My name is Amanda Marks. You’re receiving this because something terrible is about to happen to me. Please tell the authorities if I don’t survive, and let them know who the responsible person is.
If I die, my father in law is the killer. It is not due to complications during childbirth.
Francis Marks is responsible.
Where do I even begin? How can I convince you to believe me?
Especially knowing how conniving and manipulative that bastard can be… With everything that’s happened, I’m almost tempted to leave parts of it out, since it will probably sound farfetched. But I won’t. I’ll tell you all of it.
Here goes.
Peter - my fiance - was the kindest man I’d ever met. He was the kind of person you notice from across the room and just have to go talk to. We met at a party at a friend’s house. Boring story I know - but the years we’ve spent together have been anything but.
Our time since we met hasn’t been a fairy tale romance - I’m not sure those really exist in everyday life - but it’s been amazing and special and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
His family is another story altogether.
I’ve never known a man so easily persuaded by his father. But, to be fair, just about anyone can be persuaded by Frank.
The man worked as a professional stage performer for many years. He was a mentalist. If you’re not familiar it’s sort of like a magician who can predict what people will say and how they will answer questions. They are master manipulators, and they are experts at reading people’s reactions and figuring out their responses.
A good mentalist can make it feel as if they are right inside your mind, listening to your thoughts, and making suggestions you can’t ignore. And Frank was one of the very best when he was in his prime - selling out theaters and traveling around the world showing off his special talents. He made so much money that he retired at the age of fifty and now lives very comfortably in a huge house outside of town.
While he was touring he went by the stage name: Francis Folds. This was before the age of the internet, so there’s almost no information out there about him.
What I do know is that he’s extremely dangerous.
Frank’s wife, Estelle, died during childbirth. And he said to Peter (sometimes with me in the room) that he treasured the experience of raising him as a single father. Not only that, but he would go on to say how badly he wanted that experience for Peter.
That’s right. With me in the room, he said how great it would be if I died during childbirth.
I wanted to flip out on him, of course. I wanted to yell and scream. But when I stood up from the stool at the kitchen counter where we had been sitting all the strength drained out of my legs. I suddenly felt dizzy and had to sit back down. I couldn’t even find my voice to yell at him.
I would have thought Peter would be concerned, but he didn’t seem to notice. He went on smiling and nodding his head at what his father was saying - as if it was completely normal to talk in positive tones about me being dead.
Later that night I brought it up, trying to keep my voice even and trying not to explode. Peter told me he didn’t even remember his father saying that, and if he did he probably didn’t mean anything by it. Of course, Peter can’t help but defend him no matter what.
I spent weeks trying to forget about it and put it out of my mind, but it was impossible. The more I thought about it the more I started to worry that Frank was somehow going to make it happen. I know, that sounds delusional, but you don’t know this man. When he wants something - he gets his way.
Frank keeps insisting that he be allowed in the Delivery Room. I’ve told Peter I don’t want him there but he won’t listen. He says his father has every right to be there for the birth of his grandchild. But I have a terrible feeling about it. Despite my presence, he continues talking about how he can’t wait for Peter to have the magical experience of raising a child as a single father. It will be difficult, he says, but with his help Peter will get through it.
To be clear, there’s been no talk of complications or issues with the pregnancy. I’ve checked with the doctor again and again, ensuring I’m not missing anything. But she keeps telling me the baby is healthy and all signs point to a normal delivery in the near future.
But regardless of that, Frank continues talking about it all as if I will be dead following the birth of our child. And he keeps insisting that he be allowed in the room on that day. I’ve told Peter “no” a hundred times, but he doesn’t listen.
The worst part is, I can imagine it all perfectly. I can see Frank in the Delivery Room, telling the nurses and doctors what to do. Telling them to give me an extra shot of morphine, or to turn off the oxygen, or something. And every time I SEE THEM LISTENING. And doing exactly what he says! I don’t know how the hell he’s going to do it but he will make it happen. He wants me dead and he wants it to happen in that room, while I’m giving birth. He’s demented - he must be - but I can tell just by looking at his face when he talks about it. I know that’s what he’s planning.
The baby is kicking right now and I’m trying to soothe her by rubbing my belly but it isn’t working. Funny, I keep picturing the baby as a girl even though we haven’t gotten the sex confirmed. We wanted to keep it as a surprise. But part of me thinks I’ll never find out for sure. I’ll be dead before I ever see my baby’s face.
I need to calm down somehow and think.
There’s no way I can sleep tonight. Maybe talking to a friend about this will help. Recording this message did nothing but make me more anxious for my delivery date.
*
Holy shit.
Things are so much worse than I thought.
The cops can’t help me. I know that now. Nobody can help me. I’m completely fucked!
Oh God, I’m gonna die. He’s gonna have me killed or he’s gonna have me kill myself just like he did to Sarah.
Oh fuck.
Slow down. Start from the beginning. Explain it. Get it all down. Maybe this will reach the FBI or someone after I’m gone. Maybe someone can stop that son of a bitch.
Okay, deep breaths.
