Day 7 - I Found an Old Cabin & The Hermit's Cabin

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Okay, I've been following John around the last few days, and I don't know what J.V. saw,

but I haven't seen John doing anything weirder than he normally does.

What do you mean weirder? Hold on, let me check my nuts. Okay, this is from yesterday, 6 a.m., wakes up by falling out of bed. Blames left handed spoons. What's that even mean?

Look, this is going to take a really long time if you guys ask me questions every time. Anyway, at 6 a.m., he got up and walked out into the woods. I couldn't follow him, though, because when he got to the path, he crushed up a light bulb and a towel and sprinkled it all over the path.

“Before you ask, I think he got that from the first mission impossible movie.”

To know if anyone was following him. I know, you said not to, but why would he be worried someone was following him? Again, no idea, but when he came back about an hour later, he cleaned up all the shards and threw them away. After that, it was sort of a normal day of talking to himself and whatever he was doing

with us at the time. So we aren't counting the light bulb thing as weirder? Weirder? But yeah. Did you go down the path later?

Of course, but there wasn't anything there. Maybe John just wanted to be alone. Maybe he's paranoid about people he was dropping. I mean, we're talking about him behind his back right now. Hmm.

Fair point? Well, I still think it would be a good idea if we kept an eye on him. My offer still stands. Oh, and for the tenth time, the green man suit only works in movies. To make people invisible because they're standing in front of a green screen.

But Jimmy, the trees are green.

“Anyone else worried about the long-term effects of all those darts?”

Hopefully all of us? Sure. I think it was John. Hey, everyone. Sorry I'm late to just add a replace if you like bulbs.

I miss anything? No, nothing. I was just about to tell everyone about the time. I found an old cabin in my apartment complex is barking garage. I've worked as a security guard for an apartment complex for 15 years now.

With that time, comes a pattern recognition of things to expect, day in and day out, noise complaints, angry couples arguing in the hallways. Almost people sneaking into the building and people breaking into vehicles in the parking garage, just typical apartment complex nonsense. I can garage, however, because of the number of accidents or thefts in there over my entire

The garage itself is huge, a dense gray 20 floor cement tower, lit by an abundance of old

“school 8 foot long fluorescent tubes, letting the area cool white with a sort of greenish”

sterile tint. As the management was too cheap to pay for anything but the bare minimum, I was also tasked with cleaning the complex, gathering trash, mopping messes in the sort. I was an armed as I'd only earned the bare minimum licensure to call myself a security guard.

Right, I've gotten the hired clearance, but this gig was steady, reliable, and the management stated they would not be interested in paying me at that next level of certification. At part of my day that took the longest was walking up and down that concrete megalith to clean and assess any car damage, and report anything necessary to the tenants.

Each floor was about 200 feet long, kind of canted at a 30 degree angle, and almost always

filled to the brim with all sorts of cars, all shaped sizes and colors.

“It was a point of pride for me that I knew this place inside and out.”

Under the random stains and parking patterns, if something wasn't supposed to be there, I knew as soon as I cut the corner going up or down the garage. I'd actually been able to help people find stolen vehicles this way, as sometimes people would abandon those and parking garages. All this to say, it wasn't the best job, but I was good at it.

Depending on the island a steady job is almost impossible to come by. I didn't really aspire to more because my bills were paid. I was fed in this cheapest management was, they gave me a room as part of my compensation. My schedule was whatever I decided as long as the work was done. So, Tannerac with this few complaining customers is possible, I usually decided to work

between 10 p.m. until the sun peaked over the horizon. Dark atmosphere with the buzzing fluorescent lights of the parking garage, that became my zen, that all went to hell when the lights arrived. Now I should immediately clarify, and I know exactly how that sounds, I don't mean white people in this specific case.

In this case, it was the only name that I feel captures these things oppressive and mysterious presence. I still don't know what they are, but I have my guesses. I'll explain, it was a typical work day in just past midnight. This apartment complex was isolated off of a back road, so there was greenery and wildlife

nearby. Just to say it was not unusual for the nightlife to add to my buzzing fluorescent soundtrack.

