 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 two short horror stories of fiction. First up it's from Sammy Ruiz called The Statues and then it's a story submitted anonymously called The Strangers. If you're new here welcome to the show. While listening be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, to enter contests to connect with me on social media, plus you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. I never liked going to my Aunt Paola's house. Honestly I never liked her either. She's a creepy, Bible thumping Jesus fanatic and she'd always circle over me like a vulture. But none of that creeped me out like her house did. It was old, run down and filled with weird religious art. Sure, there were the typical paintings of the Last Supper and Our Lady of Guadalupe. That's not what made my skin crawl, it was The Statues. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what bothered me, but something wasn't right about them. They were littered all over the place, filling every corner, turning up in every direction you looked, and I swear they looked back. Giant, gosh awful figures of saints and angels clogging the tiny house and turning it into a claustrophobic maze. I often wondered where my Aunt had gotten the money for all the sculptures. In all other regards it seemed as though she had taken a holy vow of poverty. Very little money was spent on herself or even her toddler son. My cousin Miguel was just as strange as his mother. They were so alike that I sometimes forgot Aunt Peola had adopted him. It was the eyes that truly made them resemble one another. A haunted stare accompanied by uncomfortable silence. The first time I babysat Miguel, he never fussed or cried the way normal babies do. It should have been a relief, I know, but the entire time I squirmed as he watched me. My mother insisted that there was no medical reason to blame for his disposition. Secretly, I wondered if it came from being cooped up with my Aunt who had never dated or married. After that evening I passed all the babysitting opportunities on to my younger sister. She didn't seem to mind. It probably would have continued on that way if not for a school project that had my sister occupied at a neighbor's house right when my Aunt insisted on going to Saturday Mass. There was nothing I could do to get out of it. My mom didn't care about my whining. She just leaned across the kitchen table and said, Look, Marcos, I'm not asking, I'm telling. And that was the end of it. An hour later we were in the car driving to my Aunt's house. Gradually, clean-swept sidewalks and picket fences gave away to Chain Link and Graffiti. Occasionally we'd pass a coffee house packed with hipsters milling around like poverty tourists on safari. People like my Aunt were the wildlife. Just as the sun began to set we arrived at the house. My mom parked, I stepped out of the car and walked up four wooden stairs to my Aunt's front door. As I reached out to ring the doorbell the front door flung open. Hola, Marcos, she said in a thick Mexican accent. Her dark eyes stared into mine. She was a small lady with shoulder-length black hair. She wore a white polo shirt and a navy blue skirt that resembled a schoolgirl's uniform. Her wrinkled brown skin reminded me of a dried-up riverbed. Miguel is already asleep in his crib. Make sure you give him his bottle if he starts crying. I made two of them already. They're in the refrigerator. And make sure you do not put the TV too loud. Your mom and I will be back in a hour. She pronounced the H in the word hour when she said it. Okay, Tia Payola, I responded. She preferred when I called her Tia Payola because the word Aunt was too American for her. She was an old-school Mexican lady that didn't believe in speaking English. She had no choice when it came to me because I didn't speak Spanish. That made her angry, and it made me chuckle every time I reminded her of that. She stomped off towards the car as I waved my mom goodbye. I let out a sigh of disappointment as they drove off. Here we go. I thought aloud as I closed the door and walked into the pitch black house. I felt the wall for the light switch and flicked it on. Directly in front of me stood a five-foot tall statue of the Blessed Virgin. I jumped back and yelped. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a hate in the eyes of the otherwise serene face of the statue. It was ridiculous. Statues can't feel hate or anything at all. It's just plaster, I said under my breath as I warily backed towards the sofa. As I rummaged around the floral pillows for the remote, I recalled that my aunt was too cheap to pay for cable. Maybe the bill would have eaten into her precious statue money. Still, that left five channels to choose from. Three of those channels were network news followed by Fox and some kind of Spanish public access. The pickings were slim. Luckily Fox was showing episodes of the X-Files and I had enough time to grab a snack while the commercials were on. Wandering towards the kitchen, I noticed crucifixes nailed above each doorway. Nope, nothing weird there, I muttered sarcastically. Inside the fridge I found stacks of Tupperware, two bottles for Miguel and a cookie tin hiding towards the back. There was a 50% chance the tin held sewing supplies, especially since it was sitting on top of the Bible. Clearly