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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ramslie on 2024-09-22 00:58:54+00:00.
I am still a lawyer! For now.
My disbarment hearing was postponed for another two weeks. Something about a last minute witness, unlikely to be good for me. Not that it matters, I’m not exactly in the headspace to be practicing law at the moment so being barred for two more weeks is neither here nor there.
While I have the time, I figured I’d share another story to take my mind off my impending disbarment. This one takes place after I left the public defender’s office.
I had recently joined an (almost) full-service private law firm. They handled EVERYTHING (except for family law and criminal law). I wasn’t sure what practice area I wanted to join, they just liked that I had trial experience. Funnily enough, I ended up handling very little trial work during my tenure but that’s beside the point.
My first year or so there was spent in their estate planning unit. I won’t bore you with legal jargon (and will explain it as necessary) but I’ll split it up into two parts. There’s (1) the planning side and (2) the administration side. We handled both. As you can imagine, the planning side involved a lot paperwork, hours dedicated to pushing paper and writing lengthy legal clauses. The administration side, on the other hand, was drama-central.
I remember when my managing partner popped into my office and dropped the subject case file onto my desk. She didn’t knock, it’s rare that someone does in an active legal office, and unless we were on a client call, the door had to be open. Something about making sure we were available.
It was a thick manila folder, no client name on the label, stuffed with papers. And yes, I understand in the 21st century that everything is online, and we DID have an electronic case managing system. Old habits die hard and this particular partner LOVED printing things out. So I got the paper file, inclusive of every thought, email, memo, or otherwise about the estate.
“You remember the estate?” She asked nonchalantly, without a glance up from the phone in her hand, no doubt putting out another fire (read: checking email, texting your spouse, scrolling social media, etc., anything that wasn’t actual work).
“Whose estate?”
“Well he died. Son’s asking for us to administer it.”
I repeated, “Whose estate?”
“Client agreement’s signed, bill under the Kellerman matter. Should be in the system, and use the timer please.” (We bill every 6 minutes for our time, less than 6? Round up.) I had a bad habit of not using the timer and letting minutes slip through the cracks here and there. It’s tedious, okay, this is a no judgment zone, if anything, be happy that I never overcharged a client… even if it only resulted from forgetting to do so.
I’ll break down the client file for you. Dead Kellerman had a Will. In theory, that allows someone to divide their property in whatever way they want. This can make some people angry, for obvious reasons. In short, my job was to read the Will, collect all the stuff, notify all relevant parties, and distribute it.
This Will was a doozy. Three ex-wives, eight kids split between them, three more step kids, too many grandchildren to list, and one illegitimate child.
I stared at the open manila folder, feeling a sense of dread settle in my stomach. Outside of my overwhelming caseload, the complexity of the Kellerman estate was daunting. I flipped through the pages, noting the numerous names and the tangled web of relationships. Each connection held a potential grudge, a whispered resentment, or a long-buried secret that I desperately did not wish to know.
Over the next few weeks as I delved deeper into the intricacies of the Kellerman estate, a nagging sensation that I was missing something crept over me. I began receiving strange phone calls from the various members of the Kellerman family. My phone would ring once but when I went to answer I was greeted by nothing but silence. At first, I brushed it off. I’ve death with my fair share of clients and I understood that most people’s first interactions with lawyers is on the worst day of their lives, so trepidation is expected.
But the calls started escalating, becoming more frequent, targeting me at home at all hours of the day and night. Then the letters started, again from seemingly every member of the family. Each letter containing blank pages of paper.
I thought it was some sort of cruel prank — an odd family ritual or a manifestation of grief, trust me, I’ve seen weirder. But the silence was unnerving. Each time I opened a fresh envelope, the blank pages seemed to taunt me, their emptiness a haunting echo ever-present in my mind.
One night, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, I began digging deeper in the Kellerman files, scouring every document, every email, and any hint of the family’s history that might offer some explanation for this strange behavior. As I pored over the estate planning documents, I noticed something odd about the Will. In the section detailing distribution of assets, there were handwritten notes in the margin — scribbled words that felt like whispers from beyond the grave. They were almost illegible but I could make out a few words, here and there, “betrayal,” “revenge,” “never forget.”
Suddenly my phone rang, causing me to jump. I checked the time, 1:05AM. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes, wondering who could be calling at this hour. I picked it up, cautiously, half-expecting silence, but this time a voice crackled through the line. A raspy, disembodied voice that sent chills down my spine.
“Stop looking. You can’t afford to know.”
I dropped the phone, paralyzed with fear. My heart raced and my instincts told me to abandon this case, to let some other unfortunate associate take it on, but I was in too deep. The thought of losing my position, my reputation, haunted me more than the calls or the letters.
The next morning, I returned to my office with a sense of dread. My managing partner greeted me with a strange, knowing smile that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Figure it out yet?” She asked, voice low, a hushed whisper, almost… conspiratorial.
“Figure what out?” I stammered.
She stepped closer, her breath reeking of coffee and cigarette tar. “The reason for the letters, the calls. The family — oh, they’re dying to get to know you, to let you in, to share their secrets, but they’re afraid. So very afraid of what might happen if the truth were to — let’s say — get out.”
I stepped back, confused. “What truth?”
She smiled, but instead of answering, simple turned and walked away. Heels clicking on the tiles of our polished office floor.
Determined to get to the bottom of it, I abruptly left work, heading home to conduct more research without the watchful eye of my managing partner. I spent the evening researching the Kellermans, diving into local newspapers, public records, and any other source I could get my hands on.
It was a twisted tale — murders, disappearances, allegations of abuse. As I pieced together their history, I came to the realization that the estate wasn’t just about money or property; it was a minefield of long-buried grudges, and the Kellermans had buried more than just their dead.
That night, staring blankly at article after article, surrounded by the weight of the Kellerman files, I felt like Sisyphus. As I poured myself another cup of coffee from my third pot of the day, my computer screen flickered and went dark. I cursed under my breath and got up to check the breaker. A cold draft brushed past me causing me to stop in my tracks, despite the still air of my apartment.
And then, my phone rang. I picked up, not even eking out a yellow before a voice so raspy it was as if I was being spoken to by a fork in a blender, whispered, “You’re in over your head, lawyer.” And the line went dead.
I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I felt like I was being hunted.
The next day, I summoned the courage to confront the surviving family members, one by one. Each encounter sent me sprawling deeper into their madness — eyes flickered with fear, anger simmered just beneath the surface, and each family member mirrored the others’ paranoia. They all spoke in hushed tones, as if someone was listening, as if the walls themselves had ears.
By the end of the week, I could no longer eat, I could no longer sleep.
I was a ghost of myself, consumed by the need to understand. The calls grew more frequent, the letters felt heavier, more menacing, each one taunting me with the emptiness of their pages, the secrets they threatened to spill. I was drawn into a darkness I couldn’t shake off, despite my rational mind screaming for me to walk away.
On the day of the asset distribution, the family gathered in the conference room of my office. It was the first time I had stepped foot back in the office since the last encounter with my managing partner.
The tension was palpable, faces glared across the polished conference table, each relative a simmering pot of resentment, of hate. I had prepared to confront them as a whole, to lay bare the pieces I had picked up from each of them, to unravel the tangled web of their lives, and to bring some clarity to the chaos that was the Kellerman family.
As I began outlining the distribution of assets, the atmosphere shifted. A woman — Kellerman’s second wife — stood up, hands trembling, and stuttered out, “y-y-you have n...
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