“Well, I won't say exactly where on the island, but honestly there wasn't a lot of places”

in Puerto Rico that you can go without the nights being awash with the chirps of bugs in

the beloved cookies, not that I'd ever want to be away from that in the first place.

I'd reach the top floor and stared off into the stunning greenery, mountains and beautiful beach in the distance. I've loved this view of my whole life, getting to see it from up this high was another job park. I began walking down the parking garage when something felt wrong.

It was obvious to me that as I was walking down, that there were more empty parking spaces than usual. This wasn't two or three cars missing. This was two or three cars left, all muted tones, the subdivisions stopped me in my tracks, examining the space deeper.

I tried to look over the edge downward to the next level, and I looked more normal, cars of every color lining the parking spaces. In the corner of my eye, I saw something stark white, tall. I couldn't honestly see it while. It was on an usual shape, sharp, long and thin.

It didn't appear solid exactly, but I could see it there, plainly at the corner of the floor below. As I stared more intently, leaning over the concrete ledge, trying to figure out what this was, it moved out of sight. That was confirmation for me that someone was walking to level 18.

going on.

“I turned the corner onto the 19th floor, and I was deeply confused.”

I was just looking at a colorful row of cars, but as I turned the corner to the floor below,

again, only a few cars remain, gray, white, and other muted tones. I looked over the ledge down to the 18th floor and saw the garage full there. I jumped down to the next floor and as I turned the corner, gone, only four cars all muted tones. The buzzing of the fluorescent tubes growing harsher would lightbulbs pulsing brighter.

This pattern continued for 10 more floors, a bright white thing just out of my sight. The car's disappearing as the white entity went past. The sterile empty whiteness devouring all color in its path, leaving a sad path, gray and white.

“Lights were so bright at this point I had to shield my eyes.”

Everything was bathed in a blinding white light. I kept running when suddenly the white light dissipated, broken by natural sunlight.

The first thing I noticed was dirt and grass under my feet.

I was outside now, surrounded by beautiful vibrant greens, coffee shrubs, floored in my eyes, mungles, guinephas, banana trees all around me. Such a vibrant, stunning and varied fauna. The air was a perfect mix of salty and sweet, and I could hear the waves crashing against the shore nearby.

As I walked through the trees, I noticed the floor turning sandy. In the distance, the small baby blue and white wooden cabin, propped up on wooden beams

“as it's commonly done along the shoreline.”

Chicken wire fence held together by randomly spaced wooden posts. Hell, could have been branches ripped off a tree. The rope tied over a post to keep the entry door shut. There was no other houses inside as far as the eye could see, which here was extremely unusual. The aroma of bread and coffee wafed it over me, carried by the salty ocean breeze.

I pulled the rope off the top of the fence and the door fell over, sprang to the side. I pulled the fence shut, the stretching metal crying out as I pulled it into place and re-secured the rope. The yard was full of chickens, and the roosters could be heard randomly. Goats walked about gnawing on the grass, weeds all around me.

It was as if I had been transported to my childhood, visiting my great grandfather for Pani Cafe, bread and coffee. I walked inside and was overtaken by the delicious smells around me, but near, in my opinion, the best portage, and banana theas, rice and beans, pastelas, mofono, bakalau, every food I'd grown up with, then of course, bread and coffee.

Everything was so plentiful, delicious. And I'm not making it as stanto wah, Rafael Hernandez played on a rickety old radio. I hope one of the worn wooden shutters to look outside and saw something moving in the high grass.

It was hard to see it first, but it looked like it had light-colored fur.

It moved too fast for me to get a good look at it, but it was big. Hopefully a dog. In the far distance I saw the entity in the garage again. A white. It was so far in the distance that all I could see was the shape, but the silhouette

was not typical. Instead of the shadowy features one would expect, this one was bright white. A shadow made of light, extremely tall, thin. To shape some pleasant, sharp, and jacket. So far in the distance I couldn't study anything other than the shape.

I began to walk towards them to see if I could figure out what they were. What was going on? I must have walked for miles when I realized I made no progress in coming any closer to this thing.

I wasn't any closer to understanding what was going on.

“So I decided I cut my losses and go back and get something neat.”

