 ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode, I have a creepy pasta for you from Julian J. Alexander called Things Darker Than Man. If you're new here, welcome to the show, and if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, take a moment and invite somebody else to listen with you. Recommending Weird Darkness to others helps make it possible for me to keep doing the show. And while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com where you can find the show on Facebook and Twitter and you can also join the Weird Darkness Weirdos Facebook group. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. It was 3 a.m. on July 17, 2004 when I found myself outside the site of the seventh murder in four weeks. My partner Jim McAllister and I had been the first responders to this particular incident. The first two to survey the carnage before the forensics team and cleanup crew made it to the scene. We'd followed a twisted breadcrumb trail of broken glass, debris and blood up to the master bedroom where we found the mutilated body of the occupant, torn in half and adorned with tattered linen and ruby-tinged goose feathers. Her name was Sally McMahon. She was a 74-year-old woman who, according to her neighbors, lived alone and seldom had any visitors. There was no reason for anyone to have so much as let their dog run a muck through her garden, let alone kill her. Yet, here we were. It ruled out the idea of it being an animal attack after the first victims posed mortem, a local farmer who we found torn to pieces in his ransacked kitchen. Initially, we'd put it down to being a bear or even a particularly aggressive wolf, but that was before a spooked-sounding forensic pathologist from the local hospital called in to Sheriff Alverson's office to gravely relay to us that the bite marks found on the farmer's body were thoroughly baffling. Allegedly, the corpse was covered with human teeth marks and, more alarmingly, teeth marks that were deemed unrecognizable. We had all hoped that the following incidents, when they happened, wouldn't turn out the same way. That they were animal attacks, or that the posed mortem would yield different results. Of course, even by this seventh murder, some officers who were on the scene were still throwing around the idea that these were all just the work of one very aggravated bear. I'd been standing outside the house, taking long, frequent drags on a cigarette and listening to the chatter of the other officers as the faulty streetlight above me played a fierce tug-of-war with the night. The detective assigned to the case, Donald Evans, emerged in the doorway and began to walk toward me, his face ashen, even in the model to warn you glow. Officer Lomansky? Uh, call me Mikhail, I said, extending my hand out to shake his. You're Detective Evans, right? Yeah, that's me. I'm understanding that you were one of the first responders. That's right, I said. My words muffled by the smoke that exited my mouth in a ghostly wisp. I get these incidents are uncommon around these parts, to say the least, but I need you to tell me if you or Officer McAlister noticed any details that stood out from the other crime scenes. I forced my mind to delve back into the last hour and a half. Jim and I had entered the house at around 3.10 a.m. Firstly, noticing an upturned cabinet and broken glass strewn at the bottom of the staircase. Upon reaching the landing, we found yet more ravaged furniture and broken glass. And more than that, a thick crimson trail of blood that led into the master bedroom. My mind drew a blank. It was gruesome, but nothing that really stands out from the… the handprints. There were handprints on the ceiling, I said. What? Evans nearly choked. There were bloody handprints on the walls and on the floor, but there were some on the ceiling, too. You sure there were handprints? Evans, the stammered. Sure as I am, that we're having this conversation right now. Bloody handprints, pronounced, too. Wasn't like the perp threw the victim up there or anything like that. You can go and check for yourself. How did… Evans jogged back to the house and disappeared up the stairs. I looked over at Jim, who had been sitting on the hood of the car and staring into space ever since the forensics team had got there. The case was weighing on him, I could tell. With each passing incident, he grew quieter. His mind was on something, though. The handprints on the ceiling had thoroughly frightened and confused the hell out of me. All the murders up until this point had been grisly, but none had really possessed any anomalous details, aside from the lack of fingerprints and the bizarre teeth marks, both of which we were all used to by now. I was about to attempt to make conversation with Jim when Evans rushed back out of the house. He looked even more somber than he had before, almost sickly. You were right about the handprints. We're going to take samples and see if we can identify the perpetrator from that. You almost sounded choked up. Right. I didn't have much hope for that. No attempts at DNA fingerprinting or blood sampling had progressed the case at all in the last three weeks. The forensics team are saying that the corpse is covered in bite marks. Human? Probably. We'll have to wait for the post mortem. It still turned out different. We don't know yet. We knew. We knew all too well. Evans spoke with the same vein expectation that the other local officers did. It was becoming apparent that there was no way to downplay this as something less serious than it was. There was a person out there doing this, someone who was savagely butchering people, seemingly without reason. These were serial killings, yet the words serial killer had yet to be used by our sheriff or even detective Evans. You and McAllister can head home, Evans said, defeat lurking beneath his authoritative tone. It's been a long night and the forensics team will be here for a while. I wished Evans good luck in the hunt for any further evidence and motion to Jim to get in the car. I looked back at the house as I turned the vehicle at the end of the street, knowing that soon the dawn would pull the obsidian shroud from the street and the townspeople would awaken to yet more unanswered questions. Our next weirdo watch party is Saturday, April 13th. Are all the men gathered? All the fools. We'll be treated to a Roger Corman crap-fest from 1958, Teenage Caveman starring Robert Vaughn. There are shadows there deep and cold and dirt that eats men. Did he just say dirt that eats men? There are shadows there deep and cold and dirt