Today's episode is presented by Corporate Retreat in theaters May 22nd,
via Western Film Services and Passage Pictures.
“Described as a gory mix of the menu and saw,”
Corporate Retreat centers around a group of young executives whose luxury team building trip descends into a bloody fight for survival against a vengeful retreat leader played by the enemy, Alan Ruck. At the center of this horror comedy is an eclectic cast that also includes Odeo Rush, Sashalene, Ashton Sanders, Zion Marano, Kirby Johnson, and Rosanna R. Cat.
Aaron Fisher directs from a script he co-wrote with Kary Lee Romeo with special make-up effects handled by Candy Man and Scream For My Stroke, Gary G. Tonacliff.
You'll laugh, you'll cringe, you'll cover your eyes when corporate retreat hits theaters May 22nd.
Get tickets now. This week's episode is sponsored by The Provocative Psychological Horror - Cannot. Walker is a gig worker, barely holding things together when he takes on a strange, high-paying job at a secluded mansion. There, he meets clients who live as animals, not as play, but as identity. What begins as a gig quickly spirals into something far more unsettling.
As Walker is pulled into a world where wealth buys transformation and control, blending the social unease with the surreal identity who are, canald, explores power, performance, and the cost of survival in a system built to consume you.
In a world like this, autonomy isn't given, it's taken, watch the trailer, and learn more now.
No. This is Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened, or much simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make and take graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.
Okay everyone, you're just a boat packed up. We got a head out soon. Yes, it's just a little bit of love. And did everyone have a good time this year?
“Yeah, sure. I mean, I think I was close.”
And did I try to kill any of you? No. No, it's fine. So do you think that maybe there's something you all want to say to me? Seriously, no one's going to apologize for thinking the worst of me. Again, this was by far the smoothest running camp we've ever done.
John, you get that we have to prepare ourselves for the worst, right? No. Come on, so you're telling me that if you were in our shoes, that you wouldn't be a little nervous. Oh, you mean, if I didn't have to be the one to set up an entire camp, planned schedules, travel, supplies, and literally everything else that we need to get through a month here. If I didn't have to worry about anything other than relaxing and telling some scary stories,
“I'm not the one who told each of you to bring along extra baggage, am I?”
What? It was metaphor. Never mind. Let's just get everything packed up and head out. And I hope I hope that this will go a long way to prove to you all that nothing weird is going on here.
And I don't have any weird ulterior motives with any of you. Can we stop and get some grilled oysters on the way? Ooh, and then yees? We'll see if there's time. Hello? Hey, where did everyone go?
Hello? Did everyone leave already? Ah! How? Oh, and? Of course it's me. You know, you could have asked that before shooting me in the arm with a dart. Oh, man, I am so sorry about that. That's fine. I'm just glad it wasn't my neck.
No, what were you yelling about? I was just... wait, how are you still awake? Yeah, I'm pretty much immune to this stuff by now. And sleep. Haven't slept in a while, but I'm sure I'll be fine.
What were you saying?
Wait, where is everyone?
That's actually exactly what I was saying.
Would you think a predator got them? Like from the movie, not a politician. They're called Yatra, and no. Not if they have any sense of self-preservation. What about swamp thing?
He's a good guy. Man thing? Too busy guarding the nexus of all realities.
“Listen, I think we need to stop going any deeper into nerd dumb and just assume that they all left without saying goodbye.”
Rude, tell me about it. Hey, when I'm very a time capsule?
That feels a little off-brand.
Should we tell a story? Might as well. Looks like rideshare won't be here for a while. What you got? Well, I thought there'd be more people here, but I was thinking that I'd tell you. Don't press play.
I walk into the rustic cabin where I'm spending the week. The door is slightly a jar. I grab a knife from my pack and explore the space, wishing to find my self alone. I find an antique tape machine seemingly lifted from a spy thriller. A loop is about to close.
“Way out in the jersey pines, sandy soil covers ancient knowledge and shifts aside”
as new growth reaches into the here and now. Out there, something rustles beneath the leaf litter with every step you take. Roots, bones, folklore, or perhaps they're all one and the same. The mycelium network, the wood-wide web, is far older than civilization. The entire forest knows.