As I was walking back, I frequently heard rustling in the tall grass and in the tree tops. I kept an eye out and often I would see a blur of white flash by.

Sometimes I'd see a glint of bright shining red for just a second before it disappeared

into the foliage. I felt in so many ways that I was being hunted. The hair on my neck stood on end frequently and I'd rub it down with my hand trying to stay calm. I picked a mango off the ground and hated as I approached where I remembered the cabin

to be. On my return I was confused. Only tempered by the fact that I was already in such a strange place out of my control

“that all I could do was adapt to the change.”

The house was now concrete, same sky blue paint against white.

The old chicken wire fence was gone, replaced by a sky blue concrete and rod-iron fence painted white. So wooden shutters replaced by metal shutters, also painted white. They were less animals now, but still plenty. I walked around the house and stopped checking on a goat that was laying on the ground.

It didn't look like a goat typically does when they sleep. It was flat on its side. I flipped it over and it felt unusually light. I saw multiple large punctures on its neck. Notice there was no blood anywhere around me, even where the goat had laying.

I got back to the large, light-fired creature I couldn't set my sights on on the way back to the house. It couldn't be. As places are already so strange, but this was a little on the nose. I laughed to myself and went inside.

It was quiet. There was still food out in the kitchen, but about half of what there was before. The more luxurious items were missing, and in a pile next to the table, some sugarcane. I opened a blind and noticed that a decent amount of the foliage had also been replaced by large sugarcane shoots all around the property.

Knowing how little progress, I actually none, I made on my walk before. I figured my best bet would be eats, sleep, and hopefully wake up back at work. I awoke to music blasting from the kitchen. They say, "I'm not there by the father of salsa music himself, Frankie Ruiz, feeling all the rooms."

I got up and saw the food selection dropped yet again. The paint on the walls was chipping a bit. The chicken had let itself inside that the shutter I left opened. The bright sun, beam down on me as I stepped onto the yard, and I was shocked to see at least six goats in the same condition as the one I found the night before.

As I rounded to the back, I stopped colded my tracks, no more, and 20 feet from me. There it was. It was about five feet tall, body covered in a whitish, baby blue green fur, and had long thin arms with three digits, claws like a raptor on each. It stood on goat-like legs with sharp talons on the toes.

Its eyes were huge. It had alien-like masses that took up large portions of the head, and most striking. It had long spikes that ran from the top of its head down to its tail. It stood up straight on its hind legs. I was staring at an urban legend of the island, a chupacabra.

Its quills stood on end, and had jumped into the grass and the trees, so fast that I know if it came for me, I would have been dead. What was this place?

“How could it be so close to home, but so different?”

The people, that was it.

I was always surrounded by family and friends at home, but this place was isolated

How did I get here? And what was happening?

“It seemed like decades in time were passing me in a day.”

The landscape around me was changing so dramatically.

The white being in the distance has to have something to do with it. I had to find out. I grabbed a machete off the front porch and looked at the horizon and gasped. There were six of the white entities now, looming enormous in the distance. Now they must have been hundreds of feet tall.

As I turned to inspect the horizon south of me, another eight colossal entities towering over my world. They had no faces. Simply humanoid features aside from the sharp, lengthy, ever-reaching arms and legs.

The heads were featureless, coming to a sharp point at the top.

They were lumbering around, seemingly studying where I was. Speaking to each other in a language I could not understand. They were more tangible now. Top white flesh, the color of bone. But they're departure from their ethereal form made something very clear to me.

Should they intend to make their presence felt? The impact would now be very clear and devastating. You could hear the world creaking beneath their feet as they moved.

“How could something so far for me be impacting me so directly?”

The fear and helplessness I felt in that moment was overwhelming.

I explored the landscape among the trees, staying away from the sugarcane fields that the giants seemed to watch more closely. No matter where I was, the towering giants cast their shadows upon me. Wherever their shadows fell, the landscape was ravaged, replaced by concrete and sugarcane. The stunning forest around me falling prey to these monsters, growing in number her in size

as time passed. Night fell in my worst nightmare came true. The one-somni present course of animals that lent us the beauty of their songs had completely ceased, who was completely silent here. The silence only broke in from the sounds that the giants made.

