for him to come home, like me and my dad. I kept following, always a block behind. When he arrived at that familiar subway station, he stopped and looked around, like he had forgotten something. Then, he rushed down that driveway and grabbed a small recycling bin. As he went into the station, I followed, paid the toll, and crept down the platform. I hid behind the bustling crowds, jumping from group to group, moving with him closer and closer towards the hallway. That long, dark hallway with wires and pipes. He went in. And now I was retracing my steps, oblivious in the dark, trying to remember yesterday's chase. Two or three times my outstretched hands met with a wall a piece of scaffolding or a low beam I realized how lucky I was Yesterday I might have been clotheslined if I hadn tripped I listened for his footsteps. Sometimes wet and plodding, other times popping on a piece of discarded metal. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. My eyes were adjusting now, and I saw him, standing in front of some bare-bone pipework. But beneath the pipes, there was something else. A little bit of white appeared behind the all-black shadow. The collar of a shirt. A row of black dress suits hung on the tube like a makeshift closet. it. I hid behind the pillar and listened, clothes ruffling. Then, the groan of stretched limbs. I peeked around. His jacket and shirt were off. Now he was working on his pants. There was something about his posture, his skin, that didn't seem right. He was oddly bunched, like patches of moss or sagging wet paper. Once he was naked, he rummaged through his pants and pulled out a syringe. Without hesitation, he stabbed his leg. As he pressed down, his head fell back, mouth open, miming the sound of pleasure. Once it was empty, he pulled out the needle and tossed it. And suddenly, he was holding the razor again. He started with the top of his head, the sharp edge moving down a wrinkled path, digging deeper, pinching, now shaving. He pulled at ribbons of flesh, like little droplets of blood welling at the seams. But the wounds were all wrong, almost like he was peeling off a callus. There was barely any blood. Even as chunks of skin fell to his feet, there was no muscle, no guts, or bone. Beneath his exposed skin was just fresh skin, smooth and unblemished. He exhaled, shuddering with each stroke. First, he shaved his forehead, then his cheeks, his eyelids, unspooling himself in that muddy darkness. But it wasn't mutilation. No. Underneath the skin was something better. Half of a taut, youthful brow. A smooth neck. His breath itched in pain and satisfaction. Soon, his knuckles were no longer swollen and stiff. His fingers were new, slender, and youthful. He worked methodically like a scientist, carving, discarding, jumping from arm to torso, trimming time like an overgrown hedge. As skin hit the bin, It made this terrible splatting sound. Then there was the smell. It put me over, and I gagged. The sound rose above his blade, and he turned around. He was only halfway done. Old and bloated bits clung to his naked body. Part of his face was peeling off, the wrinkles wet with blood. On one side, I saw the old man. On the other, I saw a younger, familiar face. The man in the slick, black suit. We locked eyes. Half his expression, the old, wiltering half, looked tense with fear. But the younger half, the inner half, wore a manic smile. I took a step back, heart in my throat. You. He raised a half-skinned hand, five to ten fingers reaching out. Come here. Hell no. I was already in a sprint. Headlong and ducking under pipes, I leapt over benches, pushed off of walls. I did whatever I could to get away. His bare footsteps were right behind me, heavy and fast. I screamed for help, but a subway train was passing by. Bright lights chopped between the scaffolding. I felt his hand on my coat. The platform was just ahead. I leapt forward. Landing hard on the filthy ground. The drunks scattered, laughing like I was mad. I yelled as loud as I could, demanding help. But that only made them laugh even more. I turned, expecting him to descend on me, but the shaving man stayed back, hidden inside the tunnel. Between the shadows, his naked body was drenched with sweat and blood, slabs of skin falling to his feet. With each breath, the young man grew a flower in bloom. Nothing but a name and a handshake. In that moment, I thought of Dad. What he had told me was a warning. The shaving man then slid backwards, letting the dank and dark tunnel consume him. I wasn't going to wait for a second chance. I got up and ran out of the station, past the shoving drunks and into the open air. Outside, the sun was low. I looked at my phone to check the time. It was 6.25 a.m., Monday morning. I kept running. I ran past the coffee shops filled with white collar suits, their outfits pristine, their steps precise. I shuffled between women in pencil skirts, checking their reflections, adjusting their blazers. Everyone was on their way to somewhere else, to be someone else. When I got home, I locked the door and collapsed on the couch. The adrenaline hasn't worn off. Even now, as I'm writing this, I feel as though I'm still running in my head. now that I know there's some skin walking suit squirreled away in the darkness of our metro what am I supposed to do what will he do now that his secret is known does Winston know did dad know this has to be something to do with his company maybe with how he died I wanted this job to be my purpose to do some good so now I have a decision to make and I need some advice my next shift starts in a few hours should I go back? Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by Dan D. Luez and read by Anthony Coons. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. I think Chuck would approve.