Aunt Paola was losing her mind. A spoon sat next to the Bible, so I used it to pry open the tin. Beans. Cold, smelly beans. Well, my consolation prize was a bottle of water, which I grabbed just as I heard the show start in the living room. Carrying back, I plopped down on the couch. My phone buzzed with a new text message. Apparently my friends were off hanging out at the mall like normal teenagers, and the girls they were meeting had a friend who thought I was cute. Great, I was officially cursed. Instead of replying, I tossed my phone towards the other end of the couch so I could focus on the adventures of Mulder and Scully. The monster they were investigating was a shape-shifting something or other that was behind a string of murders and several local legends. Of course, Mulder had to ask, what if the legends are true? While Scully rolled her eyes and scribbled on a clipboard. Halfway through the episode, Scully was conducting an interview with a witness who just happened to be the monster in disguise. Tension was building and, just as it reached its peak, Miguel led out a blood-curdling scream down the hallway. I jumped up and ran down the hall to Miguel's room. His bedroom door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open to find pitch darkness. With my body halfway into his room, I blindly fumbled for the light switch. I flicked it on and found Miguel standing up in his crib, tears rolling down his cheeks and onto his light blue onesie. His pudgy hands clasping the rails of the crib as he rocked his body back and forth. What's wrong, Miguelito? I asked, as if expecting a two-year-old to respond. Quickly, I remembered the bottles in the fridge and ran to grab one. I hustled back to his room and handed a bottle to him. He wouldn't take it and continued crying. I then pressed the nipple of the bottle to his lips, but he refused to drink. Desperate, I looked around his room as if I would find the solution to his crying laying around somewhere. I jumped back in fright. I don't know how I missed it when I walked into the room, but in front of Miguel's closet stood a life-sized concrete gargoyle. It was hunched over as if ready to pounce on its prey. Sharp, feathered wings sprouted out from its back. Its menacing face was dominated by a nose that protruded like a parrot's beak over thick lips formed in a feral grin. The bald, misshapen head was dwarfed by its muscular body, from which oversized hands and arms hung below its bent knees. Although the feet it perched on resembled a chicken's talons, the overall effect was ape-like. I'd never seen anything like it, yet it had an indefinable quality that matched the rest of the sculptures in the house. Maybe that was why I didn't run away screaming. While watching the hideous gargoyle, I rubbed my cousin's back to sue them. Shhh! Don't cry, Miguelito. He coughed and made himself gag from crying so hard. Through his sobbing and crying, I heard my phone ring from the living room. I dropped the bottle in Miguel's crib, picked him up, and walked to the living room. Without looking at who was calling, I quickly answered the phone with my one free hand. Hello? I shouted over Miguel's cries. Marcos, it's Tia Paola. Why is Miguel crying? I have no idea. I gave him his bottle and he wouldn't drink it. He doesn't stop crying. Mass ended early and we're on our way home. I told you not to put the TV so loud, Marcos, she shouted. Tia, maybe he's crying because of that ugly black statue you put in his room. A thing even scared me. Why would you have something like that in a baby's room? What black statue are you talking about, Marcos? I've never put anything like that in his room, she answered. Then where did it come from? It was in front of his closet, facing the crib, I shouted. She stayed silent for a moment to then whispered as if someone on my end of the line might overhear. Listen to me carefully, Marcos. Get out of the house right now. Take Miguel and leave immediately. What? I asked. Her whispers turned to screams. Marcos, leave, now. That statue you saw isn't a statue. Es un demonio. I slowly lowered my phone and attempted to translate her last words. Es un demonio. That whispered to myself. Prickles and goosebumps shot up my body once I realized what she had said. Oh crap, she said it's a demon. I dropped my phone and stumbled. The back of my knees hit the couch. I could hear my mom and aunt screaming my name from the phone speaker. As I stepped forward to move towards the door, Miguel's bedroom light suddenly turned off. Miguel stopped crying and squeezed my neck with his little cold arms. With his face pressed against mine, we focused our eyes on the black hallway. His bedroom door gently creaked open. I could feel Miguel's heartbeat galloping along with mine. From the darkness of the bedroom hallway, a low-pitched growl echoed into the living room. Miguel began to scream again. As I ran to the front door, all the lights in the house suddenly shut off. Heavy footsteps thudded towards us. Something yanked both of my legs out from under me and I fell onto my side. My head hit something hard but through the dizziness and nausea, I held on to Miguel's torso with my good arm and struggled to my feet. We made maybe two or three steps toward the door when Miguel was then ripped out of my grasp. The last thing I remember was somebody