Refused lies on the forest floor as modern people wander by and discard their things out of disregard for the ecosystem. Or maybe they've been dropped in terror as fighter flight systems kick in when confronted with a sudden change in noise levels. Woodland critters going silent so is not to attract the attention of something dangerous.
We end through the branches melting into moans of sorrow. Footsteps following far too closely. The wooshu-shove. Well, I don't know. The pine barons are a living time slip where the blurred lines between magic and technology register as analog noise.
Even the premier scientific minds of Princeton University have ventured into the depths of these woods to travel time and space to collapse parallel dimensions and traverse between worlds. Maybe they've done it. Something has. I've heard suffering and fear in the pine barons,
but not from the forest itself. Well, I have heard gunshots and strange cries, but those had a definite localized sound profile, likely the real life sounds of hunting in the woods. What I mean is that I've tuned into sounds of unnatural horror through radios and telephones.
“It only happens out by mountain misery, but I think I found the source.”
The first time I heard it, I was camping with the guys.
We had entered the forest by way of a not quite developed road at the end of a housing development on mountain misery road. The paved path slowly got rougher, faded to gravel, then to a grungy dirt path. The houses along the road were pretty nice, but they too became more rudimentary as the road reached into wilderness out of civilization.
A clearing stood on the right-hand side where a lone oak that we dubbed the Tree of Knowledge stood central over a cranberry bog and the overgrown footpaths that lay beyond. We kept driving past the tree in a way from the homes and black top, deeper into the pine barons. The dirt road was sandy with some ruts worn into it from other adventurers who explored the woods in their pickup trucks in ATVs. On this particular trek, our chariot of choice was a 1977
Plymouth Foulari, not ideal for off-roading, but it was slightly more accommodating than my 72 duster. We had gone deep enough into the woods that there was no light to speak of since there were no street lamps. The moon was out, but not high enough to illuminate the path. We slowed to a crawl, turned the headlights out, and drove by flashlight held out of the shotgun window. I'd gotten out and laid down on the trunk eyes to the stars that shone brilliant in the pitch
dark sky. Eventually we spotted a path along the side of the dirt road that looked like we could pull in just enough to obscure the car. We backed in and unloaded our meager gear that would suffice from one night. A two-man dome tent, a $5 tube tent strung up on some laundry line, a few bags of snacks, some stogies, and a boombox. We didn't dare risk a fire since we didn't have a fire ring or a portable stove, so munchies would have to suffice. We didn't even bring any alcohol, since we were fresh
Out of high school and had no means to procure any.
family obligations. We turned on some tunes and washed down our cheap cigars with Doritos and
“gallon jugs of orange drink. The tape of black Sunday, my cypress hill, was simultaneously”
hyping us up and chilling us out. When we heard the sounds that changed the vibe from guys' night out, to maybe we should leave. The cassette seemed to glitch, then warp and slow down. A weird hiss and crackle popped in as if someone had recorded over the studio produced album with a
tape recorder. The noise is sounded like wind at first, then the moaning of the breeze turned into
groaning of someone in pain. We heard footsteps running through the woods, but not in real life, not in the woods around us. The running was coming from the radio. It sounded like a documentary of a person running away from something terrifying in the woods. The fear was contagious as the guys and I stared at the boom off with jaws open, stealing glances at one another, wordlessly asking each other, "Did you just hear that?" Even more suddenly than it appeared,
“the frightening sounds stopped. The cypress hill popped back out of the speakers. We turned the”
radio off. Far too late to roll up at home, especially with an hour drive back to our neighborhoods. We crammed into the tents and lay awake until the black sky turned gray. We didn't exactly forget what we heard that night, but somehow it didn't affect our woodland exploration much. I suppose we sort of repress the memory, chalked it up to imagination,
or a malfunction of the tape. We listened to it many times since and never heard any other
abnormalities, so the whole incident got stashed away in our collective subconscious, I suppose. Our fascination with the pine barns didn't diminish, especially when we began our search for ongs hat. The 90s were a wild time, rolling through the woods in a hoopty guided by maps and a flashlight. We went on a quest for the lost town ofongs hat New Jersey.
