John McCain: Prisoner of War | Regrets | 3
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This episode of Against the Odds contains explicit language and depictions of violence. Please be advised. It's a warm evening in August 1968, and John McCain stands in front of his barbecue at home in Florida. His wife, Carol, brings some buns over for the hot dogs. The kids are throwing around a ball. Man, life is good. John looks up from the barbecue. What's that sound? It's keys, but from where?

John walks towards the sound, into the house, through the back door. The sound gets louder. John approaches the front door. He looks through the peephole and sees his father, Jack McCain. He's using a set of keys to get into the house. John tries to let him in, but the door won't open. What? He pulls at it, but it doesn't open. It's locked, and his father is still trying to open it from the other side. John starts yelling, I can't get out! I can't get out!

His father can't hear. John starts banging on the door, but no one can hear him. And then, John wakes up. He's not at home in Florida. He's in a small, dark, cramped prison cell. His two arms and his right leg are broken. He's a prisoner of war in the camp dubbed the Hanoi Hilton.

Every day for the last month, John's captors have beaten and tortured him and abandoned him alone in his cell. Every day they return, and the jangling of their keys is his only warning. And the sound of those keys fucking scare him. John can't hide. He can't even move. John lies waiting. His father's appearance in his dream haunts him. He wonders if Jack would give in to the torturers.

We're back, McCain? No, his father wouldn't. And neither will John, he hopes. From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. In our last episode, American prisoner of war John McCain had survived months of torture in Vietnam. But suddenly, he was given the opportunity to stop it all. His captors offered an early release and a return home to the U.S.,

But John declined. Although John's father is an important naval officer, John believed he shouldn't receive special treatment. The Vietnamese didn't appreciate his resistance, especially the sadistic camp director nicknamed The Cat. John waits in his cold prison cell, wondering if he's made the worst mistake of his life, and figuring out his next move. This is Episode 3, Regrets.

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Bob Cranor covers his ears to block the screams from next door. On the other side of the concrete wall next to him, Vietnamese guards are grabbing his friend John McCain to torture him. And there's nothing Bob can do.

Though Bob's never actually seen John face to face, but they've gotten close. Through the wall, they've either whispered or tapped on their tin cups and code. They talk about their families and the missions they flew. Sometimes they just tell cheesy jokes. John's a good guy. It hurts Bob to know what he's going through. Bob wishes John had listened to his advice. To accept an early release. "You're hurt. You need proper medical attention. Just take the offer."

But John refused. He knows John won't betray the code and won't give their captors any information, which means he's going to suffer until they give up or they kill him. It reminds Bob of his former cellmate, POW Lance Sijon. Lance was shot down almost a year ago in November of 67. He lay semi-conscious on the floor for days with a fractured leg and a fractured skull.

Then, for weeks, he crawled through the floor of the jungle before he was captured. After a month of daily torture, he overpowered a guard and escaped. But the freedom was short-lived. Lance was caught a few hours later and beaten within an inch of his life. When guards dropped him in Bob's cell, he was delirious.

Lance would randomly scratch the concrete floor, trying to dig a tunnel with his fingers. He rambled incoherently about escape plans, and every day the cat would drag him out and beat him some more. It would have been easy for Lance just to give in, give the cat what he wanted, but instead, he spit in their faces. The more they beat him, the more Lance rebelled. Don't you understand? I'm not going to tell you anything. I can't talk to you. It's against the code.

He believed in the code of conduct, which stated that POWs wouldn't give in to captors' demands. To Lance, it wasn't just the right thing to do. It was the only thing he could do. But a man can only take so much. And one day, Lance was returned to Bob's cell, and Bob immediately knew that he only had a few hours to live. Bob did everything he could to make his last moments as calming as possible, cradling Lance's head in his lap, telling him to hang on.

Lance's final words stayed with Bob. "It's over. It's over." Bob shudders at the memory. He hated seeing a man so strong wither away. And now, Bob fears it's happening again to John.

John's sitting in a small theater room. It's dark and hot. John's been here once before, for a Christmas service last year. It was John's first time meeting most of the other American POWs. For an hour or two, it almost felt like things were normal, that they were free. But now, John's the exact opposite.

John watches four guards enter. At the front is one guard called Slopehead, a tall, mean bastard with an odd hairline. Slopehead is the most sadistic guard, second only to the cat. He carries a thick bamboo stick, and his grin sends shivers down John's spine. A translator stands a few feet behind him. Even he seems scared of Slopehead.

