Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. Episode 9.
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 *date blocked* (ninth post)
"I knew you'd come," says William stepping out from the darkness, clutching one of my Dad’s rifles, aiming it at Leah standing there paralyzed. "Back up," he says and I take a step back. "More. Come on now.”
I walk backwards to the edge of the clearing, the flashlight rattling in my hand.
Leah is sobbing wildly, mouthing words to herself that I can't make out. "Don't worry, cupcake, this will all be over quick. Now pour it on you," he motions to the kerosene.
Leah looks at me as if I could order everything to stop. Her eyes are flooding with tears and a single blink drops two streams down her cheeks.
A loud bang shakes the air as William blasts a round into the trees. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear wood chips and leaves falling to the forest floor. "Pour it," he says calmly.
"I can't!" Leah yells in a volume I didn't know was in her.
William aims the rifle at the side of her head.
"William?" I plead.
William pushes the black muzzle against her ear, her hair is covering her eyes and her mouth hangs wide open, frowning, mucus seeping down her chin. I believe he’d do it, so I dart over and take the kerosene from her.
And suddenly I feel my shock dissipate, and I begin to remember. I remember the apartment key William never returned. I remember the address of the cottage on Google Maps saved in the history on my laptop I left behind. My laptop where I wrote my blog, even when William was living there. He had access to everything. He always had.
I glance at William's face, flushed. It turns into the reddish hue I had seen when he crushed his knee into my stomach. But this time, his eyes are all but gone.
"Leah, you have to trust me," I say.
"I don't...I don't know what's...what's going on," she cries.
"You have to trust me, okay? Do you trust me?"
She nods. Her breathing slows.
"We have to listen to him. I'm going to pour this on you," I say. A primal moan arises from her gut like the cry of a dying animal.
William is listening intently, squeezing the rifle tighter with sweaty hands. Leah lowers her head and cries silently, and I pour the kerosene on her, soaking into her hair and clothes, its fumes filling my lungs. The glugging of the liquid stops as I tilt the jug back, leaving it half full. The sudden lightness of the jug contrasts the heaviness in my chest. I drop it, and it makes a hollow thump on the ground. William is standing so close I can reach out and grab the rifle if I had it in me.
"Remember Rachel?" he says over Leah’s sobs. He speaks with an icy perfection.
I nod, understanding now.
"All my life I've searched for you, fam. Someone who understands what I understand," William says.
"What's that?" I ask, stalling him.
"That we’re only words, fam," William says. "You’re writing me. And I’m writing you."
Standing in the realness of the harsh wind, I reach deep inside myself, back into the emptiness, to understand it absolutely. My heart pumps slower, gentler.
The rifle in William's hand is steady, pointing at my stomach now. And now I know, it's not just Leah that he plans to kill tonight, it's all of us. His war is ending—the constant war inside him between his script and his reality. Here he is, prepared to disintegrate his reality so his scripture can survive forever, immutable, taking Rachel with him, and Leah, Daniel and the homeless man, and God knows who else. But I am the key—I am the end, and the new beginning.
"But why all those people? You murdered them," I say.
"Because it was written," he says with a sterile formality.
His eyes are cold and unfeeling. I look at Leah, pressing her lips together so tight they turn blue.
"No one will leave us again," William says, satisfied. He reaches into his pocket and digs out a Zippo, identical to mine, but shiny and brand new. "Now you understand." He flicks it open.
"William!" my scream pierces the air, attempting to wake him from a dream he doesn’t know he's dreaming.
I feel the decades of loneliness William must have endured. I try to imagine what kind of terrible things must have happened to drive him away from this world and into the world of his writing. Had his memories been as traumatizing as mine—as the horror I suffered as a child? Had the people who raised him, and who were supposed to love him, torture him, abuse him, leaving only this empty shell—a void carcass only satisfied when filled with the words on a screen?
William looks at me. "This will be our final post.”
Our final post, I repeat in my mind. The thought of his collection drills into my brain like a fire alarm.
"No," I say. "That can't be."
William scans me coldly.
"This can't be our final post because it’s already written," I say. I hold up my phone. He hesitates. I feel a connection—a genuine connection between us. I know something that he needs to know, and his eyes beg for it. "It's the final post, William. It holds the answer."
Time slows. Everything—the wind, Leah's whimpers—seems to slow.
"What answer?" he says, softly.
"The answer to your question," I say. In my years of emptiness, a single question haunted my barren being. And if William is anything like me—if he’s truly my soulmate in the abyss—then I know this question drives him now.
William's mouth opens slightly and his eyes glaze over. "Who am I?" he asks.
William takes out his own phone from his pocket, a gateway into our metaverse. He looks desperately into the small screen, the window into our shared reality. His eyes gleam in the glow of the screen as he reads the final item in his collection. All three of us are frozen, unable to move. The reddish clouds in the dawn sky move faster, as if time is speeding back up and now out of control.
William's eyes go blank. The rifle drops from his hand.
"Leah!" I shout, and she runs to me. Our bodies collide, the kerosene smell on her clothes surrounds us. I'm watching William from over her head. William isn’t looking at us, as if we're not even there. He drops his phone, turns away, and falls to his knees. He empties what's left of the kerosene on his hair and clothes. I pull Leah into me as we back away. William fumbles for the Zippo in his pocket and it lands on a wet patch of dead leaves at his knees. He picks it up, sits back on his heels, and looks up to the sky like a child in prayer. And then there's a spark, and then the gentle boom of flames. I see the trees around me now. The forest is bright from the burning torch that is William's body, still kneeling. The stench of burning hair swirls around us, and the crackling of cooking flesh sickens my stomach. William lowers his chin to his chest, and his back arches as his skin bubbles and reddens.