screaming. It might have been me, I'm not sure. When I came to my senses, I was on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. A paramedic said I had a broken arm and a serious head contusion. I don't recall rambling about monsters or trying to get up, but when I woke up in the hospital, I was told that I had to be restrained to keep from hurting myself. Doctors and detectives quizzed me on what I could remember. I insisted a monster disguised as a statue had attacked my cousin and I. They chalked it up to the blow to my head and told me that my cousin had been taken in the same home invasion that had resulted in my injuries. Somebody with a clipboard gently explained to me that I had been watching a TV show about monsters and urban legends before I was attacked. The emotional and neurological trauma caused me to blend fantasy with memories of the crime. But what about the statues? I asked. Clearly, I was still confused. My aunt never had any statues, none of gargoyles or anything else. A nurse came in to put a shot of something in my IV. The last thoughts that drifted through my head were that maybe some urban legends are true. Maybe a demon can look like a statue. And maybe that house was crawling with them. You'll find the answer to this fantastic mystery in Black Dragons. Join us Friday, January 26th for our next Weirdo Watch Party, as we watch Black Dragons, presented by Horror Hotel's resident vampire, Lamia, Queen of the Dark, bringing us trivia about the film, the actors and all things horror-related in between segments of the show. And then stick around after Black Dragons because Doc Dredd will be with us with one of his popular and fun movie reviews, giving his opinion of 2023's award-winning horror flick Beneath Us All. The Weirdo Watch Party is always free to watch online with everybody, 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. It's Black Dragons, starring Bella Legosi from 1942, presented by Horror Hotel's Lamia, Queen of the Dark, then Doc Dredd's movie review talking about Beneath Us All. Friday, January 26th, starting at 10pm Eastern, 9pm Central, 8pm Mountain, 7pm Pacific. See a few clips from the film, and invite your friends to watch along with you on the Weirdo Watch Party page at WeirdDarkness.com and we'll see you Friday, January 26th for the Weirdo Watch Party. Don't show her this, but do me a favor and tell her I love her and let her know that I'm trying to come home. Really. It all started around the time I turned 25. I decided for no good reason that it was time for me to give up taking a backpack to work. Idiotically, I thought that it would make me look more like the guys that I saw on the trains, you know, the ones the women are with, the guys who made it. I figured that if I wasn't lugging around a ridiculous looking book bag everywhere like some brain dead kid, I'd be seen as more mature because I wouldn't look, you know, stupid. Heh, right, I know. But that meant that I had to give up reading on the subway going to and from work. See, I'd get a seat because I got on early, then hide a book under the pack in such a way that it's peeking out just enough for me to see it. Because, you know, who wants to get jumped for reading? And like hell was I going to wear a messenger bag? Please, you're joking, right? For a while, I had an MP3 player I got from my mom. That helped pass the time for a while and I could even put books on it from the library. It was perfect because no one can tell what you're listening to. If you nod your head every once in a while, they think it's music. But I dropped the thing, getting off the train in one of those shoving, let me off the damn train fits. Ever since, it's been shutting down at the end of every song if I don't tap it to skip to the next track. So I gave that up too. Instead, every morning on my way in, I'd sit on the endless A train with nothing to do but watch the other passengers. I was relatively shy. I'm serious. I talk like I'm not, but I really am. See, I didn't want to be caught looking or even looking like I was looking. Instead, I watched people from the corner of my eye. I figured out pretty fast that I wasn't the only person in the world who wasn't totally comfortable out in public. Different people hit it in different ways, but I could see through them. I made groups for them in my head. First, there were the fidgeters who couldn't get comfortable, always moving their hands, shifting their weight, and edging their legs close to their seat bent away. They were the most nervous types. After them, second we have the fake sleepers who would take a seat and practically close their eyes in the same moment. Lots of them were rich white guys who did this to avoid giving a seat to a pregnant woman or an older person. When I saw them, I gave my seat up right away because most of those guys weren't really sleeping at all, and I'd try really hard to get close and accidentally kick their shoe or something. Then I'd be all like, oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Right? Anyway, the real sleepers, my third group, shifted more suddenly whatever we stopped, or they were startled by loud noises. The fakes just zoned out the second they sat down until the moment they reached their stop, at which point they'd hop up, peppy in alert, and jump off. I didn't like them much. Why do you