Slophead drags a chair right in front of John and sits down. He stares at John and cradles the bamboo stick. John's afraid, but he refuses to break eye contact. He won't give Slophead any satisfaction.

Slopehead breaks the staring contest. He looks at his translator, then speaks. "You have committed black crimes against the people, McCain." "No, I haven't." "You have broken all of our rules in here." "When are you going to admit it?" "I haven't." "Start showing gratitude for everything we've done for you." John sits back. He's already bored. Every time, the exact same questions and demands. He knows where this is going, and figures he might as well cut to the chase. Just get it over with. "Fuck you."

Why do you treat us so disrespectfully? Because you treat me like an animal. Slophead's nostrils flare. John's been interrogated a few times already by Slophead, but he's never seen him this pissed off. Did he go over the line this time? Slophead turns to the other guards and yells. The guards rush John, kick him to the ground, and start beating him.

They pause after a few minutes, leaving John bleeding on the floor. John can't breathe. Slophead leans in to stare at John with a wicked smile on his face. You should have accepted our offer to release you. Fuck you. Slophead snaps his fingers. The guards throw John onto a chair. They bind his hands and legs, and they leave, laughing. Every inch of John hurts.

Who knows how long later, John's still on the ground. John's lost all track of time, but he guesses it's been about four days. Slopet and the guards left and came back, and again, and then again. His ribs are cracked, and his wet blood covers the dry blood caked on his clothes. When is this going to end? He's not a crying man, but there's only so much that he can take.

"Are you ready, McCain?" He thinks of his father. Then he prays. Not that it will stop, but that he'll find a way to take control of his own circumstances. He has to find a way. In the middle of the night, John strips off his bloodied shirt.

John knows he's about to crack, and if the torture keeps going like this, he might give in to their demands. And he can't bring shame to the McCains. The thought of disappointing his father? Never. John only sees one way to control his fate. He grimaces, and then pulls off his shirt, over his injured arm. He flips over his waist bucket, and steps onto it. John pushes his shirt through one of the window shutters, his arms killing him, but he loops it through.

He looks through the window and pauses to gaze at the beautiful full moon. He remembers a moonlit stroll he took with Carol just before he left for Vietnam. He promised her she had nothing to worry about, that he'd return safely. They talked about little baby Sydney and how much she looked like Carol. They held hands as they walked. Then he snaps out of it and continues to loop the shirt around his neck. John closes his eyes and breathes heavily.

Can he do this? He grits his teeth. He thinks of Slophead and says, Fuck you. John starts wrapping the shirt over his neck, tighter and tighter. He's already having trouble breathing. He looks down at the bucket below. It takes all the strength he has to lift his leg to kick it away. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and...

Two guards enter and start yelling. They grab John and roughly cut the shirt off his neck. John falls to the ground. He looks up. It's Slopehead.

In that moment, John realizes he's grateful for the intervention. Slopehead stares at John, but now his face displays a cross between pity and anger. How dare you try to kill yourself on my watch? He yells at the guards and they rush over to John. John just escaped death, only to be punished more. He looks up and cries out in protest. But then, he catches another glimpse of the moon.

He imagines holding Carol's hand on that moonlit stroll. If he dies before seeing Carol again, at least it won't be because he chose to die. John can't see straight. Through swollen eyes, he watches Slopehead smile.

John's never seen him so calm. The man says something in Vietnamese. Another guard translates. Here, sign this. Slope hands John a document. John blurrily reviews the page. It's dated August 27th, 1968. That's today. I am a black criminal and have performed the deeds of an air pirate. It's a confession letter. I almost died and the Vietnamese people saved my life. The

The doctors gave me an operation that I did not deserve.

John's finally given in. He needed the beatings to stop, so he told them he'd sign whatever they wanted. In this room, he wrote what they dictated. It took 12 hours. John's broken arm could only do so much. His one small rebellion was to insert typos and communist jargon. Signs to Americans that the confession was coerced. But as John reads the page, he finds something that he didn't write.

a line that says that John bombed a school. "This isn't right. Sign it." "I won't sign this." "Yes, you will." They yell back and forth. Then Slophead pulls out his bamboo pole, which silences John.

