Episode 217: What Lingers in the Dark – A House That Watched and Waited

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Some places don’t just feel
haunted, they remember the walls

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carry grief, the floorboards
echo with pain, and if you stay

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long enough, you don’t leave
unchanged.

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Tonight’s story isn’t about
bumps in the night.

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It’s about what pain leaves
behind, what grief feeds, what

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darkness learns to wear your
name.

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It’s personal and it’s real.
I’m Andy, and this is paranormal

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night shift, where your
headlights might light the road

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ahead, but we’re more interested
in what’s standing behind you.

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Each week, we dive into chilling
stories sent in by listeners

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just like you.
Stories too raw, too intimate,

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too true to be ignored.
Before we step into tonight’s

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shadows, a quick heads up.
If you want even more stories

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too intense for the podcast,
ones I only send to e-mail

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subscribersyoucangrabthose@paranormalnightshift.com.
Signing up also gets you a free

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copy of the first ebook in our
time bending horror series,

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Dimensional Desperado.
And heads up for those already

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riding the haunted trail with
us.

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Book 2 is coming, and e-mail
subscribers and Patreon members

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will be the first to peek behind
the veil.

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Now let’s dim the lights.
Tonight’s story, What lingers in

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the Dark, comes from a listener
named Lexi.

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It’s a story of siblings,
silence, and something in the

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house that wasn’t just watching,
it was waiting.

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I’ve had my fair share of
paranormal experiences

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throughout my life.
Some have been subtle small

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signs, residual energy, the
comforting presence of loved

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ones who’ve passed.
Others have been much harder to

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live through, terrifying,
overwhelming, and impossible to

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explain away with logic.
But there’s one stretch of time

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that I return to in my mind more
often than I’d like.

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Because it wasn’t just
paranormal, it was personal.

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It involved my brother Andrew,
and it left a mark on both of us

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that I’ve only come to
understand years later.

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After my parents divorced,
Andrew and I lived mostly with

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our mom.
Our other siblings stayed with

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our dad more full time, but
Andrew, being 11 years older

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than me, was almost like a
second adult in the house.

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He was in his late teens, then
19 or 20.

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I was still fairly young, too
young to see the full picture of

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everything that was happening,
too young to grasp the weight he

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carried.
Andrew had been struggling with

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substance use since before we
moved into the house, but

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something changed when we got
there.

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At the time I thought it was
just life, just growing up, but

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looking back, I can say with
absolute certainty that

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something in that house fed the
worst in him, and something in

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that house had its eye on both
of us.

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The house itself felt wrong.
From the moment we stepped

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through the front door.
It wasn’t anything you could put

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your finger on.
It was dark, not just poorly

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lit, but somehow darker than it
should have been, even with the

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lights on.
It was the kind of place where

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shadows seem to gather in the
corners long after they should

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have faded.
Every room felt like it was

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holding its breath.
Andrew’s bedroom was in the

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basement.
It was a small room with dark

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wood paneled walls and no
windows, completely sealed from

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the outside world.
Even in the daytime it was pitch

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black without a lamp.
That room always made me uneasy.

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It wasn’t just the darkness, it
was the feeling.

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The kind that sticks to your
skin like a film.

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The basement as a whole was
awful.

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I avoided it at all costs.
The one time I stayed down there

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too long, playing a video game
in the family room area, I felt

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a sharp, undeniable tug on my
hair.

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I was completely alone.
I never went down there again

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without Andrew or my mom.
After a few months in the house,

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things got worse.
That’s when the breathing

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started.
Almost every night, just as I’d

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start to drift off, I’d hear it
right next to my ear.

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A deep, heavy inhale, pause, and
then a slow exhale, like someone

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was inches from my face,
watching me sleep.

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It was so close I could feel the
weight of it, like it was

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pressing into the pillow beside
me.

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I’d freeze.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t

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scream, couldn’t even roll over.
It was like my body was under

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lock and key.
This happened night after night,

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and yet I never told anyone.
I can’t say why, exactly.

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Maybe it was fear of not being
believed.

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Maybe it was because my mom
wasn’t easy to talk to back

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then.
Maybe part of me thought that

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saying it out loud would make it
worse.

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But I kept quiet.
I endured it in silence, even as

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the fear hollowed out my
insides.

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It wasn’t just the breathing,
either.

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Sometimes, late at night, when
the house was utterly still, I’d

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hear footsteps.
Slow, heavy steps.

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They’d start just outside my
bedroom door, move down the

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hall, through the dining room,
into the kitchen, and always,

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always down the stairs into the
basement.