ask? And then comes the fourth group, MP3 player addicts. The one people would probably lump me into if they had watched me in my earlier days. The people in this group were related to the fifth group, the occasional laptop losers, and those in the sixth were ordinary people, the ones who traveled in groups and talked too loudly. So, you know, New Yorkers. I cracked myself up. Anyway, right around when people watching was getting very same old, same old, I had my first surprise. A middle-aged white man with brown hair, completely average looks, and casual Friday clothing, Dockers, business-friendly sweater, you know the type. He was so normal he was almost too normal, you know what I mean? He had nothing special about him, no funky hand movements, didn't weird laugh or anything. It was as if he had been designed by one of those cop shows to fake you out, like he was born to melt into a crowd. That's why I noticed him. Here I was, purposely trying to see how people acted on the train so I could categorize them, and he didn't act at all. Didn't react either. It was like seeing someone sitting in front of the television, watching a documentary about, I don't know, something really boring, like fish. The guy watching isn't excited or focused, but he's not looking away either, present but not accounted for. Anyway, I'm not that good at being punctual, my mom says, said. So I didn't get on the train at exactly the same time every day. And since I didn't care one way or the other, I didn't try to sit in the same car either. Random was fine with me. So I was more than a month into my people watching and grouping experiment before he caught my eye. That normal guy, I told you about. I saw him for the first time on a Monday, I think. Yeah, it was definitely a Monday, because I know I saw him the second time on a Thursday when I was heading home to hang with the same crew I've hung with every Thursday night since we were all in school together. Mr. Normal Guy, well, he obviously did catch the same train, and he sat in the same car, the first car, and in the same seat even, talk about obsessive compulsive. At least that's what I thought at the time. What I should have been thinking, however, was, crap, that is not normal. Since he caught my attention so well the first time I saw him, I watched him even more closely the next time. Frankly, something about him made me really uncomfortable. Mind you, he didn't do anything to make me feel like that. He didn't do anything at all, really. What creeped me out, though, was how much he was trying not to be there. The way he sat there in silence, staring straight ahead with a blank expression on his face, no matter what happened, it was unnerving. Once a woman with a crying kid entered the car and sat right next to him. Still, nothing. He didn't so much as turn his head or stare the kid down, and that little punk was seriously loud, too. By the time the subway reached my stop that Thursday, I felt sick, queasy sick, and when I left the car, my hands were shaking like I was in the throes of a nicotine withdrawal. That man was wrong. He was some kind of freak, a sociopath, perhaps. One of those quiet guys who, as it later turns out, has a dozen women's heads in his freezer, the first victim likely his own mother. I'm telling you all of this, so it'll make sense why the next part is so weird. Because he freaked me out, so you'd think I'd do everything I could to stay away, right? Yeah, I would've thought that, too. In my early days, he was just part of my grouping experiment, and not a particularly interesting one at that. At least I'd convinced myself of that. But it wasn't long before I noticed I'd been wasting time after work in the afternoons poking around the newsstand, reading magazines I didn't want until the clerk chased me away for loitering. Unconsciously, I was doing my best to stay off of that guy's train. And if I found myself on the platform at the wrong time, his time, I made damn sure to choose the last car, the one as far away from his as possible, the opposite of obsession, right? Fine. Then, on my way to work one morning, I saw another person who set off the same warning bells in my head. This time it was a woman in the last car, just as plain looking and just as out of place in all the hustle and bustle around her. The moment I saw that she was in his category, I only realized it later when I had lots of time to think about it, you understand. Well, that moment was when my obsession officially began. All of my people watching, which had begun as a way to keep myself from dying of boredom, became a religion to me. I couldn't set foot on a subway platform or ride a bus without examining everyone and filling out a mental checklist in my head. Plain clothes, solid colors, no brands, check. Expressionless, no casual glances at the windows or toward other passengers, check. No bags, purses or accessories, check, check, check. We've got another. I started calling them the strangers. Like any other convert, I loved that connection. Finding my next stranger fix was my ritual. I didn't see them every day, even after I started taking the subway more than I needed to, but they were there often enough. Seeing one would set me on edge, make my palms sweaty and my throat dry. I know that sounds like a bad thing, but like I said, I was obsessed. Even