John signs the paper, certifying he's now a war criminal. It's the absolute worst thing John can imagine. It says he admits to atrocities, that he supports the communist cause, that he's ashamed to be American. Slopehead grabs the paper, nodding. The guards move to take him away, but John feels like he's somewhere else right now. Every part of him feels dead, not physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

They've defeated him. John's back in the theater room. He signed the confession note yesterday and was immediately dragged back to his cell. He slept for 12 hours straight. Well, he thinks it was that long. All he knows is that it's dark outside. Again.

Slopehead and the cat were waiting for him when he woke up, with a microphone and tape recorder. They want to record him reading his confession. Fuck you. Slopehead punches John. He falls to the ground, and Slopehead starts kicking him. John calls him off. He'll record it, please. Just no more beating. So he sits in front of the microphone, about to relive his horrible moment.

I am a black criminal and I have performed the deeds of an air pirate. John lies on the dirty ground in his prison cell. He can't move. Well, won't move. He doesn't feel like it. He doesn't feel like eating or talking to his neighbor, Bob Cranor, who keeps checking in on him. It's been a few days since Slophead extracted his war criminal letter.

Since then, John's floated in and out of sleep. But every time he wakes, he realizes, "I signed that goddamn letter. I can't fucking believe I did that." Will he ever be able to look any of the other POWs in the eyes? They'll be disgusted he gave in. He failed them.

John barely notices the loudspeaker. Like every other American at the Hanoi Hilton, he ignores the daily Vietnamese messages. Your country doesn't care about you. Lyndon Johnson has admitted this war is a mistake. We are your friends. I am a black criminal, and I have performed the deeds of an air pirate. John freezes. Wait, is that my voice? My confession? John slowly gets up and moves to the wall, straining to hear it better.

It goes on. "The Vietnamese people saved my life." "Turn that off!" John's still not sure if this is a dream. But if it's not, he wants it to stop. He needs it to stop. Other POWs can't hear this. He starts pounding on the door. "Please stop it! Stop it!" The recording ends. John stands there, dazed. "Hey McCain." John hears Bob from the cell next to his. But John stays silent.

How was he supposed to justify giving in? "You okay, man?" John doesn't reply. "Hey, whatever you had to do in there, listen, don't worry about it. It's okay. Everyone knows what they've been doing to you here." John stares at the ground. "Hey, you did everything you could." John closes his eyes. Did he really? What would his father think? Or Carol? Or his kids? He's failed them all. He falls to the ground, and he weeps.

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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Jack McCain looks out the window of his office. It's early September 1968, and he's working late. As he looks at the sun setting, he shakes his head. Dark already? He doesn't like the shorter days. It makes him feel less productive.

Jack's been the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Command for two months now, and he's feeling like he's gaining momentum. The president, Lyndon B. Johnson, has agreed to a few missions he's proposed, and Jack feels like he's earned his trust. What shall I write for this one? Jack looks up. His assistant, a young and eager yeoman, holds a stack of correspondence. The usual. The assistant nods and puts the letter on the pile. Here's one from Admiral BM Stream. Ah, smoke.

Jack smiles at the mention of Admiral Streen, the deputy chief of naval personnel, or Smoke, to his friends, Jack among them. The assistant reads Smoke's note. It's heartfelt. Smoke apologizes for letting John transfer to the USS Orskany. He regrets allowing it, but the kid was eager. If Smoke had withheld or even delayed the transfer, maybe John would be safe.

"'The usual, sir?' John starts to nod, then hesitates. "'No. Please take this down.' The assistant rushes to his typewriter. This is the first time Jack has dictated a specific reply to someone. "'Dear Smoke, I appreciate your letter. You are a great man in every respect. You should have no regrets.'

Jack pauses, searching for the right words. John wanted to go back. I know he would not have been happy otherwise. Jack watches the sun dip under the horizon. I am proud of him.

Jack glances over to a photo of John at the Naval Academy. He remembers being worried about his party-going, irresponsible son. And now, he has no idea what's happening in Hanoi. But he's sure John is doing everything he can to make his country proud of him. Shall we go through the rest, sir? Jack clears his throat. There's business to attend to. Yes, let's get through this. Before the day is done. It's cold. It stinks. And everything still aches.

It's mid-October, 1968. John is lying in his cell. It's been almost two months since John signed and recorded his confession. But the shame still weighs on him heavily. The door to John's cell opens. It's time to empty the prisoners' waste buckets. Most prisoners bring their buckets out to the hall for pickup. But John doesn't want to step a foot outside the cell. He can't bear to see other prisoners' disappointed faces. "How could you betray us? How could you betray your country?"

