Everyone and No One: A True Crime Podcast

Episode 7: Posted on May 12

October 31, 2023 DimensionGate Season 1 Episode 7
Everyone and No One: A True Crime Podcast
Episode 7: Posted on May 12
Show Notes Transcript

In the spring of 2022, the 44 Division of the Toronto Police Service discovered the burnt remains of Rachel Amina Darwish, Daniel Brewer, and Mitig Biskane, in southern Ontario, Canada. The only clues offering an explanation for the three deaths were found in an anonymous blog written by an unknown individual.

The following is a reading from the blog website, www.everyoneandnoone.org, before it was seized by the police.

This episode is a reading of blog entries posted between May 12, 2022, to a blocked date.

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Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. Episode 7. 


In the spring of 2022, the 44 Division of the Toronto Police Service discovered the burnt remains of Rachel Amina Darwish, Daniel Brewer, and Mitig Biskane, in southern Ontario, Canada. The only clues offering an explanation for the three deaths were found in an anonymous blog written by an unknown individual.

 

The following content was taken from the blog website, everyoneandnoone.org






Posted on May 12
 (second post)



A little boy stared up at me, faceless, bald, his skin marble black, marked with paint splatter and scattered text, white, yellow, green and purple. It was my Psychedelics Anonymous Genesis, but as a child. We both stood in a dark void, facing each other. 

The boy scurried away and I followed. The darkness turned into towering trees surrounding me. I found myself facing a dead birch with a crucifix on its trunk. I turned to look for the boy but saw a woman instead, barefoot in a yellow house dress, her back facing me so I couldn’t see her face. Her dark hair flowed down her back. 

 

"Hello?" I said, but she didn't answer. I inched closer to the woman, and put my hand on her shoulder. I tugged her to face me, but the strength drained from my arm and I suddenly couldn't move. I tried to release her shoulder but was stuck. I suffocated.

 

A hand stroked my hair and I woke to Leah sitting at the edge of my mattress.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she kept repeating.

 

“Leah?”

 

“You’re…drenched,” she dabbed my forehead with her sleeve. 

 

My hand clutched an empty medicine bottle—pills spilled out onto the bed sheet. 

 

"Is...is that your meds? How many did you take?"

 

"I don’t know," I murmured.

 

She stood up and my mattress raised. I heard a faucet turn on and off. She returned and put a metallic cup to my mouth. "Drink."

 

I shook my head but Leah tilted the cup and water touched my lips. I sipped then pushed her arm away.

 

"You should sleep," she placed the cup on the floor and pulled a thin bedsheet over me. Moist air from outside pushed in through the window screen, passed Leah’s purse on the windowsill. I heard her footsteps thump down the hallway and into the washroom. I heard the shower turn on and the thud of a shampoo bottle falling into the tub.

 

The sound of running water soothed me, and I wondered if last night really happened. Had I not awoken from my sleep the day before? In my daze, I let myself believe it—I allowed myself to think that the night before was just a dream. 

 

 

I woke up to the roaring of the kitchen exhaust fan and the smell of frying potatoes. My eyes adjusted to the sunlight through the curtains. I slid the window open, and the food smell was replaced by the smell of outside. Peering down the street, I saw three parked cop cars and yellow crime scene tape wrapping around the side of a building not too far away.

 

In the kitchen, Leah stirred diced potatoes in hot oil and looked up at me. "Good morning,” she smiled and rushed up to kiss me. “Are…you okay?"

 

“I think so,” I rubbed her arm.

 

"I let myself in," she said. "I was knocking for ten...ten minutes last night."

 

I recalled giving her my spare key, but this was the first time she had used it. 

 

"What's going on outside?” I asked.

 

"What do you…mean?”

 

"There’s cops.”

 

"Oh…a fire,” she said. “When I…got here, there were firetrucks everywhere."

 

My mind returned to full wakefulness, and I remembered the night before—remembering reading about Daniel. But then she touched my hand, and I felt stupid. It must have been a coincidence. There must be hundreds of Daniels in the city. Thousands maybe. It was just my paranoia, I thought. A series of coincidences and misremembering. 

 

A timer rang in the kitchen.

 

"Food’s done," her lips curled into a smile. She laid a peck on my forehead. "Listen," she stroked the back of my hand with her thumb, and her eyes turned serious. "Last night…you took some pills. You have to be...be careful, you know."

 

"I know. I just—it's hard for me to sleep sometimes."

 

"Come here," she opened up her arms and I gladly leaned into her. "Let's eat?" She led the way to the kitchen, but before following her, I sneaked over to the front door and locked it.



 



Posted on May 12
 (third post)



Rising up out of the subway staircase and into the busy street, I pulled Leah closer to me. The pavement was still wet from rain, puddles gathered by the curb. We strolled arm in arm, listening to the sounds of downtown traffic, absorbing the odors of diesel from TTC buses and fried grease from Korean restaurants. A white van with Manitoba plates drove by.

Leah said something, but I wasn't listening, too busy eyeing the people around us. It's not too late in the night, but the city nomads are already scattered about, mostly ordinary loiterers, but some are bustling and alert. There is no admission fee for the creep show that is downtown Toronto at night.