though they didn't pay me any attention, they never looked at me or made eye contact, treating me as if I was invisible. I still felt like I was totally exposed in their presence, a flashing neon sign in the midst of Times Square as it were. I could see them, plain as day. How could they be so oblivious of me? But they never noticed me, not in any way that I could tell at least, and when my curiosity finally gave my fear a beatdown, I decided to follow one of them. I thought I should go back to my first, the man on the afternoon train who always chose the same seat in the same car. I imagined he'd be easy to find, so I went to a likely platform and waited, watching for him in the windows of the front cars that pulled in. And eventually, there he was. I got on and took a seat diagonally across from him, doing my best to look inconspicuous. We rode until the end of the line, and he got up and walked out before I did. Keeping a reasonable distance between us, I tailed him, but it wasn't much of a trick. He didn't even leave the platform. He took a seat on one of the cleaner wooden benches, as expressionless as always, and I went behind one of the big map boards and waited, trying to look blasé. After a few minutes, the next downtown train arrived, and I watched him get on, and take the same seat. I didn't have the courage to follow him again. He hadn't gone anywhere. He just rode to the end of the line, and then, what, rode it back? What possible reason would anyone have for doing that? It nagged at me, long after I'd taken the next downtown back home. I tried to get some rest, but I couldn't leave it alone. Not until I could make some sense of him. I was beyond confused. I was angry. Why was this jerk, this inhumanly silent and still doofus, riding trains back and forth and going nowhere? He bothered me, but not the way a guy who unapologetically slams into you on the street without looking twice does. He bugged me the way spiders do. Big, hairy, train-riding, freak spider guy makes me want to get the heck away from him. That was how the strangers were beginning to look to me. They made my eyes, water, and my mouth dry. But did that stop me? Of course not. Desperate to satisfy my curiosity, I followed him again the next day, and again the day after that. Every day, for at least a week, the two of us made our silent trips together, though only I noticed. By the end of the week, I was following him for hours. All day, every day. All night. Well past the time the trains started running night expresses and passing stations, like my stop, in parts of town that shut down for the night. We rode from the east end of the city's system down, around, and up to the top, then back again. I wasn't people watching any longer. I was person watching, stranger watching. I didn't see anyone else on those trains I rode that week. We could have been the only two people on the planet for all I knew or cared. I lost my job after that. My manager was nice about it, but didn't leave any room to beg. I'd lost my concentration, my focus. I'd become totally unproductive. It was actually kind of a heartfelt speech, to be honest. He'd been a nice guy, but you know what, as distracted as I was, I can barely remember him or the words that came out of his mouth during the talk. All I could think about while he was speaking was my new work, my responsibility, my vigil. What would that man, that thing on the subway, get up to when I wasn't there to keep an eye on him? How would we all survive without me watching? I left work for the last time at noon that day. Normally, I'd have started tailing my subject at 5.30, but I knew. I just knew that he'd be waiting for me. I wish now that I'd paid more attention to that day. Was it sunny? It was summer, after all. When did it start feeling like he knew when I'd be there? I wonder because that was the last day I could have walked around downtown, by last chance to have had a beer or two at that joint with the cream-colored menus and the tables on the sidewalk. I could have sat there, checking out the girls walking by in their summer dresses. Or would that place make me drink wine? Whatever, it doesn't matter. The point is, I could have had a good time, gone home, and put all this insanity out of my head. I could have looked for a new job and started reading again. Instead, I waited for a train. Many trains are on the tracks at any given time in the city that never sleeps, so I sat in the station for at least an hour until I scored. There he was, finally, framed in his first car window as his train pulled in. I waited for the exiting crowd to thin, then shoved past the stragglers and noticed, surprised, that my skin wasn't clammy, my hands weren't shaking, and my heart wasn't pounding. I sat for the first time right across from him, directly in his line of sight, and watched for him to make a change. Any change. Eyes, mouth. Heck, if one of the hairs on his head had moved, that would have been something. But no. No change. No anything. Did he recognize me? If he did, I couldn't tell. And I was looking hard. We had to be a strange pair, sitting across from each other that afternoon, staring at and into one another. Because this time, he had to look at me. I'm sure my face said plenty. I couldn't believe I was able to keep as still and as expressionless as he was. Because inside, I was