that eats men. Yep, I guess so. Mistress Malicious and her Mistress Peace Theater will keep us entertained throughout the film as we watch this caveman teenager with great hair go into the jungle to fight prehistoric monsters like dogs and an armadillo. Whatever, they're prehistoric creatures. An animal is far more terrible than any you've seen. Our weirdo watch party is always free to watch online, so grab your popcorn, candy, and soda and jump into the fun, and even get involved in the live chat as we watch the movie. Plus, during this weirdo watch party, I'll be giving away a creepy crate to one lucky winner, full of scary surprises like horror collectibles, true crime-themed accessories, books, terrifying trinkets, and more with some weird darkness swag added in. You won't know what's in the creepy crate until you open it. Strengthening his courage, his daring, his dreams. And I'll be giving instructions on how to win the creepy crate inside the chat during the movie, so you have to tune in to win. It's Teenage Caveman, Saturday, April 13th, hosted by Mistress Peace Theater. See the awe-inspiring beasts in a Teenage Caveman's world. The show begins at 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 8pm Mountain, and 7pm Pacific. You can watch a trailer for the film, and watch horror hosts and schlocky B movies anytime, day or night on the Monster Channel page at WeirdDarkness.com. Hope to see you on Saturday, April 13th. How the hell do you know about this? How did you get this number? I barked sternly. As if on cue, the most recent copy of the Jefferson Herald was slammed down in front of me by the exasperated Sheriff Alverson. The bold headline perched arrogantly atop to cheap, fragile paper. Terror in Torton. The Sonny Bean Murders. I looked up at Alverson's scowl and then spoke into the phone. Ah, excuse me for one minute. I ended the call immediately and set the phone down. I perused the article with growing disgust, already put off by the tasteless reference to the Scottish cannibal in the headline. It read, In the early hours of July 17th, Jefferson County police were called to the scene of a suspected home invasion, only to be met with a grisly discovery. The mutilated, cannibalized body of Sally McMahon, 74. This is said to be the seventh in a string of similar horrific incidents that the authorities have been keeping quiet, as not to frighten the citizens of Torton. Looking further down the page, I saw my last name appear, as well as Jim's. I looked up at Sheriff Alverson in shock. What the hell is this? I exclaimed. Alverson's steely gaze persisted. I was hoping you'd know, he said dryly. My mind raced. I never told the press anything. I know this is the kind of stuff that they love to sink their teeth into, especially around here when nothing happens. A thought popped into my head. Jim, you left his gun and badge on Alverson's desk the day after the seventh killing, and no one had been able to contact him since then. I couldn't think of anyone else who would have tipped off the press about this whole ordeal, because no one else at the scene, no matter how harrowed, had been quite as out of their minds as Jim was. Seemed like the Ever-I-Rate Sheriff had read my mind. You think it was McAllister? Looks that way. The only other person who would have been liable to let any information escape the scene was the lady who called it in. We made a point not to give her all the details after finding out about the bite marks. We spared those details from past witnesses too. Well, no one on this precinct has heard from him since last week's incident, and no one's been able to contact him. Is he married, LeMansky? The Sheriff asked. No. Kids, girlfriend? You live alone, Sheriff, I said. My voice descending into an unimpressed monotone. Yeah, Jim had just up and left. His personality had been melting away ever since the case was opened. It wasn't like him at all. But Alverson was and always had been an uptight, neglectful son of a bitch. In the eight years that I'd worked here, he'd never once made a real effort to get to know me, or any of the officers for that matter, despite the fact that he had very little else to do. Perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder, because he was laid off from a big shot position in Seattle or something. But it's not like his dismissive cold self would ever tell me that story. I knew what was about to come out of his mouth. Well, LeMansky, you know the doof better than anybody else here, so it falls on you to pull him out of wherever he's holed up and talk to him. With all due respect, Sheriff, I said, almost gagging on my words, what would I even say to him? The papers have already printed. Alverson cut me off. You tell him whatever you got to tell him. Have him head down to the Jefferson Herald and tell them that Forensics screwed up and that it was an animal attack. I can't have these jerks making us look like we ain't hadling this, so they're gonna pull that stupid headline right now. This is a quiet town and I don't want those Hoover boys down here. Cannibalism. Alverson was perhaps the only human being in the world who still used the term Hoover boys to describe the FBI after 1969. It was a joke about his ever-so-confidently spoken-out dated lingo amidst the officers unbeknownst to him. I shot up from my desk, unwilling to tolerate the unanswered what-ifs of the situation. Sheriff, what if they don't pull the headline? What happens then? What if they don't retract their statements? Alverson, ever-angry, stared at me with an expression that suggested that he was about to blow his top again. He shook his head as his mind attempted to come up with some kind of solution. Right. We interview every single man. No. Every single person above the age of 16 had torqued him. We get officers out there going door to door, demanding mandatory questioning for every man or woman, boy and girl, above 16 years. They can tell anyone who refuses that they'll be immediately put down as a suspect. I can't. I cannot. And the local people think that we ain't handling this. It was all to do with how we appeared. Not what we were actually doing. Bastard. Sure. It mattered that the people were torqued and felt like we were confident and assured in the way that we were dealing with things. But the fact of the matter was, we weren't handling it. Not at all. We were taking blind swings at an invisible assailant, and he had us all scared. Sheriff, I began, go find McAllister, he grumbled. I pondered arguing for a second, then decided that there's no way I was going to win