“Now so absolutely massive that at this point I feel it appropriate to call them cosmic.”

No matter where I looked in the sky, I would see the sharp pointed white monsters blocking out the sky. Some were so massive it even looked as though they were studying the planet from a distance. Stranger and size than the Earth itself. I could do nothing but try to preserve anything I found here.

But I was greatly outmatched. Further exploration revealed more desolation. Most of what was forest was now nothing more than concrete slabs as far as the eye could see and had damn sugarcane. Save as place was somehow the mountains.

I questioned that notion as I found myself frequently being watched by shining red eyes nearby. It felt as though I was being hunted from the sky and the land. I would not escape this place with my life. I felt sure of that.

So much time had passed in this place with no escape. I, what I could find, I decided stranded as I was to adventure back to the shelter. Something happened to me on the journey back. I found myself complacent wearing my helplessness on my sleeve, watching so much of what I love, be violated right in front of my eyes.

It was too much to take. The moon was hardly able to shine on me due to the 50 planetary size monsters above me, taking away even my sky from me. The house fell back into my line of sight. It was something else entirely now.

of the U.S. certainly not the type of home I'd known my entire life.

“The color's gone, just gray, tan and white.”

Only a dark blue mailbox standing out against the monochrome sadness.

No longer the sky blue I'd always loved.

I opened my mouth to speak to counsel myself, assure myself that it would be okay. When I did the words that emerged from my lips were not the language that I knew. Now, I spoke the language of the giants. I had lost a dear part of myself to their influence in dominance. I was almost to the house when I was tackled to the ground.

My back slamming hard against the concrete where the sand used to be. I tried to fight back, but the beast was much too fast.

“The urban legend had returned to feast upon me.”

It's mouth open, roaring right in my face.

It's large, thick sharp teeth with holes in the points. It's red eyes shining. It was so much smaller than me, but so much faster, so much stronger. I could move. When I was sure that my demise was imminent, it stopped.

It sat up on my chest and put one of its hands close to my face. Opening it to reveal a cookie inside. Tiniest little frog, no bigger than a pinky nail, but its sound was loud and proud.

“Sound of my childhood, my people, my pride.”

That was broken out of my stupor in this creature of legend acknowledged me. As fast as he appeared, he was gone. I got up and walked into the house. There was a can of gasoline in the garage. I tore a piece of my shirt and stuffed it into a glass bottle I had filled with the gasoline.

I let the cloth on the stove and walked outside. I stared up at the monsters in the sky for a moment before turning and throwing the bottle right through the window. I watched the house burn as I stood defiantly against the white entities. I saw them reaching their massive hands towards the earth, towards me.

I did not falter as the hands crashed down upon me. An explosion of sound crashed of the airs their hands, erupting in flames as they broke through the atmosphere, much too fast for me to react. I thought I died, but just as quickly as I transitioned to that world, the past and present, I was back on the top of the parking garage looking out over the landscape.

I was no closer to understanding anything that just happened to me, but I knew that some things in my life had to change. I had to lend myself to the service of others, to fight for those who can't. Be it going back to school, getting into politics on the mainland, whatever I need to do, all in the name of helping my people.

I looked up at the flags flying above my complex, always flown together, that 50 star red

white in blue, that Titan of power, but I take a moment to admire my beautiful flag flying above the complex as well, just below the other, stained with that dark blue, and imagine that beautiful sky blue flying once again. It is clear to me now that there's something terrible feeding on the island on all of us.

I just hope it's not too late to stop it. Don't you have a story to tell next?

it, the rain jurors, long-term campers, even the kids who came up here for summer programs.

“It's had about a quarter mile off the main trail, accessible only by an overgrown path”

and most people missed it entirely. The story went that a man named Eugene Marsh had lived there back in the 70s, trapping and hunting, seeing maybe one or two people a year, then during one particularly harsh storm he just vanished. Search parties found the cabin exactly as he'd left it with food on the table, firewood

in the stove, boots by the door, but no sign of Eugene. Rangers kept it locked after that and posted no trespassing signs. The forest began to reclaim it. When the sky opened up somewhere around 11pm and turned my campsite into a swamp within minutes, I didn't have much choice.