 

Arriving at the front steps of Leah's work, she kissed me goodbye and disappeared through tinted glass doors, and I felt relieved that she’d be safe there. 

 

 

Metal wheels screeched on steel tracks. The seat under me shook. I awoke from a daze. A voice from the speakers announced; "Next stop, Dufferin Station."

 

As the train slowed to a stop, the squealing of the breaks dissipated, leaving only the chime from the opening doors. 

 

My palms itched as I checked my phone and saw a new message from Instagram.

 

It was from Rachel.  

 

I’m at the Ritz Carlton on the 27th floor



 



Posted on May 12
 (fourth post)



The valet guy at the Ritz-Carlton slept sitting up on his chair beside the revolving glass door. His mouth gaped open. 

Inside the huge lobby warm light bathed over everything. The high ceilings were painted with white clouds on a manufactured sky. To my left, the night concierge perched behind the front counter, her face glowing from a hidden computer screen under the countertop. To my right was a cocktail lounge about to close—a couple of servers in black uniforms placed chairs upside down on the tables.

 

My footsteps clomped on the granite floor for a few steps and then were muffled by the carpets leading to the elevators. Reaching the elevators, I pressed the up button and a set of doors opened behind me. I stepped into the mirrored box with brass hand railings and hit the button to the twenty seventh floor.

 

The doors opened and I poked my head into the hallway. The air was strangely warm, and smelled yeasty. I wiped the sweat from my face, took a deep breath, and made my way into the hallway. The elevator doors closed behind me. I slogged through the quiet hallway and found myself between mirrored walls on each side, stretching from ceiling to floor. 

 

Willing my feet to take one step after another, I could see, in my peripheral vision, the reflections of myself in the mirrors on both sides of me, repeating like a row of synchronized dancers marching in unison to my every step. 

 

I stopped and faced one of the mirrors, and then the row of clones did the same, pairing up, each couple facing each other, duplicating into eternity. I was mesmerized and I placed a hand on the glass. The row of paired clones did the same, pressing their hands palm to palm on each other, repeating infinitely before me, and infinitely behind me.





 
Posted on *date blocked*



Leah peers into the darkness. She closes my front door behind her and turns the lock. Feeling her way up the wall, she finds the light switch and my apartment fills with whiteness.

She creeps to my bedroom, but I'm not there.

 

She checks the washroom—nothing.

 

In the living room, she glances at a mug on the coffee table. On the microwave, the time is showing 4:31 a.m. 

 

A moment of dead silence sweeps over the room.  

 

She peeks down the hallway and sees the door of the spare room ajar. The bottom of the door makes a dragging noise across the carpet as Leah pushes it open. The street lights from the window barely illuminate the room. In the dimness, she sees my laptop on the nightstand beside the bed, open but the screen asleep. Hesitating, she taps the touchpad and the screen lights up, showing an OpenSea collection—Book of I

 

She opens one of the items. 

 

7:2

He is walking home with me. We pass a flask of whiskey back and forth and he asks me if I would be giving him some sugar when we get to his place. Without looking, he steps off the curb at an intersection and is almost hit by a red Tesla. He falls backwards and screams a curse at the car that speeds away. I help him up to his feet. He wobbles a little. He looks dazed, but okay.

We reach his home, not saying much anymore. Inside his place, he tells me about his dream of opening a restaurant. He is sitting beside me on the couch, holding my hands in his lap, saying, honey, I'm so drunk it's not funny.

He falls back on the sofa, closes his eyes, and lets out a moan. When he opens his eyes, I'm not there. I'm in the kitchen, opening a drawer. Now, I'm standing over him, a carving knife with a black handle in my hand.

He whispers, why are you doing this?

I hunch over him with one hand pressed against his mouth, my other hand stabbing into the cavity of his chest. His screams are gurgles and his shuffling fades into stillness. His eyes roll up to the back of his skull. I take the flask of whiskey from his pocket and empty it on his clothes. Whiskey and blood soaks into his denim jeans. I see another full bottle of whiskey on a glass bar cart under a large mirror on the wall. I pour the whisky on the curtains, the carpet and the couch. My Zippo sparks in my hand and the curtain bursts into flame.

Daniel does not exist anymore. He is ashes, but Goodi3s will live forever.

 

 

The next item read:

 

7:3

He snores and mumbles words in his sleep. He curls into a fetal position, lying on his side in the concrete pocket of the fire exit. The pungent smell of his body surrounds him like a rotting aura, and l step into it. I hold a canister of paint thinner, a barcode price sticker still plastered to its tin side. He sleeps, still mumbling, as I pour the fluid on him. I pour on his filthy clothes, on his blanket under him, on the door and on the steps. I light his torn pants with my Zippo and a gentle boom of flames erupts. I jump back. Engulfed in fire, he screams and runs into the wall beside him, knocking him down. Rising back up, he runs a few steps onto the paved pathway and falls face first onto the grass, flames sprouting from his back like amber flags waving upwards in a fierce wind. His screaming turns into animal groans. And then silence.

The vagabond burns. And nothing is left, not even a name.


