0:01

Hey there, Brooke here, and I'm coming to

0:03

your feed on a non-release day to tell

0:06

you about a show that I know you're

0:08

gonna love. So stay tuned,

0:10

and I promise you won't be disappointed.

0:14

Someone Just Like You is an indie horror

0:16

podcast that you don't want to miss. From

0:19

Jeremy Ellit, producer of The Subjective

0:21

Truth and 2 Flat Earthers Kidnappa

0:24

Freemason, comes a chilling

0:26

new science fiction anthology series. I

0:29

just listened to the first episode, and

0:31

I was immediately blown away by the

0:33

immersive sound design, the gruesome

0:35

detail dragging me deeper into the

0:38

story and into my terror. Someone

0:41

just like you is not for the faint

0:43

of heart or stomach.

0:46

But you're not faint-hearted, are you?

0:49

You're here because you already love Thirteen.

0:52

And if you're a fan of other

0:54

spooky shows like No Sleep or SCP

0:56

Archives, then you're about to have

0:58

a new obsession. You

1:00

can find someone just like you

1:02

anywhere you listen to podcasts, and

1:05

you're going to want to subscribe to their feed.

1:08

But you don't have to take my word for it. Stay

1:11

tuned and hear it for yourself. I've

1:14

got the first episode right here, just

1:16

for you. So sit

1:19

back, relax. And

1:22

now, on with the show. Hey

1:28

folks, this is Jeremy Ellit,

1:30

the creator of The Subjective Truth and

1:32

2 Flat Earthers Kidnappa Freemason. This

1:35

fall, I'd like to invite you to listen to

1:37

my new fiction podcast series, a

1:39

horror anthology called Someone Just

1:42

Like You. Our first

1:44

season will have 20 stories, brought to life

1:46

by a team of voice actors like Addison

1:48

Peacock, Graham Rowett, Peter Lewis,

1:51

and so many more. Consider

1:53

subscribing, and maybe even leave us

1:55

a review. We'll be reading reviews on

1:58

future episodes, and we'd love to share yours. Someone

2:06

just like you is a horror series. We

2:09

frequently feature unsettling depictions

2:11

of modern life. Check

2:14

the show notes for episode-specific

2:16

content warnings. The

2:18

sitter discretion is advised. My

2:26

fingers bend backward and

2:28

beg me, please let

2:31

us write a story for them. Let

2:34

us peel back their skin

2:36

to reveal the horror lurking

2:38

beneath. Pain

2:41

that feels all too

2:44

familiar. Torment that

2:46

hits too close to home.

2:49

This isn't an alternate

2:52

dimension. This isn't a

2:54

liminal realm or a divergent

2:57

timeline. These horrors

3:01

are here and now

3:03

this could happen to someone

3:08

just like you. Most

3:18

of the time it's quiet here. It's

3:21

dark and

3:23

it's cold. We wait

3:25

for the sun most days. Here,

3:28

amidst the concrete and steel and

3:30

timber of our labyrinth, it's

3:33

easy to forget what the sun feels like. The

3:36

other buildings overshadow us, towering

3:38

above our crooked brick edifice

3:41

and it's only for a few moments during the

3:43

golden hour that we get to feel its warmth.

3:47

During those precious moments, the light

3:49

reflects off the sleek steel glass

3:51

skyscrapers a few blocks away, soars

3:54

over the decrepit streets and

3:57

comes in through our single cracked window. It's

4:00

beautiful the way it pools on the floor,

4:03

reminding us that our world, this

4:06

tiny, cramped place of right

4:08

angles and rusted pipes, is

4:11

but a small part of something greater. It's

4:14

kept me sane, I think, waiting

4:17

for this small miracle each day. The

4:20

sun is always warm on the floorboards,

4:23

and we bask in it for as long as we can.