Suddenly, Leah breaks away from my embrace and picks up the rifle. I try to stop her, but it's too late. She shoots a bullet between William’s shoulder blades and his body topples forward. Her chest heaves and for a moment she's a beast. Her eyes widen and her clenched teeth opens up like a bear trap and she releases a scream from the pit of her spirit, as if all the anxiety she had bottled up all her life is escaping in this one moment.
I sneak up behind her and turn her around to face me. She lets the rifle fall from her grip, her anger turning into confusion once again.
"I don't understand," she sobs.
I bring her into my arms and the wind cuts through the trees with a renewed ferocity. Her wet hair stretches out parallel to the ground, whipping in the wind. It engulfs my head and I bury my face in its heaviness. She lets out a moan, but even her moans are lost in the shaking, gathering roar of the wind, and we stand there, leaning on each other, for a very, very long time.
Posted on *date blocked* (tenth post)
8:1
I remember now. In the forest, under the stars, I suddenly remember everything.
I remember being a young boy, and all the terrible things done to me as a young boy. I remember escaping the memories of my youth. I remember leaving my small town in search for God.
I remember finding Him in acting, and my desire to be someone was fulfilled. I was in peace.
Then I remember, waking up one morning, and being crushed by the fear of being so many men who perished by the sword, and so many suffering lovers who died for their unrequited. And so I quit my acting job and entered the real world once again.
I sought out the oceans and the cities and the riots and the beaches of the world, but I didn't relate to them anymore. Instead, I could only celebrate the kingdoms and towns and castles of my plays. The plays had become my past. I had lost who I was. More than ever, I was desperate to be someone.
I had the choice—I could once again pretend and recite the words that would turn me into a powerful king. I could recite the words to abolish the prison of my emptiness, to become young and immortal, to feel the lips of a queen on my lips, and to fall in love with Juliet day after day. All I had to do was recite the words written for me, and I would rule the empires of Europe and all its lands. But sadly, I know the inevitable truth—I can never recite those words again, because I don't know who I am.
My flesh and body was filled with a failed actor who had made some money and concerned himself with finding places to live. It was in this character that I dedicated to writing my own life. I would be my own playwright.
Now, standing in the forest, under the stars and in my oblivion, I remember everything. Alone in the forest, I discover that the masterpiece of my life is writing itself, scripture, on immutable pages, to endure and survive forever. The language justifies me, and so I take my own life, burning the flesh that plagues me, liberating my one true identity that is my words. And now, in this fleeting moment between life and death, I finally find God. I plead with Him, God, I just want to be myself. Please tell me who I am.
The voice of God answers from the flames, I'm like you. I'm no one at all. I have written the universe like you have written your words. You are another character in my book. And like you, I am everyone and no one.
Posted on *date blocked* (final post)
Driving through the countryside through shades of trees, Leah and I rarely speak. She slouches in the passenger seat, and I'm not sure what she's thinking—perhaps nothing at all. She's been out of her meds for weeks yet she seems more at peace than I can remember.
I'm hungry, she says.
Let's pull over at the next rest stop, I say.
Only a few minutes pass when we catch sight of a coffee shop at the front end of a motel. I pull over and notice a sign in the window that says free Wi-Fi.
At the counter we order breakfast from an old woman. I order the pancakes and Leah asks for eggs and bacon. The woman tells us to sit down and that she'll bring us the food when it's ready. Leah excuses herself to go to the washroom, kisses me, and says I love you.
I love you, too, I say as she saunters away and disappears through the washroom door.
I find a table by the window, facing the highway. A passing rig breaks the silence. I pull out my phone and place it flat on the table in front of me. I see the OpenSea icon on the screen, and I think of William.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly before holding my fingertip on the square icon until it shakes—a gray dash symbol appearing at its corner. Lingering my finger over the dash symbol for a few breaths, I try not to make a big deal out of tapping it. I try not to think that I'm saying goodbye to someone, but I can't help it. I tap it, the icon vanishes, and like that, William is gone from me.
So here I am, alone on my phone, writing this blog with the tips of my thumbs. The smell of pancake batter and bacon mixes in the air and I feel cozy in the warm sunlight pouring through the windows and onto the wooden table tops and hardwood floors. Outside, the highway stretches west where we came from, and east to the Maritime provinces. There are miles and miles ahead of us, and after that, who knows.
I look through the words of my blog and I see a single word scattered throughout the text like a tall, lone beacon standing among clusters of longer words—it is the word "I". Every day, I give more and more of myself to "I”—whether in my blog, or text messages, or scribbled on a piece of paper. He will live forever now, and I will have to continue dreaming.
I'm not sure which of us is writing this.
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This ends season one of Everyone and No One, a true crime podcast, hosted by Ian Tuason. To support the making of season two of this podcast, please consider purchasing the eBook, hardcover or paperback version of “Everyone and No One” on Amazon, or the audiobook version on Spotify Audiobooks, Audible, iTunes, or anywhere you get your audiobooks. For links and promo codes, visit my website at ian tuason dot com. That’s i-a-n-t-u-a-s-o-n dot com. Thank you for listening. This has been a DimensionGate production.