The rain came down in sheets, the kind of delusers that makes you wonder if the gods are trying to draw in the earth.

“My tent collapsed into the weight of it, and a creek that had been a pleasant, babbling”

broke that afternoon became a roaring torrent, overflowing its banks and flooding the low-lying area of my chosen campsite. I grabbed my backpack and had lamp and ran, splashing through an ankle deep water, looking for any place that could give me shelter. That's when I remembered the hermit's cabin.

The path was mostly washed out, but I found it more by instant and sight. I fought my way through, grabbing branches and thorns that tore it my rain jacket. My head lamp barely penetrated the sheets of rain. But, then I saw it, dark silhouette against the darker forest. A small structure with a sagging porch and partially broken windows.

The door was locked, but one of the windows had lost most of its glass over the years.

“I knocked out the remaining charge of my elbow, climbed through, and dropped into the musty”

darkness inside. My head lamp revealed a single room, maybe 15x15 feet. There was a rusted iron stove and one corner, wouldn't chair lying on its side in a narrow cot frame with no mattress. Shells lined one wall, empty except from most droppings and the desecated remains of a few

decades old camp goods. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and filth. But it was dry, and after 20 minutes being hammered by rain, dry was all that mattered. I set my backpack down and used my camp towel to wipe the water from my face and hair. Outside the storm raged on, wind howling through the broken window and rain drumming

on the rusted tin roof like a thousand frantic fingers. I checked my phone, no signal, which I'd expect this deep in the woods. The better it was at 43% in the clock at 11.57 pm. I could wait out the storm here, I told myself, maybe get a few hours asleep before heading

back, what was left on my campsite at first light.

I pulled out my sleeping bag, shook it to make sure nothing had taken up residence inside, and spread it on the floor away from the fully open door. The floor was solid at least, old planks at creek but held, I laid down, exhausted, listening to the storm. That's when I heard a sound, coming from the wall behind my head.

Three sharp wraps, evenly spaced. I sat up, my heart rate jumping, nothing more. I told myself I was probably just branched in the cabin, the wind was fear-selt there. But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't right. The knocks had been too deliberate, too measured, not the random stumps of wind blown

debris. I waited, calling my heartbeats, 30 seconds passed, then a minute. Just as I prepared to settle back into my bag, I came again from the same spot. I scrambled in my feet and pressed my ear against the rough wood. The wall was thin, I could hear the rain outside, could feel the cold seeping through

the boards, but I couldn't hear anything else. The branches, no animal scratching, are burrowing. Hello?

I've always sounded small and foolish, I was expecting an answer, it was nothing but silence,

except for the storm raging outside, and check my phone, 1214am. I made myself sit back down, made myself breathe slowly as I justified the odd occurrence.

that didn't involve.

“Different wall this time, the wonder my left near the stove, I spun toward it, my headlamp”

beam catching nothing but water-stained wood and peeling bark.

The knock-in continued, moving along the wall at a steady pace, it reached the corner, paused for about three seconds, and started up the next wall. It was circling the room. My hands trembled to attract the sound with my light, what I was making the noise had to be on the outside, moving counterclockwise around the cabin.

The knocks were perfectly spaced, perfectly timed. Three wraps, a short pause, three more wraps, exactly three feet further along. I reached the wall with a broken window, I held my breath, waiting for something to appear

“in the opening, but the knock-in continued past it, unfazed by the gap.”

Back to the wall behind where my sleeping bag lay, then it stopped. I stood frozen in the center of the room, my headlamp sweeping across the walls, and breathing harsh in the silence. Outside the storm continued its assault, but inside, there was nothing, just me and the dust and the rotting remnants of Eugene marsh's life.

My phone said 1229 a.m., maybe whatever it was it moved on, maybe it was just an animal after all, some confused creature seeking shelter from the storm, bumping against the cabin as it went, or a coincidence could be persistent, or maybe, I saw a footprint, it was raining front of me, and crashed in the thick dust on the floor, a bare human footprint

“that tow was clearly defined, the heel slightly smudged, and it looked fresh.”