4:27

Then, it crawls

4:29

away across the floor and

4:31

up the wall, leaving us

4:33

in the cold and the dark

4:36

and the quiet. I

4:39

wasn't always here. I used

4:42

to dream about a castle with tall

4:44

ceilings and windows that sparkled in the

4:46

sun. There was room enough to

4:48

run from one end to the other and be

4:50

out of breath by the time you got halfway

4:53

there. Finishing

4:55

school was supposed to be my first step

4:57

in getting my castle, or at the very

5:00

least a little bit of breathing room. Desperation

5:03

is what drove me here. Even

5:05

with a degree and a job offer, I couldn't

5:07

find anywhere else that was within budget. One

5:11

day, I noticed a yellowed scrap of

5:13

paper pinned to the noticeboard in a

5:15

laundromat. It was small,

5:17

stained, and written in Sharpie on the back

5:19

of an old piece of newsprint. Sharp

5:22

apartments, zero deposit, no

5:24

credit check, cash only, call

5:27

to inquire. The

5:31

address was listed as 46th-Oesen Place. It

5:36

was in a dead-end neighborhood in a part

5:38

of the city I usually avoided. I

5:41

couldn't find a street view online, and

5:43

there were no reviews. Still, I

5:45

called the number. An old

5:47

woman picked up. Her voice

5:50

was thin and sharp, like

5:52

wind whistling between reeds. 46th

6:00

there's in the one bedroom

6:04

there was a sharp intake of breath followed

6:07

by a long pause from her end

6:10

i could hear a furious scratching like

6:12

a pencil on paper and i almost thought the

6:15

call had been cut it

6:17

was a long moment until she spoke again how

6:19

soon could you stop by that

6:23

same day i emptied my bank account and got

6:25

on the bus with an envelope containing 600 dollars

6:32

when the bus hissed to a stop i walked

6:34

the three blocks to the address following

6:36

the directions on my phone connection

6:39

grew spotty as i left the main street

6:41

and when i turned onto the dead end

6:44

that the building sat on it disappeared altogether

6:47

the row of homes loomed close around me

6:50

dozens of broken windows

6:52

staring out like so

6:54

many dead sightless eyes

6:56

46th there's him was

6:58

a mere three stories

7:00

tall it was thin and

7:02

narrow and yellowed twigs of what might

7:04

have once been ivy clung to the

7:07

left side branching and spiraling

7:09

until they got about halfway up the

7:11

filthy brick the whole

7:13

place looked sickly like a

7:15

plant that was dying in the shade rusted

7:18

iron bars were screwed over the ground

7:20

floor windows most of which were taped

7:22

over with plastic sheeting trash

7:25

bags sat against the old stone staircase

7:27

leading up to a chipped front door

7:30

the block was nearly deserted and as

7:32

i looked around i realized my only

7:35

company was a battered old sedan idling

7:37

nearby one

7:39

of the doors was a mismatched bone yellow against

7:41

the rest of the car's dusty maroon a cheap

7:45

aftermarket replacement an

7:48

elderly woman sat behind the wheel flipping

7:50

through a dog-eared novel as the car

7:52

rumbled beneath her i

7:54

stared through the greasy windshield trying to figure out

7:57

if she was who i'd spoken to on the

7:59

phone She didn't seem to notice me,

8:02

too engrossed in the book to look up. Her

8:05

hands trembled as she turned the pages.

8:09

I couldn't tell if it was due to old age or

8:11

if she was nervous to be out here on her own.

8:14

I lightly tapped on her window. She

8:17

startled, looked up from her reading, and

8:20

turned her roomy eyes to me. She

8:23

sat there for a moment, looking

8:25

me up and down. Almost

8:27

appraisingly, she pointed a

8:29

gnarled finger at me, then

8:32

at the building, and I nodded.

8:34

I supposed that meant she was waiting for me. I

8:37

finally let myself breathe a little bit as

8:39

she unbuckled herself and climbed out of the

8:41

car. You

8:44

must be here about the apartment, then. I'm

8:47

the super. Yes, it's nice to meet

8:49

you. She was all business,

8:51

no room spared for niceties. Without

8:54

another word, she unlocked the front door and

8:56

I followed her in. She

9:00

moved fast for an old woman, breezing

9:02

past the ground floor apartments and onto

9:04

the second level and beyond. The

9:07

steps creaked underfoot, and

9:09

very few were actually level. The

9:11

walls were an aged, off-white

9:14

color, caked in

9:16

soot and mildewed fingerprints. There

9:19

was only a single bare bulb to illuminate

9:21

the hallway, flickering as it

9:23

dangled from a cracked ceiling by a

9:25

frayed cord, 20 feet

9:27

above us. Character,

9:30

that's what they called it on the home improvement shows.