this fight. All right. I tried contacting Jim earlier in the week to no avail. So I knew my only real option was to head to his place. That is, if he hadn't packed all his belongings together and jumped on the next plane to the east coast. As Alverson sought her back to his office, I hurriedly tidied the small mess of papers on my desk and headed out to the lot, opting to take my own car instead of one of the precinct's vehicles. I felt a weight upon my shoulders, as though the thick, humid air was pressing down on me. Jim's sudden absence was simply another rung on this ladder of stress. I was already thinking nonstop about what I had seen, and when I'd once again find myself staring at another grisly picture just like it. The rain clouds began to spit as I drove through the downtown area, the dark gray forms harbingers of an oncoming thunderstorm. Jim lived in an apartment complex about four miles away from the station, fairly close to the edge of town and far enough away from the center for very few cares to be given about any renovations that he may have needed. I'd only ever been there once to drop Jim off when his car was in for repairs, but it wasn't hard to find. The rain hammered down aggressively on the exterior of my car, the relentless metallic banging making me feel as though I was trapped inside a tin can at a shooting range. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed an anorak that had slipped from the seat to the foothold in the back of the car, thinking of what exactly I'd say to Jim. That was, of course, if he hadn't locked himself in his bathroom and, well, you know, that was not an idea that I was particularly fond of entertaining. I exited my car and walked briskly to the door of the apartment, dialing his room number into the panel by the door and hitting call as the rain lapped hungrily at my shoes. Jim, it's Paquale. If you're in there, open up. I'm not here to drag you back to Alverson, just here to talk. Nothing came through the receiver. Looking across the laundry, I saw Jim's car parked in the looming shadow of a pine tree. I tried calling again, this time trying to sound noticeably irritated. I know you're in there, man. It's been a crap week for everybody who's on that case, but I gotta talk to you. Besides, it's coming down out here and I'm cold as all hell. Open the door! The receiver crackled suddenly and a voice spilled from the speaker. I pulled the door open and wasted no time in bothering myself with the elevator. I dashed up the stairs to the second floor and marched down the corridor to his room. The door was open slightly, the deadbolt resting on the frame. I barely even wrapped on the door twice before Jim pulled it open, his eyes wide and a revolver in his right hand. Whoa-ho! Hey! I flinched and almost fell backwards at the side of the weapon's moss, daring me in the face. Jim lowered it and spoke through deep breaths and an apparent lump in his throat. I had to make sure it was you, Mike. You heard me on the… whatever, I said. Perplexed by Jim's evidently rampant paranoia, but unwilling to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already was. It's me, man. It's me. What the hell is this all about? I asked, gesturing at the weapon. You better come in, he said. A funneled Jim into his dimly lit apartment. I'd expected it to be far messier than it actually was. There was no takeout boxes littering the floor or sloppily stacked up on top of one another, and no offensive smells emanated from the kitchen. Jim had clearly been drinking, however. On his coffee table sat a quarter full bottle of cognac next to a cheap-looking whiskey glass. How long you been working on that? I asked with a spiritless chuckle. Couple days, I guess. Strong stuff, you want any? This word swayed like a tree in the breeze. I'm good. I'm going to be frank with you, Jim. I came here from the station. I saw the newspaper, and Alverson needs you to get in touch with the Jefferson Herald and tell them to pull that headline. Screw Alverson! Those were not words spoken by the liquid voice in his blood. They were assured. Steady and serious. Screw Alverson and all of his callous crap. He's handled this about as well as a blind, shrewd knife fight. I wouldn't even dream of bringing what I found out to him because he'd not be in jail before I'd even get the whole story out. And believe you me, Mike, I found some stuff out. I found some stuff out. Would you find out? I asked, bewildered. You gotta think I'm just a drunk ass who snapped at the side of too many spilled internal organs, but you're my closest friend here, and I trust you're going to listen to me. I'm listening, I said. Firstly, yeah, I did give the Herald that information, and there's no way in hell I'm having them pull the story. No one's safe here, and they need to know what's going on so that they can take as many precautions as they can. The killer has no connections to any of the victims. Anyone could be the next casualty. Hold on. You think you know who the killer is? He gave me a steely, sincere look. My blood ran cold as disbelief flooded my veins. Jim was completely serious. Somewhere inside my head, logic and fantasy were locked in a fierce duel, and fantasy was winning. Jim, I said through nervous breaths, do you know who the killer is? If you do, how the hell did you find out? I'm not a detective, Mike. I'm barely a police officer, but I think I might actually have some idea. Go on. Jim poured himself another shallow glass of cognac. I used to frequent a bar downtown, the Foxhole, you know what? There was a retired old park ranger who'd always be there on Friday nights, and he had a catalog of stories from his time. We'd all sit around and listen to him. One night, I want to say about six months ago, he told a story that he said was his last call before he retired. It happened last year. When like this, a hiking party of about six people got stranded in the deep woods in Mount Pilchuck State Park, watered off the trail by accident, I guess. Two of the six people came back. Two, a woman named Estelle Palmer and a man named Ruben Grundy. Grundy was in a hell of a state when the rangers found them. Ledgerly said that he had no idea where the other four people had gone, that they'd wandered off into the night. Here's where it gets even weirder. Palmer said that the night before they'd been found, there were still three of them. Another man, I think. Palmer had been in and out of sleep and swore that she saw Grundy follow the other guy into the woods when he was going to piss or something. The man never came back, but