screaming, react to me, you freak. Say me, dammit, because I sure as hell could see you, you spider-brained ass. But I didn't scream, and he didn't answer. Not during the first trip uptown, or the second one down, or the third, or the tenth. We rode into the night together, and at the end of each line, we got out and waited. This time I didn't play. I mimicked him exactly, sitting right beside him on the bench and staring straight ahead. But always watching him from my peripherals, and still, nothing. But two could play, right? At last we made our final trip together. That day I felt untouchable. I was downright smug. So certain I had him and that he knew it. The conductor, mostly understandable on the speaker, announced this would be the train's last run for the night. He'd be switching to a different train when we reached the last stop, and the engine and car I found myself in would retire for maintenance. So here it was now, officially the last night of the trip. I'm not too proud to tell you that I'd always let him get away from me before this point, when it was this late. The end of the line is a long way from my home, and if the trains go slow this time of night, the buses are flat out worse than waiting for Santa's sleigh to show up and take you home in July. But this time I thought, what the heck? I'd follow him and finally get a look at where he was, what he was when the train stopped running. Maybe this time I'd get some answers. The subway rolled on towards the end, and my stomach rolled with it. The car emptied like coffee through a filter until it was just us, two silent watchers beneath the city. I fought to keep a crazy grin off my face while the subway train slowed to a crawl and then stopped. The doors opened to no one, the end of the line. The stranger didn't move, didn't react at all. The car stood still, doors open, I could hear a few stragglers faintly far down the platform making their way out of the station, their footsteps echoing in silence. Nothing. The speaker system crackled in a half-hearted attempt to let any sleeping riders know that we'd gone as far as we could go. Still nothing. And then I heard footsteps again. A conductor perhaps popping his head into each car to make sure it was empty before he took the train to wherever it goes for the night. No matter what I heard, however, I wasn't about to take my eyes off my captive. I paid attention to the conductor when he finally reached our car while still staring down the stranger. The conductor looked in, his eyes scanned over us and then he looked confused, like he'd forgotten the phone number he'd known his entire life. He blinked a few times and paused. I waited for him to say something, but the moment stretched out and spinning slowly in a track breeze. Then with a slight shake in the head, he walked toward the conductor's door, heated open and left us in the main car. A few minutes later, the train started up again. We rode straight off the underground for a while. Then it felt like the train looped around and stopped. I could see the windows of more trains behind my motionless companion. And through those trains' windows, more trains. And then while I was trying to calculate my next steps, he smiled at me. It was nothing more than a slight curl of the lip, but I noticed. I probably wouldn't have if I hadn't spent the last who knows how many hours studying his face. A smile is normal, right? Sometimes, as it turns out, it's not. So, the stranger said in a rough maritone, here we are. I tried to respond, but couldn't. My throat had clamped shut. I was incredulous. I had been waiting for this for what felt like my whole life, and yet I had been rendered speechless. The entire tunnel system we were in felt as if it had just collapsed on me. I coughed and stammered and finally managed in a rasping tone to ask the question that kept me up at night, the one which drove me halfway to madness and led me to this place and this moment. What are you? He ignored me and stood. The train doors opened and he started walking. A moment later, he turned and stared straight into me again. Coming, he called. He didn't wait for an answer, but stepped out onto the platform. I scrambled out after him, finding words difficult to come by and immediately wished I had brought a bottle of water. Come on, man! I finally shouted, then tripped on the uneven platform. He ignored me and continued walking. Talk to me! I hollered while I picked myself up. Who are you? What are you? Why do you ride the trains all day? He didn't look back or slow his step. I couldn't see his face as I recovered my balance, but I'm willing to bet he didn't react at all, or at least no more than he had in response to anything else. I stalked after him, shouting until I realized the futility of my actions, and I gave up. Five words were all I was going to get out of him, it seemed. In spite of a growing sense of unease, I was overwhelmed with curiosity. I'd come all this way, and I wasn't about to leave without an explanation. And so, I traversed the platform until we came to an odd junction of sorts, unlike any I had ever seen in New York City subway systems before. Trains lined both sides of the platform that appeared to stretch into infinity. This place was even spookier than the old ghost platform I was lucky enough to glimpse at a dim tunnel years ago