John starts to kick his bucket to the door, but it's too far, so he reluctantly gets up to carry it outside. He places the pail on the hall floor and looks up. A line of American POWs stand at their doors, all staring at him. John closes his eyes. He wants to jump back into his cell, but his injuries prevent quick movements, so he slowly retreats. Psst. John looks up. A POW just down the hall has called out to him.

John doesn't recognize him.

But then again, he never has an opportunity to mingle. The young man is thin, his face covered in bruises. He looks directly at John and gives a friendly smile. Then a very subtle but deliberate nod. And then each of the other half dozen POWs standing outside their cells repeat the gesture. One by one, they smile and nod. Suddenly, John understands. It's okay. They understand why he did what he did.

And they're not mad. But then, the guards get angry, and the men all scurry back into their cells. John does too. He stands in his cell, basking in the glow of his fellow prisoner's gesture. John realizes he's forgotten he's part of a team, part of a community. They're Americans, working together. If someone else was beaten into a forced confession, he'd understand as well.

John smiles. He's glad that no others have his back here, and he vows to do whatever he can to help them out too. It's time to stop lying around, hiding, and it's time to start fighting again. John's tied to a chair. He's bleeding, bruised, and he's shivering. It's late October 1968, and even though the days are hot, it's freezing at night. John was caught earlier passing a note during wastebucket duty.

After a beating, the guards left him on his chair, cackling, promising they'll be back in the morning. John shakes his head. It's his own fault. He was careless. His arm stings. The guards have bound it tightly, and he's afraid it might fracture again. He doesn't know if he can last the entire night in this position. John hears the door opening. Shit. Are the guards back to beat him again already? But it's not them.

What does he want? The young guard looks back and slowly closes the door. He quickly approaches John, whispering in Vietnamese. John has no idea what he's saying. The young man gestures to John's tied up arms. Does he think that John's somehow become Harry Houdini and is about to escape? But he leans towards John and starts to untie him. The young man removes the ropes and puts his index finger to his mouth. Then he sneaks out, closing the door behind him.

John rubs his arms and spots a blanket on the floor. He lies down, covering himself with the blanket. Within minutes, he drifts off to sleep. He's awakened gently in the morning by the young guard. The man calmly gestures to the chair, so John goes to sit down. The guard replaces the ropes, but this time not too tight. As the young man leaves, John calls out, "Thank you." The young man bows his head and smiles.

Up till now, John thought all the Hanoi Hilton guards were monsters, sadistic creatures driven by the need to punish. But this small gesture makes John wonder if he's had it wrong. Maybe they are as human as anyone else. It's December 24th, 1968, and John's in the theater room where, just months ago, he was beaten into signing a confession. And now, he's here with other POWs. It's almost a party, but not quite.

Every year the guards allow the prisoners to hold a small Christmas service. It's only half an hour and there are no drinks or food. But John and the others will take it. John sees the cat say something to a small camera crew and then they begin filming the gathering. "Aha!" John realizes. It's another attempt to make the outside world believe the Vietnamese are treating prisoners with kindness.

Just as the camera crew starts recording, John walks around them and strikes up a conversation with a fellow inmate.

They smile and laugh, and the crew approaches to capture this happy moment. John senses the camera on him, and he starts talking really loudly. Yeah, they came up to me and tied me to a chair in this room, and they left me overnight. The camera crew hesitates. Do they keep filming? A guard draws closer and leans into John. McCain, be quiet. They're still rolling, though, so John nods.

He pretends to relent and then dramatically turns to the guard and flips in the middle finger. The camera records it all. The other prisoners are watching and decide to play along. They all start announcing loudly. "They broke my arm while beating me! They stripped me naked and left me in the cold! The guards steal my food!"

The guards try to downplay their anger. Maybe the crew isn't recording audio? John thinks about it, then approaches the senior guard, who's on camera right now. John smirks and starts making rude gestures at him right in front of the camera. The guard is visibly upset. What? Don't want the truth to get out? John makes more rude gestures. You're a son of a bitch. The senior guard starts yelling and lunges at John, but the other guards hold him back.