Grundy did ten minutes later. She said he looked different, thinner, taller, and insisted that he'd had blood all around his mouth. She felt his overwhelming fear and just pretended like she was asleep. Of course, her story was written off as delirious rambling. Jim cleared his throat and took another swig. Something about the story just kind of gave me a genuine feeling of dread that none of this guy's other stories had quite done. Then the old bastard puts the cherry on top. Week later, the U.S. Forest Service finds remains in the woods with what were presumed to be human teeth marks on them. But they're so pulverized that they can't place exactly who they were. Grundy and Palmer are both interviewed again, but nothing comes of it. Palmer even tells the same story and says that she knows what she saw, but they write it off again. I told the man before closing time that night that he'd scared the crap out of me, but well, I didn't believe him. He just looked at me with his deadpan expression and said, Look it up, son. So I did. And what do you know? It happened. Multiple different news sources covered the story too. It happened. It was barely covered on TV. Right. I started. But Pilchuck State Park is huge. The surrounding area is Ruben Grundy lives in Torkden, Mike. He owns a ranch. He fumbled around with a mess of documents on the coffee table. Estelle Palmer used to live in Torkden too, literally a quarter mile down the road from Grundy. She lived here her whole life by the look of things. Are those police records? I asked. Jim gave me an irritated side-eye and continued. Point is, after she came back from that expedition, she moved four towns away, packed up and left in about a week. Sold the farmhouse she lived in to somebody who'd been on her ass about buying it for years. Her childhood home from what I read. Whether or not Ruben Grundy was responsible for those people disappearing, she saw something happen in those woods that made it so she couldn't even stand to be near him. Logic struggled onward in its ongoing battle inside my brain. It's strained but superstition's blade was far too sharp. Maybe she was a wack job, I said. You know what towny folk are like. Living the same place, all their lives, and clean bill of mental health, Jim exclaimed, waving a crumpled medical record in my face, clearly taken from a local clinic. No history of schizophrenia, depression, BPD, or even so much as a panic attack. No prescribed medications. It's entirely possible that we could put what she saw down to hunger, dehydration, or on-the-off chance, maybe even the delayed effects of a hallucinogenic trip. But the fact of the matter is, this woman up and left in a matter of days after that incident. It's not like Torkton's right next door to Mount Pilchuck, either. Jim dropped the medical records to the floor and shakily pulled up another document. He was excited or terrified. Or both. So, look here. Her new address is in May Creek. Jim, you're chasing a roller coaster of a story here. If we take this to Alverson, he is going to give us a whole spiel about how we're idiots and then take it upon himself to rehire me just so he can fire me. We take it to Evans and he's going to think we're on a wild goose chase because he's a guy who deals with career criminals in Seattle and the odd home invasion. He's probably been with the force for, what, two, three years? Face it, Mike. Our higher-ups are stuck scratching their heads and we might actually have a lead. I know it sounds crazy. I know it's a long shot and it's dumb luck that I heard the story, but we may have an actual suspect. In the moment, Jim's obsessive joining of the dots had rendered me dumbfounded, unable to think straight. So, you're saying the killer is Ruben Grundy? Jim blurted out. Maybe I'm just another drunk asshole who wishes he was a big shot detective. Maybe I'm completely wrong, but if there's even a chance that I'm right, we have to do something. Jim had a point. Even in the midst of his fanatical behavior. Alverson didn't care when Evans, despite leading the charge, was being eaten up by his own fear. I saw it screaming behind his eyes the night of Sally McMahon's murder. All right, what's the plan? We visit Estelle Palmer in May Creek and we ask her about Grundy, Jim said, through shaking breaths. What is it what he was like if he seemed different during or after the hiking trip, all that jazz. If we can convince her to help us beyond just talking to us, then maybe we actually have a chance at communicating it to Evans. Either that or she chases us out of the house with a double barrel for even asking. Ever the pessimist? Get some fresh clothes on, sober up and we'll get our asses to May Creek. Do you keep a journal or diary? If not, maybe you should consider it. It's been shown that journaling can help you reduce stress, help relieve depression, build self-confidence. It boosts your emotional intelligence, helps with achieving goals, inspires creativity and more. In fact, my friend S. N. Lenees has created a weird darkness-themed journal just for you. Full of blank pages for you to use as a diary, make notes for class or office meetings, jot down ideas for that novel you want to write. Use it for keeping a mileage long if you travel for business, whatever you want. In fact, she has numerous styles of journals to choose from. Along with the weird darkness journal, there's one for dealing with grief, for teachers' notes, for medical residencies, keeping track of your meds or health routine and several others. Journals make a great gift for others, but it's also a great gift for yourself and your own mental health. No matter what you might want a journal for, my friend Anne has it, and you can see all of our journals, including the one for Weird Darkness, on the sponsors and friends page at WeirdDarkness.com. Jim and I arrived to distal Palmer's residence in May Creek an hour later, having backtracked along numerous roads due to the exhausted GPS in my car. We parked across from Palmer's house. Number 5, Fairbank Street. The place was not at all what I'd anticipated. I'd expected us to pull up next to an overgrown lawn brimming with tall weeds, and a crudely arranged patio that led up to a dingy porch with a grimy screen door. Perhaps there would have been a sign hammered on the wall made of plywood, and scrawled on it in red paint would have been the words, Trespassers will be shot. It was nothing like that. If anything, it was not unlike any of the other idyllic-looking houses in May Creek. The lawn was a healthy burst of green. Each blade