9:36

Places like this were full of it. The

9:38

tilted door frames and uneven floors were

9:40

evidence of a home that had stories

9:42

to tell. A place

9:44

where numerous people had

9:46

lived and loved within its walls.

9:52

We had to stop just before the third floor for her

9:54

to catch her breath. She waved me

9:56

away when I asked if she was all right, and

9:58

just a moment later, trying

14:00

to make sure I wasn't making things up.

14:03

It was definitely there. I could

14:06

hear it from the leftmost corner of the room,

14:09

almost as if it was coming from beneath

14:11

the floor. There

14:13

was an air vent in that corner of

14:15

the room, embedded into the uneven boards. Oh

14:18

god, I thought, are there fucking

14:20

rats in the walls? I

14:23

stood on shaking legs, grabbing the baseball bat I

14:25

had brought with me. I closed

14:28

in on the vent, staring, and

14:30

the scratching seemed to grow louder, more

14:33

insistent. The

14:36

wall above the vent suddenly shuddered

14:38

and bulged, moving as if it

14:40

were pliable, alive.

14:42

It pulsed

14:44

obscenely, like something was

14:46

trapped within, and I stifled a scream

14:49

as I saw the old paint crackle

14:51

from the strain. I heard

14:54

a hissing, then

14:56

another, harsh, weak. Whistling

14:59

gasps and moans cutting in and out

15:01

and over each other until I had

15:03

to clap my hands over my ears.

15:06

After a moment, the murmur stopped. The

15:09

walls settled, and the vent

15:11

began to rattle. Something within

15:13

the vent shifted, an

15:16

indistinguishable shape that pulsed and

15:18

then gushed upwards. A

15:20

gasp of stale, fetid air wafted up from

15:22

the floor as I eyed the vent, my

15:25

eyes stinging from the odor. I kept

15:28

my distance as something dark began

15:31

to move beneath the metal grill. Some

15:34

kind of long, sinewy

15:36

form began rising out of the vent,

15:39

bubbling up, ascending from

15:41

between the slats, defying gravity

15:43

as it inflated, bulbous,

15:46

like a balloon. The thing,

15:48

the tendril, glistened

15:51

in the light from the street lamp and then

15:54

twitched, swiveling

15:57

towards me. I could make

15:59

it out better. now. Its surface

16:01

was waxy, slick, coated

16:03

in some kind of oily substance. It

16:06

did not make a sound until

16:09

two long black slits flared open

16:11

along its length and I heard

16:13

a deep snuffling

16:16

inhale. Its form

16:18

pulsated, then bucked as

16:21

if excited. It rapidly

16:23

began folding in on itself, amorphous

16:25

and indistinct as it bubbled back

16:27

down towards the vent. It

16:30

disappeared within and the

16:32

grill began to shudder. There was suddenly

16:34

a great thud from beneath. Once,

16:37

twice. I

16:40

watched as a screw from the corner of

16:42

the vent began to be shaken loose. I

16:45

drew in a breath to scream. And

16:49

then, I woke up again, gasping

16:52

for air. It was

16:54

dawn. Sweat drenched my

16:56

skin and my hair was plastered to

16:58

my face. It

17:01

had been a dream. Thank

17:03

God, it had been a dream.

17:07

I stumbled out of bed, shuffling over

17:09

to the bathroom and cranking the faucet

17:11

on. Cipes gasped and clunked within the

17:13

walls and I stared at my reflection

17:15

in the cracked mirror. I

17:18

looked like shit. The

17:20

water finally came, sputtering out of

17:22

the tarnished faucet in uneven spurts.

17:25

I rinsed my face, tasting the tinge of copper

17:27

on my tongue. Already,

17:29

I was wondering if this place would be worth it.