“There was an actual town out there at one time, so we went looking for old signs and a band in ruins”
or any evidence of the ghost town in the midst of Jersey Devil Territory. But the 90s also saw the dawn of the web, and along with that, the first real internet snipe hunt called the Incannabular Papers by Joseph Mathene. According to the papers, the forgotten town ofongs hat may or may not have been the epicenter of alternative world research. Technology crept into the wilderness faster than the paved roads and internet bulletin boards
were nearly indistinguishable from actual bulletin boards. Chat rooms were becoming the new zines, but papers zines hadn't yet gone entirely extinct. And what better place to blur the lines between the analog and the digital than the liminal space known as the pine barns. During our research, we stumbled across a photo-copy of an old flyer that seemed to give us some clues. It advertised a book club meeting that
was centered around two of the volumes featured in the papers. Sadly, there was no address to be
found. No, perhaps it was listed on the second page of the flyer, which was lost at time.
But on that photo-copy was another photo-copy of the back of one of the books. The publisher's information was at the very bottom, and in teeny tiny print was the phone number of the publishing house. We wrangled up a pocket full of quarters and headed out to a pay phone outside of what we dubbed "The Ones Hat Wawa". Since I found the number, I got to dial, but all five of us got our ears as close to the receivers we could without musling each other.
Five rings and the other end was live. We figured it would be an answering machine since it was well after business hours. That is, if the number was legit in the first place. Looking back, the flyer was probably all part of the game, and the publishing house was most likely a planted piece of fictional evidence, but we were going to die trying to scooby do this on's hat mystery. What we heard was not a business. The sounds of fear split the ambient noise
of parking lot bustle and came through the phone so loudly that we all backed away from the receiver. Footsteps, running, crashing through the branches. We heard the sounds of pursuit and human desperation. This person was running away from certain doom and seemingly toward our crew lawyers now, with our ears pressed up against the door of another reality about to swallow a life as we listen. And then, dial tone. The line went dead, but this time there was no
be real to convince us that we hadn't heard what we just heard. Oh we kept looking for Hong's hat, and then found more than we bargained for. The Jacob's revenge is a story for another day. It said that time marches on.
Does it, though?
time actually works, especially in a place like the pine barrens where the veil is thin.
“Someone out there was still running from an unseen predator, and I was about to hear from them again.”
Years as we measure them had gone by, and I was on my way home from the shore. Some family had rented a house for the week, and I went down for a day trip and dinner on the boardwalk. It was later than I'd hoped, but I had to get homes so I could work the next day, so I ventured up the parkway in a bit of a haze. A highway had hypnotized me just enough to draw me past my exit to the Atlantic City Expressway, so I was headed north instead of northwest
toward my hometown, and Philadelphia beyond that. I had to get off at Route 72, and drive through
the dense shade of the South Jersey forest that never quite let go of those who leave a bit of
their hearts and minds out there among the pines. Drows in this cave wait to my eyelids, so I opened the windows wide, and cranked the radio to keep my energy up.
“Past Anght Hatwawa, past Mount Misery, and through a particularly dark stretch,”
I cruise through at a reasonable speed so I was not to get pulled over. The roar of the wind and the bark of the radio were doing their job until the station began to blink out. Between towers I figured, but the station's melted into garbled noise as my reception yielded to the chilling sounds of a person, calling out in desperation. Wrathless but for streets of terror, a voice called out for help, and to my mind, it seemed to be calling to me. I would love nothing better
than to tell you that this was the last time I heard this harrowing chase. Sadly, it is not. I'm a grown man now, middle aged in fact, and my family makes a bigger deal out of my birthday than I do myself. So my wife, bless her heart, rented a cabin on a lake for my 50th birthday. An entire week out in the pine barns where my buddies and I spent so much time camping and exploring.