of grass seemingly trimmed down to exactly the same size, and just by the curb lay a toy truck that must have belonged to a child. Jim swept his hair out of his eyes and opened the door of the car. Well, here it goes. We'll either get our answers or we get a door slammed in our faces. We approached the door, peering through the living room window and catching sight of a woman sitting in a reclining chair, watching a young boy of no more than three years of age playing on the floor. She looked up as Jim rang the doorbell and stood up to exit the living room, motioning to the toddler to stay where he was. Estelle Palmer swung the door open, a sense of immediate irritation glinting in her eyes. She was about 38 years of age, with long, dirty blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Noticing her annoyance, I began to speak. Mrs. Palmer? Ms. I'm not married, Estelle said. Right, Ms. Palmer, Jim took over. My name is Jim McAllister, and this is Mikhail Lomansky. We don't mean to upset you, but we're cops. She snapped. Jim was visibly surprised. I figured. Where are you from? Sultan? Don't tell me you're from Seattle. Well, Torkton, I said. Her glare narrowed even further. It's our understanding that you used to live there. Yes, what's it to you? She seemed even more defensive now. We came to a choir about Jim struggled over unnecessary eloquence, even though he fully expected to receive the cold shoulder. Ms. Palmer's irritation reached its peak, and she began to shut the door. It's about Ruben Grundy, Jim finally managed. She stopped and peered through the crack between the frame and the door. Her annoyance had dissipated and worry flooded her eyes. You can come in, she finally said, ushering us inside. The interior of the house was as picturesque as the exterior, the staircase adorned with paintings of famous North American mountains, the kitchen clean and well-organized. Estelle led us into the living room where the boy, who I presumed to be her son, looked up at us with that wide-eyed, curious expression that's so common in young children. Baby, go play in your room, okay? Estelle said to the boy. He looked down at the plastic dinosaur he was playing with, then back at his mother, before picking up the toy and sauntering down to the end of the hallway. Before Jim or I could get a word out about our sweet kid, her worrisome expression returned. I haven't seen Ruben in over a year, she said. When I moved here, he used to call myself five times a week before I changed numbers. Didn't tell him I was moving here, of course I didn't, but what the hell has he done? It's not what he's done. It's what we think he might have done. Miss Palmer, Jim started. Please, it's just Estelle, she said softly, seeming far less vexed by our presence than she'd been minutes before. Estelle, Jim said, situations this, my friend and I have reason to believe that Ruben Grundy may be linked to a series of violent serial killings in Torkton. However, it's little more than a hunch, and the police investigation has been a complete mess from the outset, so we need your help. It's my understanding that you knew Ruben for most of your life. Estelle sat down in the reclining chair, motioning for us to sit down on the couch. My whole life, yeah. His old man Scott owned this ranch down the road from my old house, and he inherited the whole place when Scott passed. We were in the same grade at school. He was always a smart, worldly guy. Knew a whole lot about nature and cared a lot for the animals he reared on the ranch. Condain every plant in the woods. She chuckled as she reminisced. Throughout your childhood, did he ever seem off to you at any point? No, never. Not once did I have him pinned as the outcast or the weirdo kid. Everyone at high school loved Ruben. I had to ask about the hiking trip, Jim said. Four people disappeared, and you and Ruben were the only ones who came back. You moved away a week after. What the hell happened? Estelle's voice quaked as she spoke, fear mingling with the worry in her eyes. Ruben, she trailed off, straining against the painful memories to force the words out. Ruben changed on that trip. We were a week into it, and there was clearly something strange going on with him. Usually he'd be musing about conifer trees and mountain lions, but he barely spoke, and when he did, the way he talked was fragmented and hoarse, like he'd forgotten his own native language. He seemed irritated when we tried to talk to him. He didn't talk about much, but when he did, he said, The words crumpled to the floor again. I leaned forward. What did he say, Estelle? He said he was hungry. An electric current surged down my spine. The silence rang in my ears, like the whining aftermath of an explosion. I'd hear him at night. He'd sit out by the fire longer than anyone and mutter to himself, saying things like, God, I'm so hungry in this voice that I'd never heard come out of him before. When it became obvious that we were lost, that's when people started disappearing. First Becca, then Miguel, then Ruth, and then Nick the night before we were found. When Nick disappeared, I saw Ruben follow him into the forest. I didn't hear anything, but Ruben came back later without him. He looked different, sickly, pale, skinny, taller somehow, and I swear to God, he was covered in blood. I looked over a gym. It was staring intently at her. Crap. You drunk bastard. You brilliant drunk bastard. You might actually be onto something. Maybe I was delirious. Maybe he looked the same as ever the next day when the park rangers found us. I just couldn't shake this feeling that I was still in danger, though. He talked in that cracked, hoarse way still. The police paid it no mind, wrote it off as the effects of dehydration, and wrote my story off as a mirage. I moved as soon as I could when I got home. I stayed with my mom in Olympia for a short while before I found a place here in May Creek. Like I said, maybe I was crazy. I'm not saying Ruben Grundy definitely killed those people, but I'm certain that something in those woods got inside of him and made itself a home, and I don't think it ever left. Jim's intense concentration turned to slight confusion. What do you mean something? I still gave a half-smile as though she were embarrassed. I'm not one to believe in folk tales, Mr. McAllister. Never have been, even when my old band tried to scare me to death with them when I wasn't much older than my son. But Ruben was always the same, up until that trip, and he changed so suddenly. Call it what you want, a spirit, a sickness, the call of