on a quiet early morning when my train was rerouted. Suddenly, a stranger turned. We'd been walking perpendicular to the trains around us, passing those nose after nose of the hulking vehicles, their headlights seemingly glaring at us as we passed. The path ahead was lit from above, but I couldn't see where it ended. Innumerable trains on either side of us went on forever, so far as I could tell. Far too many trains to service one city, I realized, even one as densely populated as New York. No one needed this many trains. It wouldn't have changed anything, I know, but I probably should have paid more attention to that at the time. I'm not sure how long we walked. I had a watch once, but it broke and I never replaced it. Kind of like the MP3 player now that I think about it. Go figure. Pathetically, I took out my cell phone at one point, but as expected, I had no signal. The stranger stopped every now and then and looked at a subway car for long enough to get me jumpy, but then he'd pass on. I'd stand there looking at the train he'd paid so much attention to, seeing nothing out of the ordinary about it at all. Finally, after who knows how long, I saw what he saw. The trains weren't all the same. We'd walk past tons that were similar and then would come upon a different model. Even in the gloom, it was easy to tell when they were a little larger or smaller, or that they had a different curve to their nose, different sighting or different doors. The conductor's cabins were a little different as well. I didn't see and still don't know exactly what the stranger was looking for, what he was waiting for the trains to tell him, but he must have found it because zip! There he went, turning down a platform, and the train's doors opened as soon as he stopped in front of them. I followed closely behind and we took our usual seats in the darkened car. Are you willing to speak now, I asked him? No answer. I sighed with frustration and seriously began weighing the pros and cons of punching him in the face when the lights and the car came on and the engine started. What the... When he locked eyes with me then, he actually looked sad. Then he offered six more words that changed everything. You can't go back, you know? What are you talking about, I retorted? Go back where? The stone-walling jerk just sat there ignoring me. Our train lurched, pushing off in the opposite direction from what I expected. The Macy's Day never-ending parade of trains had thrown off my sense of direction, I guess. We rolled on for a few minutes and then slowed as we approached to stop. His gaze vacant since the train started moving, grew sharper, but the first time I got the sense that he was finally staring at me, rather than just staring in the direction I happened to be in. Be still. Be silent. Don't catch their attention, he said. The train stopped. The doors opened and they began to flood in. I don't know what I noticed first. The weird clothes, the too long arms with hands nearly brushing the floor, the jet-black eyes set deep into angular faces or their blue-gray skin. My eyes saw it, but my brain refused to process it. When my mind could no longer ignore the horrors right in front of me, it was all I could do to stine me the shriek which threatened to tear its way out of my throat. My frantic heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest, like a strummed bass string, everything in me lurched and throbbed with the rolling spasms of horror. My head grew dizzy, my eyes fogged over, which I was thankful for, and I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. Following the stranger's instructions, I kept my mouth clenched shut, forcing me to swallow it back down, managing only because the other option was much worse. My instincts screamed his words at me. Be still, be silent, don't catch their attention. The rest of the day was a blur. We rode the subway car up and down the line, both still, both expressionless, for hours. For days, maybe. It seemed longer than the route I knew. The line I'd followed the stranger on for so long. The hideous things around us seemed to pay us no mind, though I, at least, must have stood out like a nun at a heavy metal concert. When we finally returned alone at the endless cavern of trains, I burst into tears in our blessedly empty car and collapsed to the floor, exhausted and sobbed for a long time. The stranger simply watched. When my breathing had returned somewhat to normal, I managed to croak out, take me home, please. I can't, he said bluntly. I don't know which one of these would lead you back, if any of them do. He stood. The door was opened again, and he stepped out once again onto the platform. I fought the urge to whimper like an abused puppy and followed him. He spun around, eyes glinting. You've followed me long enough. What? I shouted, fury overshadowing my misery. Rushing forward, I grabbed the stranger by the shoulders and, with an unexpected burst of strength, slammed him up against the side of the nearest train car. You son of a bitch! What the hell did you get me into? What did you do to me? I smashed him against the metal walls again and again. Take me back! I screamed. Like a candle deprived of oxygen, the sight of his eyes returning once more to their usual, emotionless state extinguished the rage in me, and I felt my anger peter out, leaving me