 
 

She opens a next item. 

 

7:4

The dampness in the air sticks to my skin. A single horse fly tests the window screen, bumping it then buzzing away. On the floor is a metal cup filled with tap water. The purpling of the sky outside casts a violet glow on her purse by the window. I lick the sweat at the corners of my mouth and listen to Leah humming a tune in the shower at the end of the hallway. 

 

 

Leah slaps her hand over her mouth. 

 

"What are you doing?" I ask from the doorway. 

 

She yelps and closes her eyes. "I did... didn't hear you... come in," she struggles. 

 

"What are you doing in here?" My eyes dart from corner to corner.

 

"I'm sorry, I was...was looking for you. And your lap... laptop was in here." 

 

"Why would it be in here?"

 

"I...I don't... know," she says, trembling. I see William's collection on the screen and a panic strikes me. She must have read about Rachel—about William killing Rachel, and she must be terrified, disgusted, as I was, too.

 

"I want to explain," a sudden and unexpected relief soaks through me—now she knows—now I can finally tell her everything. "I found his writings. I'm sorry I never told you, I had to make sure."

 

"Who...who wrote this?" she says, bewildered.

 

"William," my breath quickens, and I prepare myself to tell Leah the entire story from beginning to end.

 

"But that's not... true," she looks at me.

 

"What?" I furrow my brows.

 

"You…wrote this," she says.

 

"I don't understand," I walk towards her and she flinches. "I meant to show this to you, I just didn't know how," I toil to find the right words, barely recognizing my own voice.

 

"It was...was you. You wrote this," her eyes begged for me to understand.

 

"What?"

 

She steps to me. "I want to... help you." She reaches out her hands to hold mine.

 

"I didn't write this," I push her hands away, confused. Her eyes rim with desperation.

 

"My…name," she stammers longer than usual. 

 

I march to my laptop and push back the screen until it faces the ceiling. I stand over it, looking down at the page. I see new items in the collection. Leah inhales a shaky breath behind me.

 

Reading the new item, I recognize William’s factual writing voice, but the very last line shocks me, and shatters the world around me.

 

I lick the sweat at the corners of my mouth and listen to Leah humming a tune in the shower at the end of the hallway. 

 

I look back at Leah who is still standing in the same spot with the same expression on her face. I read the whole post again, saying the last line out loud.

 

I lick the sweat at the corners of my mouth and listen to Leah humming a tune in the shower at the end of the hallway. 

 

"What is this?" I ask her, my voice softening. She shakes her head, visibly stuck for words. A ringing in my ears deafens me, and I feel the walls of reality collapsing. "He was here?" I plead for an answer.

 

"No," she shakes her head.

 

I open another new item.

 

The vagabond burns. And nothing is left, not even a name.

 

I open another. 

 

Daniel does not exist anymore. He is ashes, but Goodi3s will live forever.

My vision turns black for a moment, and then returns. I’m laboring to breathe. My thoughts race so fast they feel motionless. "I don't understand," I say. I touch my face, and something explodes inside me—a blinding gap. My confusion ebbs away and I absorb the terrible thought— that I am William.

 

The memories of the last decade of my life flash before my eyes—a decade creating character after character, deceiving others. I had come full circle.

 

"It's the meds. It...it's not you. You have to get off the meds," Leah pleads.

 

Then I remember starting the medication when I met William. I remember quitting the medication, and never seeing William again. I remember taking the pills on the night I met Daniel, and the night I lashed out at the bum.

 

I search my pocket and find my medicine bottle. I doubt the world around me. Nothing is real.

 

"Nothing is real," I say, methodically. I push her aside to stand in the center of the room, looking down at the floor, my chest rising and falling with adrenaline soaked breaths. I'm on the edge of fainting.

 

"I can…help," she says behind me.

 

"You ain't fuckin' real," I say.

 

"Stop…talking that way."

 

I turn around and walk into her, forcing her backwards until she is trapped against the wall. I'm holding her arm. She tries to break free from my grip but I tighten it. She stutters in a voice that I no longer believe in. I release her and dash to the washroom sink. I pour all the pills into my palm. 

 

“No!” Leah grabs my arm with both hands and I shove her back. She trips over the bathtub edge and her elbow hits the soap dish, breaking her skin. 

 

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I try to remember Rachel, and Daniel, and the bum, with all the energy I can muster from my racing brain. I try to remember what I had done to them, or did they not exist either—characters in my mind.   

 

But then, in a flash of enlightenment, I realize it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters to me, because there is no ‘me’. I yearn for the emptiness.

 

I chuck all the pills into my mouth and send them down my throat, scraping like gravel. My body convulses and gags, but I press my palm against my mouth and force myself to keep the pills down, deep down in my gut. I'm thrown into a fit of coughing.

 

Leah stands up in the tub, holding her elbow. I amble out of the washroom and back into the spare room. I look at my laptop. The light of the screen blurs and I hear Leah saying something behind me. Vertigo engulfs me, and then a falling sensation, and then nothingness. 



This ends Episode 7 of Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. To be continued next Tuesday in Episode 8, anywhere you get your podcasts. This has been a DimensionGate production.