I went to see my friend Sarah, right after I finished typing out that first section. I thought that would be it. But something happened after I got to Sarah’s place, before I had time to explain everything.
There was a knock on the front door and she went to answer it. I followed her, a part of me worried that I knew exactly who was on the other side of that door.
Sure enough, standing out there on the porch was Frank.
“I had a feeling you’d be here,” he said, seeing me standing behind Sarah. “You don’t mind if I come in, do you?”
Sarah let him in reluctantly, looking like she didn’t really want to but had no choice.
He shut the door behind him and the three of us stood in the foyer, looking at each other. There were several long moments of silence and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, a bead of sweat pouring down the side of my face as I watched him and waited to see what he would do.
For some reason, I had a feeling of impending doom like none I’d ever felt before.
His old face had wrinkles but was somehow smooth at the same time, as if he didn’t really age but was just pretending to. Like a baby-face scrunched up to give the impression of lines.
I wondered for the first time if this man was a demon or some other supernatural being. How else could he do the things he did? How else could he make all that money from getting inside people’s heads? Even now he could make everyone around him dance to his tune, and do everything he wanted. How else could you do something like that, if not by magic?
He clicked his tongue and his eyes moved back and forth like someone watching a tennis match, as he looked silently from Sarah then to me. The movement of his eyes was hypnotizing, slow and steady, and I found myself watching him and feeling drowsy. My eyelids drooped and became heavier, as I stared at him intently.
“It’s dry in here isn’t it?” he asked. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it might have been a while.
As soon as he said those words my throat felt parched. My mouth had been sapped of all moisture. It wasn’t just dry - it was a desert. I couldn’t even form words. Looking over at Sarah I saw she had the same horrified expression on her face.
“You need a drink of water,” he told us. “Without that you’ll die.”
The thought that he could be right raced through my mind, competing with another which told me not to believe him - he was the devil. He was the prince of lies.
But I couldn’t resist and neither could Sarah. I ran to the kitchen while she ran to the bathroom nearby, putting her head beneath the faucet and opening her mouth wide.
When I was in the kitchen at the sink I found myself under the faucet, head tilted upwards, guzzling water down in greedy gulps.
I didn’t hear him enter the kitchen, coming up behind me until he was standing only a few inches away.
“That’s enough for now,” said Frank from behind me after another second or two. “We wouldn’t want to hurt Peter’s baby.”
I pulled my head back from the faucet, feeling like I’d nearly drowned as I slumped down to the floor, in a daze and not really understanding what had just happened at first.
Frank stood over me, looking down at me as if I were a worm.
He explained to me how there was no sense trying to save myself. There was no sense trying to tell the police or my friends and family. He was in my head. He knew what I was going to do before I did it. And if I tried to tell anyone what he was capable of he would do to them exactly what he did to Sarah. And then he would do much worse things to me.
He said he knew of ways. Things that would hurt me but not the baby.
“What did you do to Sarah?” I asked him, tears streaming from my eyes. “What did you do to her!?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked out quietly and left me on the kitchen floor.
The only sounds in the house were of me crying and of the faucet in the washroom still running.
I stumbled into the bathroom on shaky legs to find Sarah there, her jaw somehow still clamped down on the tasteful designer faucet she had shown off to me when she had the bathroom renovated several months before. She had died at some point very recently.
Her face was pale and blue-tinged, bloated and weeping water from the pores. She looked like a bullfrog - her neck swollen and too big - her shirt collar buttons popped off from the pressure. Thin blue veins stood out everywhere on her pale skin, creating a grotesque appearance that was difficult to look at. This wasn’t Sarah anymore - her spirit was gone and now this was just a bloated, waterlogged husk of flesh.
She had gotten up onto the vanity in the bathroom and contorted herself so she was lying face up beneath the tap - the water pouring out at full blast.
I turned off the faucet and pulled her down from that horrifying position. I tried to do CPR, calling 911 on my phone, using the speaker to blubber to the dispatcher, trying to explain what had happened. For whatever reason, I left out any mention of Frank.
Nothing I did was of any use. Sarah was long gone.
The official cause of death was suicide by means of hypervolemia and water asphyxiation. I’m sure it was probably one of the first instances in recorded history of such an event. The EMS workers looked rightfully horrified, and even the police detective who questioned me was pale and slightly gray, as if he could throw up at any second after seeing her body.
I was tempted to tell him the truth about what had happened. But I didn’t. Maybe that makes me a coward. Maybe I’m under the influence of Frank just like everyone else. I don’t really know.
All I know is that my best friend is dead now and that bastard made it happen. He told her to drink and she did - she turned on the tap and let it run down her throat until she drowned on it.
My delivery date is coming up. Frank is going to be there. I know that no matter what I say he will find a way into that room.
He will be there, and he is going to kill me.
If you’re reading this - please, tell whoever you can.
My name is Amanda Marks. And I’m going to be killed by Frank Marks - AKA Francis Folds.
He’ll tell the doctors and nurses to kill me and they’ll do it. But it won’t be their fault. No one can say no to Frank.
If you want to stop him - you better shoot him on sight.