nature, or whatever. Something took a hold of Ruben. Took him away. I'm not saying that if you investigate him, you'll definitely find the answers you're looking for, but you might want to try. Noticing that Estelle was on the verge of tears, I grabbed Jim's arm and said, Thank you so much for your help. We should probably get going and leave you in peace. Estelle, Jim said tentatively, I don't suppose we could convince you to come with us. No, she interjected. I can't see Ruben ever again, not after what I saw in those woods. He doesn't know where I live, but I still lock every door and window at night. Still watch the footage from the security camera every morning. Sometimes I think if I met him, it would lay some ghost to rest, but something tells me the ghosts are real stubborn. I can't put myself in danger. I'm the only thing that Robert has. She motioned down the hall towards her son's bedroom. Jim looked as though he were about to persist in his argument, but he simmered down quickly. Thank you for your time, Estelle. Sincerely, Jim said as we stood up and walked to the door. We're going to go give Ruben a visit and we'll find out who's doing this, I promise. Thank you, Estelle replied. Good luck. She silently watched us walk down the driveway to the car. A solemn look in her eyes. Perhaps she was reliving all those memories or perhaps she thought she had just sent us further into something we'd regret being a part of. I looked over at the house one last time as I started the car. Through the living room window, I could make out a blurred picture of Estelle, cradling her son in a tender embrace. We drove. I pulled the car up to the Torquton police station at 6.15 p.m. Having convinced, particularly, I rate Jim to stop off there first. I told him to wait in the car while I briefly went to talk to Alverson. Apparently, he had, at the very least, done a good job of rounding up the local populace for questioning, as I had to sift through a chattering crowd of townsfolk who were gathered outside and inside the station. I ran to Alverson's office, wrapping sharply on the door. What the hell is it? Keep me gritty, aggravated yell. I opened the door. My gaze met Sheriff Alverson's cockeyed stare. Where are you, Ben Lamasky? I interviewed a man named Ruben Grundy. I asked, ignoring him. Who? Alverson said. Ruben Grundy, rancher from the north end of Torquton. I said, I know. Alverson said, taking an aggressive swig of his coffee. Officer Barnett is a checklist. Go ask her. We're in God's name of you, Ben. You get McAllister to pull that article? I slammed his door, ran to the front desk, where I found Officer Barnett busying herself with an Excel spreadsheet. I nearly collided with the desk, startling her. Eve, I said, letting out a long held breath. I interviewed a man named Ruben Grundy yet. Visibly confused by my urgency, she pulled up the records and perused them for about 10 seconds. Looks like we had him a couple hours ago. We cleared him. He's not down as a suspect. Crap. Where's Detective Evans? Monroe, she said, absentmindedly. Something came up from another case, and he left a few hours. How long did you have Grundy in the interview room for? My words were ablaze with insistence. Five minutes in and out, Barnett replied. You gotta be kidding me. That'd even ask him about the hiking trip. Thanks. I dashed out of the station, feeling the mystified eyes of the townspeople boring into me. Jim was waiting in anticipation, craning his neck around as I ran toward the car. I threw the door open and clamored inside. They cleared the bastard two hours ago. Evans is in Monroe. We're heading to Grundy's place. Let's go, Jim said. His tone was crawling with nerves. He clearly expected it to come to this now, but now the reality of it was sinking in. Fear brewed underneath my adrenaline rush. The sun began to exhaustedly sink below the distant mountainous besped through Torquton, painting a crimson outline on the remaining clouds. The stench of dread began to creep in through the cracked passenger side window with every inch that the sun receded. It began to wish it'd take longer to get to Grundy's ranch. Anything to stave off the terrible gut feeling. So Evans went to Monroe. What for? Jim asked. Obviously desperate to break the silence. Barnett said it was another case. Whether or not that's a lie, I don't know, but I don't care. He's scared and he's not here, which makes him useless. What about Alverson? He wasn't even doing so much as ushering the interviewees in. Just ask me about whether or not the Herald had been convinced to pull the front page. We're on our own, Jim. As I said that, the road buildings on North Avenue disappeared, and Grundy's ranch came into view, sitting less than a quarter of a mile down the road from where we were. I could see a modest looking, well-kept one-story house that sat at the head of a sprawling, two perhaps three acres of land that I assumed all belonged to Grundy, as all throughout the grassland were raising cattle. Now behind the house stood a barn, towering proudly over the tiny abode in all of its rustic glory. Doing our utmost to compose ourselves, Jim and I parked the car at the end of the gravel driveway, repairing for what would hopefully be our final visit of the day. We walked up to the front of the house, trepidation hanging like a meat hook on the otherwise calming summer breeze. I knocked on the screen door and squinted through the glass. From the end of the hallway emerged a man standing about six foot four. He made a slow jog toward the screen door and pulled it open enthusiastically. He was as tan as one might expect a rancher to be, dressed in tattered jeans and a polo shirt. He looked to be in his late 30s. He had thinning brown hair that stuck out in tufts from underneath an ill-fitting baseball cap and a subtly all-burn-colored beard. He gave a smile, his eyes glinting a little. Gotta help you, boys! He asked, his voice a chipper, gravelly song. I was thrown off for a second. I had expected a weathered, malnourished-looking man covering his face with a wide-brimmed hat. I had expected an inhuman rasp. I had expected him to tell us to leave him alone. Jim jumped in. My name is Detective Cal Mariano and this is Detective Dave Crowley. We're here regarding the town-wide questioning of the residents of Torquton. Runny chuckled nervously as Brow wrinkling. All right, there must have been some mistake. The police already interviewed me a few hours ago. We understand, sir, and we're very sorry to trouble you, I said, joining Jim and playing the role of Detective