The fan would stay with me the first few nights, then I'd be alone for a few,
before the guys would spend the final Friday night hanging out and grilling some brats under the moonlight. The cabin has a kitchen and a bathroom and electricity. It's too rustic to be considered glamping, but definitely better than spooning in a dome tent with blood sucking insects buzzing in your ear all night. There's a bedroom downstairs and two more in the loft above perfect accommodations for heavy snorers. Thursday that week I went to work and came home to the
cabin to sort things out before they get together the next day. I reached in my pocket for the
“key, but it wasn't there. It was in the door, open just a bit. Strange since I took extra”
care to lock the cabin while I was at work. Strange enough, in fact, to snap me into high providence as I crept through the kitchen and into the main room. Hello, I called, hoping not to get a response. Nothing seemed to be missing or disturbed downstairs. I dug a decent size folding knife out of my camping gear and clicked it open before ascending the staircase to the loft. The steps seemed to stretch from miles as I slowly crept up each one. My higher functions wereing
as they attempted to keep the lizard brain from bursting through my skull. Through the open door of the upstairs room, I spotted a strange piece of equipment on the floor. About the size of a small typewriter, it appeared to be an old tape machine, something from a bygone era, easily as old as I was, and likely much older. I scanned the room around me, but again saw nothing else out of the ordinary. So I rided the machine and thought
for a long moment before pressing play. Now, if you've seen evil dead movies, you know that this was about to be the biggest mistake of my life. The tape rumbled to life, began to wind and hiss with the self-noise of an old analog audio device. But the hiss soon gave way to the whistling of wind, a rustling of branches, and the stomping of footsteps running through the woods. The grim traveler had returned and was now here with me and my cabin. The breathing was labored,
and the frantic cries revealed themselves as those of a man. His desperation grew along with the impossibly audible darkness that followed him. Jesus that voice sounds like mine. I've heard
my own voice on tape before, but never quite like this. Run! I heard my own voice shouting
through teeny speakers. Run! Frozen for a moment. I looked around the room once again. The wood paneled wall to my right had a seam around it, as if it had been cut away.
A small latch that doubled as a handle revealed that the panel served as a st...
closet. All of a sudden, I no longer felt alone. Run! I tore down the stairs,
“nearly wiping out at the bottom and scrambled through the room like a dog trying to find purchase”
on the hardwood floor. My body outran my mind through the kitchen out the door past my car and down a trail by the lake. Father and Father into the woods I ran, all the while feeling a dark energy gaining ground behind me. The wind whipped into a gale and moaned with longing at my back. Time measured itself in labored breasts and shouts of fear as I wound through dirt trails. I thought I heard people reveling in a clearing up the head. The sounds of boon bat murky in the
slap back of forest air. The music disappeared when the lights and sounds of a busy parking lot
shimmered in the distance. Figures huddled around a pig farm. Maybe they could help. Gone to. Racing down a trail that seemed to run parallel to a road, I shouted and tried to flag down a pass in car but it didn't seem it. This looming shadow was gaining ground and hope had just about excelled its final breath when I found myself on a familiar path. The cabin stood
“waiting on the shore of the lake. I reached in my pocket and fumbled for the key attached to a”
ruff-une pine tree keychain. Throwing the door open, my reflexes propelled me up the loft stairs
and into the upstairs bed chamber. I scanned the room for a place to hide and miraculously spotted
a small, knob-like latch on the wall. A closet. Cramming myself into the small space, I tripped and fell over a box that could have been a squirrel trap or an appliance of some kind. Whatever it was, I chucked it out of the closet and grabbed a piece of the framework with my fingernails to pull the door shut. The silence of the space yielded to the muffled sounds of my breathing in my hammering heartbeat. Whatever was chasing me would most likely find me at some point but
I gave it my damnedest. A car pulled up outside. Footsteps entered the structure and a voice
“called out. "Hello, my voice. My other self crept slowly up the stairs and entered the room.”
Was my pursuer masking itself as a version of me? Or am I the doppelganger? I peered through the crack in the door and saw the figure pick up the box I had tossed from the closet. It looked like a tape recorder of some kind. "Please, please, please, God, please!" I whispered in my mind. "Don't, press, play!" Today's episode is presented by corporate retreat in theaters May 22,
via western film services and passage pictures. Described as a gory mix of the menu and saw, corporate retreat centers around a group of young executives whose luxury-team-building trip descends into a bloody fight for survival against a vengeful retreat leader played by the indomitable Alan Ruck. At the center of this horror comedy is an eclectic cast that also includes Odeo Rush, Sasha Lane, Ashton Sanders, Zia Morano, Kirby Johnson, and Rosanna Arcette.