The prisoners start cheering, and yes, it's all captured on film. The senior guard insists the camera crew turn everything off. And then the service is over too. But as John and the rest make their way back to their cells, John chuckles. Sure, he'll pay for what he did, but he's okay with that. It was worth it. Tonight was a Christmas gift to himself.

It's Christmas evening, and the American troops at the Demilitarized Zone, known as the DMZ, are celebrating. There are drinks, laughter, and storytelling.

A short escape from the war. Admiral Jack McCain is there, enjoying his time with the men. Since assuming his position as the head of the Pacific Command, he's gotten to know a lot of the stationed officers. As Jack polishes off a dry, wartime slice of apple pie, a junior officer leans in. He looks a little nervous, but two drinks have emboldened him. Permission to ask a question, Admiral? Of course. Most men in your position would be home today with their families. Why aren't you?

Jack pauses. It's true. Jack doesn't have to be here today. He chose to. It's duty. He pauses. And this apple pie. The officer laughs and turns back to his own dessert. Jack quietly gets up and leaves the makeshift tent. He ambles into a field below the fence that separates the DMZ from North Vietnam.

Jack knows this place well, recognizes every single patch of grass. Every time he visits this base, he takes this walk. Most men in your position will be home today with their families. Why aren't you? He stares beyond the fence into enemy territory. Somewhere, miles and miles away, is John. Jack thinks, I am with some of my family, or as close as I can be.

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It's May 1969, and Air Force officers John Dramesy and Ed Atterbury are excited. And they're nervous. They've been preparing for this night for months.

Dramazee and Atterbury have been POWs for almost two years now in a camp on the edge of Hanoi. It's not quite as bad as the Hanoi Hilton, but they've still been beaten, tortured, and they've been starved. But tonight, they're going to escape this hellhole. Dramazee's short, thin, and looks like the perfect accountant. His cellmate, Atterbury, could have been a pro athlete if he hadn't signed up for the service. Together, they've got brains and they've got brawn.

You ready? You bet your ass.

Adderbury dislodges the ceiling tile they've spent the last few months carefully loosening. They climb through and make it to the roof. It's a short jump from their rooftop to another one near the camp's perimeter. They look back. No one spotted them. One last jump over the wall, they're free. The two dart through Hanoi's shadowy streets. They'll probably have until sunrise before anyone realizes they're gone. By then, they'll be floating down the Red River south to freedom.

They make it to the water. The plan is to steal a boat, but Atterbury's been nervous they won't find one. Well, he's wrong. A half dozen glisten in the moonlight. What's that? They crouch down. Is someone there? Do you see something? No, I don't know. They can't say for sure, so they wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. Okay, it's quiet. They make a run to the boat.

Dramazy and Atterbury dive to the ground. Who's there? Soldiers? The owner of the boat? Or something else? Oh, the bullet was definitely meant for them. Dramazy looks up to see a half-dozen Vietnamese soldiers with guns pointed directly at them. Dramazy watches his soldiers slam a rifle into Attenbury's skull. His heart sinks. The soldiers grab him, and he knows this won't end well.

And not just for them. They've just made things worse for every single American.

It's early afternoon on September 4th, 1969, and John's bored. John throws the book he's been reading across his cell. A few months ago, the Hanoi Hilton guards began giving prisoners a small stash of books. At first, John was excited. He hadn't read a book in two years, but he quickly discovered that he'd been offered propaganda, not Hemingway. John enjoyed his English Lit classes when younger, and now regrets not reading more. He should have relished the classics.

He sighs, thinking about John Dramesy and Ed Atterbury's recent escape attempt. Even though the two were from a different camp, every prison in Vietnam clamped down. After months of being left alone, John was suddenly brought in for questioning and beatings every day. He knows it was worse for Dramesy and Atterbury. They were both tortured as punishment. Atterbury died. The camp speakers come to life, and John rolls his eyes. Great.

Wonder what propaganda will be spewed today. John really hopes one day, please, they mistakenly play rock and roll. The announcer speaks solemnly in Vietnamese. And the guards suddenly start to cry out. What's going on?

John gets up and peers through the crack in his wall. Guards huddle together, looking lost. "McCain, what do you think's happening?" "I don't know." "You think the war's over?" "Don't get my hopes up." John sees one guard put on a makeshift red and black armband. Maybe someone died. "Yeah, hopefully the cat." "I don't think we're that lucky." John hears music. Someone's definitely died. Something about the armband makes John realize what's happening.