I could see where the dust had been displaced, revealing the darker wood beneath. My legs went numb, I hadn't made that print, I was wearing hiking boots, and I'd barely moved away from my spot near the sleeping bag. I forced myself to look around, to really examine the floor, there was more. I'd trail of them, leading from the wall behind my sleeping bag, moving in a circular round

of room that matched exactly the path and knocking a taken, bare feet, pacing around the interior of the cabin. They overlapped my boot prints and places, which meant they'd been made after I arrived. But I was alone, there was no one else in this room. My head lamp flickered, and in now moment of dimness I heard it, breathing.

But my breathing, I was holding my breath in tear. This was coming from somewhere else. Slow, raspy breaths, like someone who'd been walking a long time, like someone who's tired but still moving, still pacing. I cocked my head and listened more closely, the sound was coming from inside the walls.

I backed where the broken window, never taken my light off the room.

Breathing continued, moving around the cabin just beyond the thin wallboards, I could hear the soft pad of footsteps now too, muffled but distinct, bare feet down earth, circling, pacing, waiting. Right behind me, so close to could feel the vibration through the wall, I screamed and lunged for the window, hauling myself up and over the sill, glass shards still embedded

in the frame tore at my jacket, but I didn't care. I fell onto the porch with a thud, scrambled in my feet and ran into the storm. The rain hit me like a wall, instantly soaking me to the bone, lightning flashed, illuminating the forest and stark white snapshots, followed by the deafening claps of thunder. I didn't look back, I just ran crashing through underbrush, slipping in mud, following

the barely visible pass back towards the flood of campground. Behind me, barely audible over the thunder, wind and driving rain, I heard it. The sound was following me through the trees.

I ran faster, my lungs burning, my legs shaking, the knocking, keeping pace, always the

like a clock cone and down.

“I burst into the campground clearing, there was no one there, even the rain gestation was”

deserted. I turned to look back at the tree line, my headlamps struggling because through the sheets of rain. Nothing, just darkness and trees in the endless roar of the storm. The knocking had stopped, then I saw him, standing at the edge of the forest, barely visible

on the shadows between lightning flashes, a thin figure, naked and pale, his skin hanging loose on his frame.

He stood perfectly still, watching me with hollow eyes that reflected my headlamp

like an animals. The lightning flashed again, and he was gone. The ranger is following me, hypothermic, and at the edge of unconsciousness that morning, babbling about Eugene Marsh and footprints and knocking, and something that paced inside walls.

They wrapped me in emergency blanket and asked if I'd hit my head, if I'd taken anything if I needed medical attention. I told him I'd gotten lost in the storm that I'd panicked, that I was fine. Three nights later I settled into my bed, my apartment back home, 200 miles from Pinewood Campground.

Finally I was feeling relaxed, recovering from the trauma of the camp out.

I attributed it all to the violence of the storm. I checked my phone in a red 1157 pm, turned off the light, slid under the blankets, closing my eyes. They shot wide open again, heavy breathing coming from the darkness around me. Wow, it's really coming down out there, isn't it?

At least we have cabins to stay in this time. Didn't we have cabins last year?

“Who remembers trauma from a full year ago, but there's so much new trauma out there now?”

Wait, did you all see that? What? Out there, in the rain. I thought I saw something in the lightning flashed. Wait, I saw it too.

Hey, anyone seen John? I assume he's at his cabin, no, that's him. He's standing out in the rain and he's staring at us. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, share a light licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be re-broadcast or otherwise distributed without the expressed written consent of the creepypodcast production team and the stories also.

Imagine a city unlike any other simmering 300 years in a rocket skimbo of debauchery versus devotion. Catholicism, confession is anonymous versus voodoo.

“I think I've then made a deal with the devil.”

What's you call life? What I call death. It's a mysterious crossroads where the denizens of this world and others. He is a trickster, and I'm sure whatever he brought back from the world of the dead was a one-way trip.

Come on, daily. And for the detective Frank Duffer, we'll see you in there. And Nicky Goodluck, this will be a dark ride. Welcome to New Orleans and Spades. Listen to something wicked or Spotify, Apple Podcast or whatever you enjoy listening.