The Truth about Strange Town: Dave David

Dave here, signing on.

If you’re listening to this recording, welcome! And — how did you get access to my private files?

My name is Dave David — no, I’m not kidding — I’m an ex-journalist who abandoned his family because he was too cowardly to tell them the truth, and this is my story.

Oh god, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? My story. Yeah, it definitely does. I swear I’m not arrogant and low in emotional IQ like most others in the field. Wait — that’s exactly what someone who is low on those things would say. Dammit.

By the time someone finds these recordings in the depths of my laptop, I will be long dead, or at least super old. This is due to the fact that if you think I would willingly give my laptop to someone, you’re insane. Absolutely insane. If anyone wants access to it they’ll have to pry it from my cold dead — possibly arthritic hands.

Whatever the case, you’re here now. Congrats, you’re in for a hell of a ride. One that will probably make your ears bleed and make you wish you’d left well enough alone. Continue at your own self-inflicted and ill-judged risk.

So I’m talking to you because, well, I feel like it’s my job to report, to forewarn. It’s kind of in my blood; a primal instinct I can’t shut off.

I moved to Strangetown Town a week ago.

Side note, it’s actually called Strangetown Town. Literally written like that on the sign when you drive past it along the desert road. I had to reverse and back up just to check I wasn’t hallucinating. That day, hands-on the steering wheel and heart in my throat, ready to erase my past and become a new, better version of myself, I thought huh, weird name for a town.

That was the least weird thing about it. I had no clue what awful, terrible and frankly laughable things I was in for, or the gaping magnitude of all the things I have yet to know — or will never know.

Sometimes I wish I never came here, wish I moved somewhere boring and safe. But it’s too late to go back. If I tried to leave, I’m not sure they’d let me. They being the security guards standing with long suspiciously gun-like machines along the borders, wearing cool sunglasses and pink-white cameo uniforms. Even if they let me leave, if I told anyone in the real world about what I’ve experienced, they’d probably lock me up for the rest of my life. I’ve considered it though, weighed the pros and cons of running away each night when I lie in bed. My floating bed that has no legs yet is the sturdiest thing I’ve ever felt. The conclusion? I’d rather live in insanity itself than be in the real world and become the very thing I was trying to escape.

It’s only been a week, but it feels like months. I’m aging faster too — or maybe that’s stress. Being only 28, I never expected grey hairs. Now, all my hair is grey. Everywhere. I won’t bore you with the horrifying details.

I guess you — person who’s listened this long — are wondering why I came here at all. Things were rough with my home life; my wife was spending a lot of time at the office. I never thought she’d cheat on me, but she started lying about where she was, who she talked to; she was distant in a way I couldn’t pinpoint, but I knew something was wrong. Broken. The frustrated pit in my gut grew stronger each day. She had a work husband, Brad. Was he just a work husband, Angela? Was he more? I pushed the jealousy down, kept the feelings of betrayal and pain inside me, trudged on because what else was I to do? I couldn’t leave. I’d already devoted my life to her, my time, the sacrifice of my passion. I’d staked everything on her, all or nothing. She was my last roll of the dice.

I was a stay at home dad, so I got to do all the fun parenting stuff like giving them candy and plonking them in front of the tv while I gambled on my phone all day. But my children, Melissa and Marcy, had been more interested in social media than talking to me. Some days I’d sit in the living room watching them scroll endlessly on their phones, wondering if they’d notice if I up and left one day. So, as a brief experiment, I went on a little day trip the following weekend.

I was planning on returning home that night, slipping back into my routine as if I’d never left. I never intended to stay in this town; it would be nothing more than a bathroom break and a place to grab lunch before getting back on the road. I didn’t have a destination in mind on my impromptu road trip, but I certainly never expected to find a place like this. The place where I made the worst mistake of my life; stopping into the coffee shop Bean a While on Coffee Street. (Yes, an entire street dedicated to coffee. A miserable guy’s heaven.)

I walked in, ordered a soy latte, and all seemed normal. Then the barista, who was named Simon and had the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen, said, smooth as butter, “Wanna sample our latest drink?”

I’d tell you what happened after that, but it’s too cold in my room—which is stupid because this place is basically all desert. I have three winter coats on, but it’s not enough. It’s as if my bones are frozen solid. I can’t quell the shivering or the icy chills tingling my skin. My teeth are chattering so much I can barely speak. I have my heater blasting, candles lit, about a thousand heat packs I’m hugging. But it’s not enough. Never enough. I hate it; despise whatever forces make me feel this way. It’s an ultimate irony that whenever I’m inside freezing to death, the world’s on fire.

No literally, just now I’m staring out my bedroom window, and all the houses on the street are on fire. Flames bright and high on the grass, concrete, the road, even my own house. And get this, whenever someone steps outside their house to put their bins out or check the mailbox, they’re also on fire. The birds in the sky, the owls in the trees… everything is lit up in flames Satan would be proud of. But the second I open my door, take a step on my concrete cobblestone path, the fire goes away. So that leaves me to wonder, is the fire real? Am I going insane? Being pranked? If not, what cruel entities thought this was a productive use of their time? Why would they do it? What would they get out of it?

I’ll tell you the coffee story another day.

Anyway. I’m stuck here, nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. So why not document it?

Part of me wants to go home to my family, to yell at my wife for hurting me, to cry and apologise for leaving her, be a better father to my kids. But I can’t. I’m in too deep. I want to learn, to know the truth of this town, more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. I need to crack the code, figure it out. I’m obsessed and terrified and intrigued and disgusted and…alive. For the first time in years.

And besides, there are some perks. A few decent people amongst the rubble and ashes of this messed up town that spits in the face of normalcy. This fantastically warped place that both saved me and cursed me.

The people are kind of freaks, sometimes deranged — or worse, but some are the kindest, most lively people I’ve ever seen. There’s Janet, the pet supplies store owner, and Borris, her golden retriever, who greets me every morning in joyful barks. Then there’s Simon the Barista…

Listener, my sincere apologies, but I have to get going now. It’s getting late, and I think having our house lights on after 9:30 pm is illegal. I have no definitive proof of this, but everyone else shuts theirs off at that exact time like clockwork, and I’m too scared to be rebellious. Sometimes, when my head is on the pillow and I’m in that hypnotic state between awake and asleep, I hear footsteps circling my house. Soft ones, ones that don’t want me to know they’re there. But I always know, my hearing is superhuman. The first few nights, I was convinced someone was trying to burgle me, so I got a baseball bat and prepared for the worst. But they have yet to come in, so I’m not sure what they want or why they’re doing it.

Now when I hear it, I don’t move a muscle and try not to think about it too hard.

Stay tuned for more weird and disturbing recordings about Strangetown Town. If you think you’re brave enough to handle it, that is. Maybe you’re thinking of visiting, or you’re terrified but can’t seem to stop yourself from listening. Either way, proceed with caution.

Until next time.

Dave Davis, signing off.