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Then silence.
And that’s what chilled me the

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most.
Not the sound of someone

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walking, but the absolute
nothing that followed.

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We didn’t live there for very
long, thank God.

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A better situation opened up and
we moved.

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I never spoke about what I
experienced.

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Not to my mom, not to Andrew.
And even though I knew something

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awful had lingered in that
house, I buried the memories

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deep down and tried to forget.
But trauma doesn’t stay buried

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forever.
In 2009, my brother passed away.

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An unexpected overdose.
It shattered my world.

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Our dad had died of cancer only
two years earlier.

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Losing Andrew felt like losing
the last anchor I had to the

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version of my family that once
was.

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And I never got to ask him,
never got to know if he’d felt

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the things I did in that house.
I figured I’d never would.

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Until last year.
Andrew had been dating a girl

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back when we lived in that
house.

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Years had passed, and we’d gone
our separate ways.

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But recently we reconnected.
She lives out of state now, but

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while traveling through, she
stopped to visit and we finally

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got to talk.
Not as kids connected through

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Andrew, but as adults grieving
the same loss.

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We reminisced, we laughed, we
cried.

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And then she asked a question
that made my blood run cold.

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Do you remember living at the
haunted house?

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I paused.
What house?

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I asked, though I already knew.
She described it perfectly.

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Same house, same layout, same
dark energy.

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I said yes and let her speak.
She told me that Andrew had

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become unrecognizable while
living there, that his drug use

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had worsened drastically, that
for the first time in their

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relationship, she was afraid of
him.

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She said he would get this look
in his eyes like he wasn’t all

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there.
And then she said something that

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shook me to my core.
He used to say something was

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breathing in his ear at night
that it wouldn’t stop.

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I broke down sobbing.
She went on hesitantly to say

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that he also heard footsteps,
heavy ones, always leading to

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the basement.
Just like I had.

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And then the part I still can’t
fully process, She said.

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Andrew saw faces in the walls,
faces that would speak to him,

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try to convince him to do
terrible things, that he felt

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watched constantly, that he
believed something was trying to

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claim him.
I asked her to stop.

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I couldn’t take any more.
There’s a part of me that

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believes Andrew was more
vulnerable because because of

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his addiction, that the darkness
of that house latched onto him

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because he was easier to
influence.

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But there’s another part of it
in me that wonders if he

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shielded me from the worst of
it, if he bore the brunt of its

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torment to keep me safe.
That’s the part that hurts the

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most.
But my story doesn’t end in

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fear.
The night after Andrew passed, I

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had a dream.
Or maybe something more than

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that.
I don’t know what to call it.

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I was lying in bed, just like
always.

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Everything around me looked
exactly as it did in the waking

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world.
And then he appeared.

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My brother.
He looked like himself again.

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Clear eyed, calm.
He told me he loved me, that he

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was sorry, that he didn’t mean
to die.

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He kissed my forehead, and when
I woke up, I was crying.

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Not from fear, but from love.
I believe Andrew came to say

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goodbye, to let me know that
wherever he was now, he wasn’t

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in pain anymore, and that
despite everything that house

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had tried to do to us, it didn’t
win.

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I still have nightmares
sometimes.

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I still hear those heavy
footsteps in my memory.

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But I also carry that final
moment with Andrew, that kiss on

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the forehead, that apology, and
I hold on to it like a Lantern

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in the dark.
Because even when the shadows

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whisper and the walls seem to
breathe, love still finds a way

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to breakthrough.
Lexi’s story is more than just a

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paranormal encounter.
It’s a mirror, a reminder that

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some hauntings don’t happen to
us.

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They happen through us, through
memory, through love, through

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loss and the places we live.
Sometimes they don’t just

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witness our grief, they feed on
it.

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If this story stayed with you
tonight, if it stirred something

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in your gut or whispered to
something you thought was long

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buried, know this, you’re not
alone.

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These stories connect us, and
sometimes just speaking that

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brings a kind of peace.
Thank you for stepping into the

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dark with me tonight.
If you want more stories, like

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this one’s Too Raw or eerie for
the podcast, make sure you’re

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signed up at
paranormalnightshift.com.

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That’s where I share exclusive
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Desperado.
Trust me, you’re going to want

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to be on that list when book 2
starts to stir.

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00:11:13,600 –> 00:11:17,600
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You’ll get ad free episodes
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journeys into the unknown.
I don’t release anywhere else,

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but whether you listen in, read
along, or just quietly carry

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these stories with you, I’m
grateful you’re here.

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Until next time, stay curious,
stay brave.

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And if the breathing starts
beside you in the dark, just

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know we’ve heard it too.
Have a good night.