Aaron Fisher directs from a script he co-wrote with Kerry Lee Romeo with special make-up effects handled by candyman and screen-formistro, Gary G. Tonacliffe. "You'll laugh, you'll cringe, you'll cover your eyes when corporate retreat hits theaters May 22. Get tickets now." This week's episode is sponsored by the new Supernatural Horror, the Demon. Tom returns to the lakeside home where his father died hoping to confront his past, but instead something beneath the
water begins to answer, as his behavior grows distant and disturbing, his wife and loved ones are pulled into a nightmare that feels older than memory itself, blending the psychological dread with the creeping inescapable horror, the demon explores grief, possession, and the horrors we inherit. Some forces don't just haunt you, they consume you. Watch the trailer and learn more now. "So, what'd you think?" "John." "John." "Huh?" "Sorry, what'd you say?" "I just asked what you thought
of my story." "Oh, yeah, totally." "Hey, um, it's starting to get late. I'm thinking it's time to wrap things up and get going. We don't want to miss her flight's home. "Are you okay?" "Yeah." "Yeah, I'm fine. Probably this little set that camps over already. All right,
Cheers should be here soon.
"What are you doing?" "Oh, there's a piece of firewood left. Just figured I'd throw it on." "Oh, no.
“Are you kidding me?" "Why would you do that to us?" "John, did you take a dart to the neck?" "What are you”
talking about?" "Have you ever heard about the last log on the fire?" "To be clear, this isn't my story. I heard a years ago from a man who claimed it happened to his uncle. Though he did admit that the details have been passed on so many times, that the details have probably been skewed a little. He said that the exact location didn't matter. That the force to change names and boundary since then had the only constant was the fire pit. The role was simple. At that particular clearing,
you let the fire burn out on its own. No one remembered who made the rule or why. It was simply repeated anyone who camped there. Old timer said the pit had been dug long before the campground existed. Back when trappers moved through the woods and winter and built
“fires that lasted for days. That the place became a heaven for freezing travelers law and supplies.”
They said the stones around the ring were older than the marked trails, older than any ranger station, older than the road that now brought campers in by the car load. You didn't add a final log before bed. You didn't smother it. You didn't interfere with whatever the fire decided to do when you were done watching it. The uncle on the story didn't believe in rules without being given a good reason to follow.
He was that sort of person. He was practical and stubborn and liked the comfort of certainty. On the last night of the late season camping trip, with the air turning sharp in his lungs when he take a deep breath, he decided he wanted more heat before turning in. The fire burned
“down to a low-red cradle of coals, steady and controlled, to kind of fade to ash within the hour.”
The others in his group had already crawled into their tents, leaving him alone in a clearing with the steady pulse of the embers. He found one more log near the edge of the wood pile and set it across the coals. To caught quickly, like it had been kiln dried. The flames rose in clean vertical ribbons, looking along the bar can breathing life back into the pit. He sat for a while longer, satisfied with the warmth against his face,
and then finally turned down. The fire was still strong when he zipped the tent shut behind him.
Something in the deep part of the night woke him. At first he didn't know why. The forest was silent in the way it only becomes after midnight. When he'd been in sex then up in the wind settles into high branches, he lay there listening to his own breathing and the slow pulse of blood in his ears. Then he realized the tent was glowing. Orange light seeped through the nylon walls, so grindy thought he hadn't been asleep for more
than a few minutes. Until he checked his watch, hours had passed since he laid down. The ones at the flap half way appeared out. The fire wasn't dying. It was roaring. The log you'd placed across to pit had long since turned to ash. It at the flames were higher than before. The stones around the rain glowed faintly, as though heat had soaked into them. The air above the pit shimmered in thick waves. He stepped out barefoot onto the cold ground,
spark spiraled upward into the black sky, but didn't fall back down. They seemed to hover briefly, suspended, before vanishing into nothing. Then he noticed the figure.
It sat on the far side of the fire just beyond the brightest light. It first looked like
a trick of shadows and flames, but his eyes adjusted. He saw the outline clearly. Something was crouched low near the pit. Hands extended toward the blazes if warming them. It didn't look up at him. In time, the uncle's eyes adjusted, and he saw what he thought might be an unhoused man crouching to the fire. It did something strange about the way he was dressed. The strange man wore what looked like furs. Not just a fur coat, but literally fur hides
draped over his shoulders and wrapped around him. He wore a thick beard, but still the uncle could see what looked like cracks on his skin. Skin that appeared almost blue, even in the firelight. The bearded man simply squatted their, patient, and still, palms open toward the flames. The uncle said he felt no immediate terror when the confusion took a step closer.