I think I know who kicked the bucket. So it's not the cat? Shut up. No, I bet it's Ho Chi Minh. I mean, the men are sad, but they look like they're also acting. Maybe our lives are going to get easier. Don't get my hopes up. John sits down. Maybe Bob's right. Maybe the death of the Vietnamese leader will make things better for us. Could it end the war? But if he's learned anything, it's that things always get darker when people don't want to look weak. Shit, actually, things are probably going to get worse.

John picks up his book again and sighs. It's Christmas Day, 1969, and John slurps a meal of pumpkin soup. Really, it's more like orange water. He imagines a plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy. He really misses that stuff.

John woke up that morning in good spirits. The death of Ho Chi Minh did indeed lead to more beatings for a while, but eventually things quieted down. Christmas means so much to John now. It's the one day that the guards are actually nice to the Americans. They threw another small service this year, but unlike last year, the Vietnamese knew better than to try to turn it into propaganda. His cell door opens and John sees the cat.

Usually this means that John's about to be beaten, but John can tell there's something different today. The cat's in a full business suit and is grinning. The cat offers John a cigarette, which he accepts. You like? John's startled. This is the first time he's heard the cat speak English. Has he been secretly hiding his language skills this entire time?

The cat begins to ramble, telling John about his experiences as a soldier in the French-Indochina war and how he got where he is now. He turns melancholy and talks about his family and their favorite vacation spot in the mountains, a place Ho Chi Minh also loved. The cat shows John a diamond tie pin. "My father gave this to me. Very smart man," John nods warily. The cat gives John another cigarette and heads to the door.

He pauses. "You should have accepted our generous offer. You would be back with your family tonight." "You'll never understand why I couldn't." "I understand more than you think." And then the cat leaves. "Weird." John thinks to himself. John thinks of his own family. What are they doing now? What time is it there? About 11 hours behind? So is Carol at home with the kids opening presents? Is his father there?

If John had accepted the Vietnamese offer for an early release, he'd be with them. God, he misses them. But does he regret refusing the deal? Does he regret any of the decisions that brought him here? Not one bit. Still, it would be nice to go home. He allows himself to dream about returning to Carol and the kids. Dream about finally going home.

At that moment, halfway around the world, Carol McCain is in her car. It's Christmas Eve, and she's driving through the streets of Philadelphia on her way to her friends to drop off presents. It's been an awful year. She hasn't heard anything about John for months. She's written him letters, but hasn't heard anything back.

She's wanted to cry so many times, but she won't. She needs to stay strong for her kids. But every time Sydney asks about her father, a man Sydney barely remembers, Carol's heart breaks. She misses John, wishes he could be there with her this Christmas. She takes a deep breath, and then the car slips on black ice. Carol slams her foot on the brakes, but it's not enough. The car swerves, slides...

She sees her kids, her parents, and then John. John surviving plane crashes and torture. John at the front door of their house, coming home. And then she plunges into darkness. This is the third episode of our four-part series, John McCain, Prisoner of War. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research.

If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend John McCain's autobiography called Faith of My Fathers, co-written with Mark Salter. The book John McCain, An American Odyssey by Robert Timberg, as well as the HBO Max documentary, John McCain, For Whom the Bell Tolls. We also recommend Lessons from the Hanoi Hilton, Six Characteristics of High Performance Teams by Taylor Baldwin Keelan.

I'm your host, Mike Corey. Anthony Delcal wrote this episode. David Gardner is our producer. Our editor is Maura Walls. Taylor Keelan is our consultant. Brian White is our associate producer. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design by Joe Richardson and original music by Francesco Quadruopolo. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jens and Marshall Dewey for Wondery. Wondery.

I'm Dan Taberski. In 2011, something strange began to happen at the high school in Leroy, New York. I was like at my locker and she came up to me and she was like stuttering super bad. I'm like, stop f***ing around. She's like, I can't. A mystery illness, bizarre symptoms, and spreading fast. It's like doubling and tripling and it's all these girls. With a diagnosis, the state tried to keep on the down low. Everybody thought I was holding something back. Well, you were holding something back intentionally. Yeah, yeah, well, yeah.

Is this the largest mass hysteria since The Witches of Salem? Or is it something else entirely? A new limited series from Wondery and Pineapple Street Studios, Hysterical.

Follow Hysterical on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Hysterical early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.