I never thought I’d be one of the people to write a story here. To share something horrible. I actually never used to read Reddit or anything like it, I don’t even like horror stories. But my mother loves everything scary. She decorates her house for Halloween in August; she watches slashers like they’re her ‘stories’. I guess I started reading these stories to try and engage in her hobby. It never really clicked. But I tried.
My mom was always interested in this stuff, though. When True Crime became bigger during the pandemic, she eagerly started watching every Youtube channel she could find.
I’d wake up in the mornings, at 8 AM, to the words “throat slashed” or “eyes gouged out” or “stabbed 44 times”. I was 18 and I had heard my mother say exsanguination more often than she’d said I love you.
I know that sounds dramatic but not only is it true, it’s frighteningly relevant.
I saw less and less of the woman who had raised me, and more of an empty shell with nothing to fill her but the horrible words coming from our TV at all hours. My dad wasn’t in the picture. He hadn’t been for over ten years, for reasons I won’t go into, but I know he was depressed. It was just me, my mom, and the TV. Once, when I had managed to drag her out to a doctor’s appointment, I joked that the TV was my new dad. She’d just looked at me with her tired eyes, no anger or humor, and I didn’t say anything about it again.
I began to wish for her to get angry at me. To do something, to feel again.
I regret that now.
The thing about True Crime, beyond the obvious that it’s “true”, is that most of the cases that get sensationalized are unsolved. I read somewhere that there are as many as 50 active serial killers in the US at any given time. Of course that means a lot of them don’t get reported at all, but the ones that do, and the ones that aren’t solved, get turned into televised candy for bored housewives.
Exactly a month ago today, I woke up to my mom doing the same thing she did every morning: drinking her coffee and watching a video on Youtube.
“Hey, mom,” I said, expecting no response. It was almost startling when she snapped her head towards me and grinned.
“Hey, Em!” she said, cheerful. It was the most emotion I’d heard in almost two years, and I admit I was a bit nervous by the sudden change. “You wanna watch this with me?” she asked, gesturing at the television with her coffee mug. I’d bought it for her a few years ago. It said “Number 1 Cat Grandma”, a stupid joke, and an upsetting one. My cat had ran away a few months ago.
But I can’t pretend that I wasn’t also a little happy to finally be invited into this secret world my mother languished in. She wasn’t antisocial but I wouldn’t say she liked talking during her “stories.” Maybe a few comments here or there, but mostly to herself.
I sat on the couch. Instead of continuing the video, my mother clumsily navigate the Roku remote control and began a new one. A glance at the video info said it’d been posted around midnight, 8 or so hours ago.
She patted my leg awkwardly as the video began. I smiled a little weakly and then focused on the TV. I was honestly confused by her enthusiasm. She practically vibrated with emotion as we watched the opening scrawl. It was the usual stuff. The name of the channel, [Redacted], then the name of the episode, and a few words about Patreon. On the bottom left a little popup about paid promotions being in the video slid onto the screen and I felt my eyes glaze over. Yes, I’d tried to engage with my mother before, but I can’t say I was thrilled about this.
The voice on the screen had a dead, utilitarian tone. Subtitles were on despite the words themselves already gliding across the screen. I recognized Windows Movie Maker style transitions, and almost laughed.
“Today’s story is pretty unique to the channel,” says the man’s voice. “Most of the cases we discuss on [Redacted] are old, cold cases. But today’s is as fresh as a daisy.”
It was a bit strange to hear someone talk about what was probably a terrible crime like it was the latest fashion. But I digress. He continued.
“In the sleepy town of Castine, Maine, a gruesome scene was discovered on May 12th…”
I stopped. Castine? Is that why my mom wanted me to watch? It was the town next to ours… only a few miles drive to the west. I must have made a face. My mom turned to me with a huge grin, nodding her head and never quite meeting my eyes.
“Two homeless men were found dead, their throats cut, their bodies stashed in a dumpster behind a local grocery store. The funny thing is the killer obviously had trouble getting the bodies in there. They built a makeshift stairway with old pallets. No DNA was found at the scene, beyond the victim’s, which honestly was everywhere. The killer rolled them up the stairs like old rugs.”
On the screen, an amateur-ish recreation of the scene drawn in Photoshop popped up for a moment. Then… “Alright,” said the voice, “here’s a message from today’s sponsors! Audible is…”
I turned to my mom. She still looked thrilled to be sitting there watching it with me. She had more color in her cheeks than she had in over a year. Her blonde hair, streaked with gray, was brushed and pulled into a fancy bun. She’d stuck a blue pin through her hair; it was a dragonfly styled in faux stained glass. I’d gotten it for her on her 50th birthday. There had been a real sapphire tucked away among the blue and white painted glass. It had fallen out, but the hairpin itself was still beautiful. The blue in her gray-blond hair added made her look ten years younger.
After the sponsorship spiel was over, we finished the video. It was pretty cut and dry, the only real shock was that it had happened so close to our house. The police had no leads, and the video ended up with a number to call in case there was any info.
“So,” my mom said, “what did you think?”
“Oh, um,” I said, not really sure what to say. “It was kind of scary that something like that could happen so close to us. I know those guys were homeless but that doesn’t mean it isn’t awful.”
“What’s awful about it?” my mom asked with a bitter note.
“Uh, two people died, mom.”
“Oh.” She perked up again and smiled. After that, we ordered pizza, and watched a movie. She let me pick, which meant it was the first non-horror film I’d watched with my mom ever.
After that, things went back to mostly normal. I still woke up at 8 AM to the sounds of true crime on the TV, but there was a small difference. My mom would ask me questions about the videos. I’d sit, laptop on my legs and job application after job application on my screen, and she’d ask me if I thought the killer might get caught. If he or she was smart enough to elude police. If fingerprint evidence was enough to catch someone. I didn’t really know, but even though it was still about her hobby, I responded. I even felt myself starting to get into it. It was almost like a soap opera. Even though you knew the content was bad, it sucked you in.
Until tonight.
I’m writing this from the bathroom. My mom thinks the food we ordered didn’t sit well with me.
But the truth is that I am fine, at least physically… I had decided to actually start watching the videos ahead of time, so I could answer her questions. Get more info and gain some knowledge about this hobby of hers. I reasoned, it wasn’t her fault she was bored. It wasn’t her fault she was retired and the world had gone mad and there was a pandemic.
I’d loaded up the video as soon as it popped up. The same channel that had started this whole mess. Windows Movie Maker, a popup telling me there was a paid promotion… and two more bodies. More homeless men. The voice on the screen had more pep to it. He was happy that there were now four bodies. You need three kills for it to be serial.
The cops were still pretty dumbfounded but they had a small lead. The killer had possibly left behind some evidence. And the Youtuber was thrilled to have procured a picture (legally, he swore, but I rolled my eyes).
As the image slid onto the screen, I felt my stomach fall.
It was a small plastic baggy, picture taken by an inexpert hand, probably with a phone.
Inside…
A tiny sapphire, glue still encrusted on the side where it had fallen from its setting.
Help me.