Crowley. See, Jim said, it's a big operation and the Torquton Police Department are swamped, as you might imagine. Fortunately, they missed a couple of vital questions when interviewing a few people and they've sent us around to get extra details. Oh, right, of course, Runny said, his expression softening a little. My old means come on inside. Sometimes you feel a bit nutty, especially if you're a weirdo. If that feeling transfers to your taste buds as well, I've got some great news for you. Weird dark roast nutty mummy coffee. Wrap your taste buds around this medium dark roast blend with shrouds of almond, honey, and chocolate. Each bag of nutty mummy is exclusive to weird darkness and is roasted to order. Then, bandaged, I mean, bagged specifically for you to ensure a maximum freshness for you, your mummy, and anyone else you share it with. Entomb your old coffee and bring your taste buds back from the dead with weird dark roast nutty mummy at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. I couldn't remember. Hope you boys will forgive me for that smell. He laughed. Got a rat infestation at the moment when the bastards keep dying in the walls and underneath the floorboards. I tried to keep the stench away as best I can till I can dig them out. Right on, man, I said, humoring his conversation. Had a problem with rats myself about a month ago. Runny led us to his kitchen, which seemed to be the biggest and most impressive room in the otherwise small house, with a large granite counter spanning its entire length and a state-of-the-art cooker sitting in the middle. One of the counter was a hefty pile of raw meat. Crap. That's all from your cattle? Yes, sir. Grundy exclaimed with pride, all local is sourced to this very ranch. The butcher shop's downtown loved this stuff. I'll bet, I said. Now, Mr. Grundy, you mind if Detective Mariano and I ask you some questions? Shouldn't take long. Sure, have a seat, Grundy said, gesturing to the kitchen table. He leaned against the counter, turning his attention to the pile of meat. He still hadn't asked to see our badges. I'm listening, boys, fire away. Torkton Station clout your interview at about five minutes. Correct, I asked. Yeah, real quick and in and out. Think they wrote me off, cuz, well, I don't have a record, and I mean, look at this place. I'm busy all the time. Ain't got kids to help me around the ranch, Grundy replied. Of course. As far as criminal charges go, your record's completely clean, Mr. Grundy. Mm-hmm. Grundy picked up a meat cleaver, began hacking at the stake. The instrument came down with a resounding thwack, separating a piece of the animal's flesh from the rest of the flank. I suppose we're here to ask about the hiking trip you took in April of 2003, with a party of five other people. Grundy exhaled loudly, as though he were sighing. However, he didn't turn around or stop what he was doing. The cleaver came down again, louder this time. Oh, of course. I was a little surprised myself that they didn't ask. Well, let's start with the general question that began. What happened? What's your story? Got lost on the sixth day of the trip. We'd intended it to be a long trip anyhow, but we ended up having a hell of a time finding the foot of Mount Pilchunk and found ourselves lost in the woods with no idea which direction we were supposed to go. Becca disappeared on the first night we got lost. He paused, falling into a reminiscent chasm for just a moment. And did you know Becca well? Jim asked. Known her since high school, we were going to get married this year. There was a pain in his voice. This isn't our guy. Damn, this is not our guy. I'm sorry, I said. That must have been difficult. I was cut off by a startling sound of the cleaver, making contact with the cutting board, slicing cleanly through another piece of meat, much louder than before. Try not to think about it. It got easy after that, really easy. There was this pain. Sounded like he was struggling through his sentences now. Pain, I asked. Started in my head, clouded my vision. How long did the pain go on for? Jim asked. The electric current I'd felt in Estelle's living room sprung to life again. It was like a blade this time, grazing my spine with serrated teeth. I thought I'd become accustomed to the stink of the dead rodents, but I knew what that smelled like. This was something different, something that carried a far more bitter scent. Hope you boys will forgive me for the smell. Two days spread to my hands and feet, felt numb after that, and then I guess I felt good, Grundy said, his voice assuming a strange greeting quality. He brought the cleaver down again, the abrasive thud accompanied by the wet sound of tearing meat. Grundy turned around to look at us. He seemed peeler than he had before, his posture slightly crooked. The glint in his eyes was gone. What do you remember about the disappearance of Nick Lee the night before you were rescued, I inquired. He paused, setting the cleaver down. And I blacked out. His cheekbones now seemed sunken. His eyes were even darker. His fingers were freakishly long and thin. An eerie silence waltzed with the tension that had clouded the kitchen. It was just animals at first. His voice was a sickly rasp. What? When I came back from the trip, it was just animals, coyotes, mountain lives, prairie dogs, none of my own cattle. What the hell are you talking about? My mouth was dry. A stinging scent of decomposition couldn't be ignored. It was just animals until the feeling came back. There was something in those woods, boys. Something that called to me. Something that wouldn't let me die. Something told me. Grundy's voice was no longer a rasp. Sounded like a ghostly moan. As though his voice were wrapped up in a violent gale. His eyes were cold, black pits. His teeth were unnaturally long, forming yellow daggers in his mouth and forcing his face into a mocking grin. Jim stood up, backing away. Yeah, told you what, Mr. Grundy? Something that told me to eat. Grundy finally said. Despite his unnatural tone, his voice was somehow cold. Matter of fact, I killed the people on that hiking trip. I knew all of them, and I killed them and ate their flesh. Grundy said. Oh my god. Oh my god, Estelle was right. There was no logical resolution to what had seemed like a crazy hunch. We were two idiots in over our heads. Why Jim could hardly speak. I tried eating animals and raw meat until that feeling came back. He began circling the table. That's when I began breaking into houses. People I didn't know. People I did know. Some I liked. Some I didn't care for. I