hollow. Please, I begged again, please take me home. That's not how it works, he said. Go your own way. Be still and be subtle, and they'll think that you're one of theirs. One of their what? I demanded. He peered down at his hands in silence. How could you do this to me? I cried. Why? He cast me a melancholy glance. You'll do it too. Sometimes you get stuck. You brushed my hands off his shoulders and turned to walk away. Devastated, I fell to my knees. He turned back to me one final time. I'm sorry, he said, and touched his finger to my forehead. That is the last thing I remember. I don't know what he did to me or why. When I came to, I knew my role and played it to the best of my ability. I was still. I was silent. And I rode to the ends of the lines, no matter who or what got on. Being still was as good as being invisible, but once in a while it caught a reflection in a train window. The first hundred times it happened I didn't catch on, but eventually, even I understood. The longer I rode with the things, the more I became like them. I was stuck in their world until someone started watching me. Then, if they followed and only then, I had a chance of getting back to the endless platform of lost trains. In the time I spent in Snared in that place, I did some terrible things, things I'm not proud of, to the other strangers. But I made my choice. I was not going to lure anyone else into their trap, not even if it got me home faster. They were better off dead than being in whatever state I was. It makes me wonder, though, about the stranger who got me into this situation. I wonder what he originally looked like and whether he knew he could have killed me and gotten to the hub that way. I wonder, too, about the others I saw back home and the rare few I have come across since I left. Do they kill them or take them? And whichever one they choose, do they consider it a mercy? I can't bring myself to talk to them, to ask. We're damned either way, and the damned ought to suffer in silence. I've killed fifteen strangers now, and I've gotten very good at it. But I've made a decision. I'm done killing. Killing innocence, at least. Before I return to the central hub this last time, I scrounged as much paper as I could, and I wrote this story over and over again to be left in as many subway cars as I can manage. Thousands of messages and bottles cast into a sea of steel rails. This tale is a request. It's also a warning. My request, remember, was that you find my mother and tell her a lie? It's a white lie, don't worry. You have to find her, then, tell her that I love her, and that I'm trying to come home. It may give her some hope, or peace, or something, but here's the thing. I've been thinking I'm similar to the character we read about in school, when the teacher tried to get us all jazzed about mythology. Do you ever read the story about Odysseus lost and drifting upon the sea, looking to return home to something in some place familiar? That's me, struggling to find my way. But that's where the similarities end, I'm afraid. Because I'm not lost at sea. I'm lost in endless tunnels, a labyrinth of sorts. The distinction is important because labyrinths are designed. They're built intentionally, and just like in those old legends about Theseus, it's the same here. Someone or something made this impossible place, and they're going to pay for what they've done to me. The rules of this place have transformed me from what I once was into something else entirely, something horribly inhuman, and then into something else again. They've created a monster, and if that's what they expect, I'll be their minotaur in this labyrinth, and if I can, I'll tear it down around me and take the ones that built it along for the ride. They have no idea who they're dealing with. They never should have messed with a New Yorker. My warning, because I'm trying to be a good Samaritan here with my balled up stories scribbled on dirty paper, is that you should stay as far away as possible, even in public places, from silent, expressionless people. Just keep your distance. They may kill you or something far worse. If you see them, run far, and run fast. And even more importantly, I beg you, do not ride any train to the end of the line. That ride might just be your last, or it might just last forever. Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. You can also email me anytime with your questions or comments through the website at WeirdDarkness.com. That's also where you can find all of my social media. Listen to free audiobooks that I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness store, sign up for the email newsletter to win monthly prizes, find other podcasts that I host, and find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Plus, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that at WeirdDarkness.com. The Statues was written by Sammy Ruiz. The Strangers was submitted anonymously to creepypasta.com. Both stories are fiction. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions. Copyright, Weird Darkness. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Second Samuel 22 verse 29, You, Lord, on my lamp, the Lord turns my darkness into light. And a final thought, knowledge is knowing what to say. Wisdom is knowing whether or not to say it. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.