When he reached the near edge of the fire pit, the bearded man moved.
It's head tilted slightly as if listening. Then he raised his face.
“There were no eyes in the way he expected. Instead, just a milky white eyes of a blind man.”
The uncle stared into them like he had to. Like there was some answer there that he'd needed his entire life. But there, just feet away from the blazing fire. The uncle fell nothing, but an impossible cold. A cold that made his skin hurt. A cold that made his very bones ache. Then he realized that it wasn't alone. Out in the treeline shadows moved, the light from the fire made it impossible for his eyes to adjust enough to pick out details.
But he knew there was more than one person out there. More than two. So many more. One by one, the shadow has started to move closer to the fire. Not just slow, but hesitant.
“Like animals exercising their ingrained instincts to be afraid, or at least wary.”
But soon enough, they started to step forward one by one. A woman at a torn dress, a man wearing hiking gear, a child dragging a teddy bear through the dirt. More and more of them approached the fire. Hands raised to the flames. All had the same white eyes,
the same blue-tinged skin. Each of them wearing a story they never spoke out loud.
Of course the uncle had no idea where they were and where they were from. But the way he told it, the way I'm telling you now I suppose, each one of them. With their cold that eyes, their frozen cracks skin. It all died there in those woods. Camperous, travelers, wanders. People whose last moments on this earth were spent in the cold
until their hearts slowed, until their blood froze in their veins, slipping off whatever life still clung to them. In the fire, it called them. The one thing that could have saved them in their final moments it turned into a beacon that cut through the afterlife, pulling them like the real mods to the flame. At this part of the story, the uncle held up his hand, showing only a ring finger, pinky finger and thumb remaining. He'd reached out to the child at some point,
instinctfully reaching out to try and help the small boy. Bad eyes are not. The uncle recalled that as his fingers touch the boy's hand.
I first didn't feel anything. Then he felt the cold. Cold as bad as anyone had ever felt.
Cold that turned into a burning heat. His the uncle screamed and fell to his knees in front of the mute chorus. It watched on as the skin on two fingers turned black in the product. The uncle ran to his truck. Leaving everything in every one else behind. His probably guessed that doctors couldn't save his fingers. A split second of contact had developed a third degree frostbite in a matter of moments.
And asked him what happened. He didn't know what else to say. So he told him the truth.
“The truth is far as this talent of the story goes, I guess.”
The doctor's ordered a toxic screen and a safe consult. After getting out of the hospital, uncle enlisted his brother, my friend's dad, to go with him to get his gear. Supposedly when they went back, everything was just as it had been left. It was one exception that the fire pit was still smoking. The last remains of heat slowly draining out. A fire that should have gone out days sooner.
As it packed up, it looked like nothing had been touched or taken. That's something had been left behind. The small rigidity teddy bear lay in the dirt just outside the fire pit stones. The old rule is still told about that clearing. Through the camp, though the campground has changed names since then. Those who repeat it don't claim to understand why the fire must be left alone.
They only say that the last log doesn't belong to you. It belongs to whatever waits for the flames to grow high enough to come and warm itself. Okay, I'll packed up. John, John, were you at?
Over here.
Really? I've been sleeping like a baby.
That's because you've been tranquilized for half the months.
“Again, are you with results? Hey, between you and me. Are you doing okay?”
Yeah. Yeah, I just need a good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain.
I looked like the ride shares. Oh, dude, did you order a smart car for a ride share? Whenever we're going to both fit in with all our stuff. Oh, you, um, you want to rock
“paper scissors for it? No, you take it. I'll hang out here and wait for the next one. Are you sure you”
want to be out here all by yourself? Yeah, I'll be fine. Maybe I'll be able to grab a nap for something.
Hey, man. Before I go, I just want to say thank you for all the work you put into the stuff. I know sometimes it doesn't work out how you hoped, but we do appreciate the effort.
“Wow, um, thanks Owen. That really means, uh, you shot me at two Owen. Oh, don't thank me.”
It's the least I could do. Now get some rest. You earned it. I'm so tired. So Sweet dreams, buddy for more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration. Please visit creepypard.com. You can also follow us at creepypard on social media and YouTube.
All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments share a like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepypard cast production team and the story's author.