tore them all apart. I stood up and stumbled away next to Jim as Ruben Grundy stalked towards us, his sharp canines protruding. Why are you telling us this? Because his icy tone slowly began to thaw. They can do what they like with me now. They can fry me. They can commit me as another criminally insane nut because they think they can control me like every other guy that went out and killed young girls because my me was too rough on them. It helps them sleep at night to know that those sick bastards are all just human beings that they can control one way or another. But this rage inside me. This power. The grop of drool fell from his mouth and pooled on the floor. There are darker things than man in this world, boys. In the soil. In the mountains. In trees. In some dark corners of a big city. It might make you feel better to believe that other people are the crudest thing this life has to offer, but I'm afraid that just isn't true. Grundy's mouth was unnaturally wide. The bed of spikes inside no longer resembling anything remotely human. A small glimmer sat in the center of his black eyes, like a tiny brilliant star inside a black hole. Hunger. Jim and I dived in opposite directions and Grundy launched to both of us an animalistic howl erupting from his throat. I heard a chair collide with the counter as I scrambled to my feet, coming face to face with the creature that had been or still was Ruben Grundy. Any disbelief I had could not be justified. This nightmarish picture was here in front of me and it was very, very real. Justice's maw opened again and another monster has grown emitted from within him. A gunshot rang out and Grundy doubled over in pain, screeching with the ferocity of a thousand banshees. Jim stood beside him, his pistol drawn. Grundy twitched violently, the motion producing a sickening crunch as the one of his bones had broken. Without a moment's hesitation, Grundy jumped from the floor to the ceiling and took off down the hallway to what I had assumed to be the staircase to the basement, skittering like an insect. His harrowing howl echoed through the house like another angry gust of wind. Drawing my own weapon, Jim and I gave chase. The door to the basement hung wide open and any vaguely pleasant smells in the house were now being eaten alive by the very clear aura of death. This wasn't the smell of a rat problem, that was for sure. For about 10 seconds, the house resounded with clattering and screaming coming up from the basement and as soon as it had begun, it suddenly ceased. Dead silence. I exchanged a terrified glance with Jim. I wish I was still drunk. Jim grumbled shakily. We cautiously crept down the stairs to the basement, the light dwindling more and more with each step. My hands were gripping the pistol so hard that my knuckles had turned white and an oasis of sweat had sprung from my palms. Jim fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a flashlight, turning it on and allowing the beam to illuminate the pitch blackness. The beam pierced the void that sat in the doorway, creating a tunnel of light that led our eyes to a site that confirmed what I had feared the moment that smell had hit me. The floor of the basement was piled with remains of all kinds, animal, human, arms, legs, insides. Some had clearly been dragged down here no more than a few days ago. Some were weeks, maybe even months old, left on the ground to decay and deny a real burial. A shuffling sound from off to the left grabbed our attention and Grundy stepped back into view. His metamorphosis had advanced even further. He stood well over seven feet tall, his ribcage protruding as though his skin were vacuum packed around it. His face was now ghoulishly inhuman, his eyes like hollow pits, and his teeth like battle-scarred tusks. Ruben Grundy perched like a gargoyle atop his morbid spoils, a king of the dead in his hall of treasures. He spoke a baritone growl sitting underneath his strangled voice, sorry the refrigerator down here is broken. A sick smile spread across his face, and it was enough to tip Jim and I over the edge. We just started shooting, and we kept on shooting until both of our weapons had completely run out of bullets. When our eyes were no longer obscured by the noxious muzzle flashes, the flashlight fell on what was seemingly the lifeless corpse of the beast that Ruben Grundy had turned into. We were both shocked, having expected him to attempt to flee the basement or at least jump out of the way. The twisted monster now lay still among his quarries. The entire torqued and police department arrived half an hour later, and the deeply panicked white-faced Detective Evans arrived another half hour after that. The whole cleanup operation took the best part of an entire week, but that first night was a harrowing ordeal. Even for those who didn't have to scrape up the remains or lay eyes on the creature that was responsible. If it had been any other case, that would have relished the look of horror on Sheriff Alverson's face when he knew quite how badly he had handled everything, and the realization that he'd have to deal with those Hoover boys when a black SUV pulled up outside the crime scene. The expression on his face was one shared by everyone who had to wrap their heads around the fact that the near-eight-foot-tall monster that was dragged out of that basement had been, at one point, Ruben Grundy. I was glad that the case had been closed, but I felt very little in the way of catharsis. Jim and I had come face to face with the unknown, and the unknown had filled our heads with something unforgettable. There are things darker than man out there, things we can't control the way we can control the Dahmers and John Wayne Gacy's of the world. We may have put an end to Ruben Grundy's otherwise never-ending hunger, but whatever was inside him is still tearing its way through the forests and the mountains, searching for another viable host to infect with the burning rage it carries with it. Not so sure that we can always fight what we don't understand. on the Contact Social page at WeirdDarkness.com. Also on the website, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, click on Tell Your Story. Things Darker Than Man was written by Julian J. Alexander. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. First, John 4, verses 18 and 19. There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he first loved us. And a final thought, but it's better this way. It's better to be weird and happy than normal and sad. Claudio Bellotti. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.