17:32

But I was in too deep. I

17:36

brewed a coffee and went back to looking for

17:38

furniture. Even

17:43

with the little money I had left, I

17:45

was able to find enough junk to make

17:47

the space livable. Over the next couple days,

17:49

I bought a wobbly desk, a tired old

17:51

couch, and a cheap mattress and

17:53

bed frame I'd ordered online. It

17:56

was on the last night before I started work, when

17:59

I was put in He

20:01

gave me a small nod of acknowledgement. Greg,

20:04

how back? Nice to meet you, Greg. I

20:07

brought cookies. I offered him

20:09

the box, which he eyed briefly before looking back

20:11

up at me. He paused

20:13

for a long moment before he spoke. You're

20:17

the first person who's lived here in a while. In

20:19

3C? In general. I've

20:22

been here for about a year. Been the only

20:24

one for most of that time. Oh. Well,

20:27

it's nice to meet you. Hopefully we'll

20:30

see each other around. I held out

20:32

the tin. He paused

20:34

again, his face mistrustful, before

20:36

he took the box and gave me another

20:38

awkward nod. Hmm. Thanks.

20:42

We exchanged numbers just in case, and

20:45

I didn't see him for a while after that. As

20:47

the weeks went by, I all but forgot about him.

20:50

I started my new job, and with a steady

20:52

source of income, I began to fill the apartment.

20:55

I swapped out the desk with something sturdier.

20:58

I got some decorations and even painted the

21:00

walls. I was finally starting to think of

21:02

3C as home. About

21:06

a month later, I remembered Greg again. Most

21:09

of my days had been spent in the office,

21:11

but even so, I realized how long it had

21:13

been since I'd noticed any signs of life from

21:15

his apartment. Greg was almost

21:17

certainly a recluse, but like clockwork, he

21:19

would get groceries sent to his doorstep

21:21

every few days. It

21:23

was Friday, and I hadn't seen any bag sitting at

21:25

his door this week. He didn't

21:27

have a car, and he almost never left, so

21:30

I began to worry. I knocked

21:33

on his door that evening. I

21:35

waited for almost 10 minutes before I finally called

21:37

out for him. Greg?

21:40

Greg? No response. Nothing.

21:44

Not even after I hollered to ask if he needed any

21:47

help. He didn't pick up

21:49

when I called, and I felt my heart

21:51

drop when I heard his phone ringing loudly

21:53

from within the apartment. The

21:56

ringtone was loud, and as it buzzed, I could

21:58

hear it rattling as if he'd heard it. and

24:00

asked me to show him to the apartment in question. I

24:03

glanced up at Greg's window, and

24:05

I felt a chill when I saw that the

24:07

blinds were fully closed. The

24:10

officer nudged me forward, and I

24:12

finally showed him to the door to 1A. I

24:16

stood several feet back, staring intently at

24:18

the door, feeling a bead

24:20

of sweat run down my neck. Even

24:23

at that distance, I could hear something

24:25

stirring within the room. A

24:28

shuffling, a faint scratching,

24:31

the sound of a woomph, like

24:33

the gust of air let out by an old couch

24:35

cushion when you settle into it. Then,

24:37

a series of

24:39

slow, plodding footsteps that paused

24:42

right by the door. To

24:45

my surprise, the door

24:47

opened a sliver, stopped

24:49

short by the chain. The

24:52

room belched warm air, carrying with

24:54

it an awful scent, dense,

24:57

palatable, humid, with the strong

24:59

taint of copper and iron.

25:03

I saw the man who, less

25:05

than an hour ago, had been

25:07

slumped motionless on the ground while

25:09

the TV flashed static at him.

25:13

His apartment was dark now, but

25:15

I could just make out his silhouette within

25:17

the blackness. He was squinting

25:19

against the dim light of the hallway, his

25:22

face glistening with what could have

25:24

been perspiration. Yet

25:27

a dark black splotch on his temple,

25:29

where I guessed he must have hit his head.

25:32

He stared at the officer, then

25:35

at me. His eyes fill

25:37

me, his skin pallid, and

25:40

his expression, inscrutable. The

25:43

officer cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose

25:45

at the stench. Sir? Mr.

25:50

Howbeck? I'm

25:52

here to perform a welfare check.

25:55

I received a call that you might be in

25:57

distress. The officer could tell

25:59

that something...