Epidermiss

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.

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 my simple fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey everyone, quick apology to anyone listening on a local Amradior right now.

I know that the broadcast is getting a little bit of a late start, but for some reason all the settings at the station have been adjusted.

“That's why, and there's no one around to ask, but it took me some trial and error to get things back on track.”

And speaking of back on track, let's do better about staying up to date with new patrons by welcoming and thinking, "J-R", "All of you Baron", "Sammy", "Player and Sam", "Harlie Hellheim", "J-Dicante" and "Pickle Draven". To see how you can support the show and get all kinds of rewards, please check out the reward to the Patreon.com/creepypod. Okay, on with the show, before things start to get weird again.

First up, after devastating breakup, a deeply insecure woman tries a viral beauty product that promises flawless skin,

only to discover that her desperate pursuit of beauty may have unleashed something horrifying when it's a surface. For me to rosy-shrike and aerated by Nicole Goodnight, creepy presence, Epidermus. I would have done anything to be pretty. I started plucking and popping as a teenager. Razor burn, the tingle of bleach on my scalp, the sudden uprooting of hair follicles with hot wax,

little rituals learned from my mom, who was grief-stricken that I had inherited her looks. Painful, yes, but nothing compared to the constantly knowing void of my own ugliness. A person could go crazy if they look into that void too long. I did. It been a few weeks since Megan dumped me. The apartment felt like a funeral home without shitty pop music bouncing off the walls.

The breakup was inevitable. Honestly, she was painfully out of my league. She was a beautiful go-getter. I was a lumpy sack of depressed shit. I missed her more than anything. Her thousand-watch smile, her boldness, the way her button-nose would crinkle when she laughed, and how she would snort if I made her crack-up hard enough. Scrolling on the apps was the only activity mine numbing enough to distract me.

“The only way I found that could fill the silence that she left behind.”

It was one of those massacistic TikTok doomsgrows that I saw the ad that almost killed me. It was for a face mask. A gorgeous woman with glossy blonde hair and sparkling eyes addressed the camera with a churpy, aggressive friendliness. When I say it's all differences after just one use, I mean it girl. She could, cutting from footage of her applying the minty green paste to her standing profoundly

with fresh washed skin. She was flawless. My pores haven't been the same since. I wasn't naive. Everyone uses filters. That's not even getting into strategic lighting,

perfectly placed contour. The million other tricks seasoned beauty influencers have.

This wasn't like that. She wasn't hiding behind filters or good lighting. Frankly, she looked like she was in a warehouse with harsh overhead fluorescence laying her bear. Yet her skin was smooth as glass. When she zoomed in to pan over her cheek in the bridge of her nose, I couldn't see a single pore. I looked up from my phone to that old disappointment in my mirror. My eyes were drabbed and lifeless. My nose with its wide, flaring nostrils like a squashed fruit on the

center of my greasy face. My thin lips chopped and clotted. I ran my finger along the same route she took. I felt the awful topography of acne scars, the roughshod terrain of my oil clogged

the loneliness, the shame. I know you feel insecure. I do too. Her smile turned gentle, blue eyes brimming with the kind of compassion usually seen in St. Hood. Don't you deserve a change? Don't you want to feel beautiful? Let me give you that. Quick, go to my TikTok shop link

“and enjoy 75% off the best self-care secret you'll ever get. Get an extra 20% off if you”

order in the next half hour. I ordered a bottle immediately. Even at the time, I knew it was a stupid idea. Again, I wasn't naive, but I was desperate. I would have done anything to be pretty. I'd almost forgotten about the mask when it arrived a month later. Postmarked from some fulfillment warehouse I didn't recognize and covered with warnings to not freeze the contents. It was a clean little squeeze bottle, soft pink with girlish text and blazing over an image of a

fairy calling the product. Nymph. Nymph had very specific instructions. Once a day I had to expose my face to steam for 10 minutes exactly. Scrub the mask thoroughly into my skin to let the exfoliating beads really clean out my pores. Let it sit for 15 minutes. They say exactly again here.

“Rinse it off gently with cool water. A little odd, but I'd seen weirder online. At least I didn't”

have to tape my mouth shut. I followed the instructions to the letter with my nightly routine. Wiping steam from the mirror, I looked into the smeary reflection once. Twice. Half bent over my counter and disbelief. Practically crawling against the mirror to make sure I was seeing this correctly. The greasy black model of my pores was completely changed, tan, toned, tight. Even more than that, I looked good, do-ey and supple. My face felt smoother, softer, tolerable. It's so embarrassing to

say, looking back on it, but I cried. I felt this awful weight lift off of me like I could start

living, like I could finally, finally be beautiful. The etching started three days afterwards.

It was mild at first, like in allergic reaction. Irritating but the kind of thing I could mostly

“ignore, the day after though it had gone from a whispering annoyance to the only thing I could focus on.”

It was like something microscopic was chewing on the inside of my pores. It was unbearable. The second I stopped itching the horrible sensation came back 10 times worse. My co-workers gossiped as I dug my nails into my flesh, gawking at the blood under my fingernails. I stopped using the mask, of course. I switched to sensitive skin cleaners and changed my washcloth constantly. I started taking benadryl even though it made me not off at work.

I made plea after plea to my traitorous skin. But it never let up.

My face radiated heat, raw and painfully sensitive from my obsessive clawing. When I ran my hands along my irritated skin, I felt bumps forming just under the surface. Over the next few days, they grew hard to like tiny plastic beads nestled in my pores. I tried to tell my co-workers in my few close friends that I'd been camping and gotten bit by mosquitoes, but they were clearly unconvinced. It was only after they doubled in size that I realized the depth of my mistake.

Maybe it's cystic acne. I thought bitterly halfway through my nightly routine. I was pushing down on a particularly pernicious bump of my jaw, as if that could flatten the surface.

As if I couldn't get any uglier. It pushed back. It was quick. A split second twitch.

But clear as day I felt a tiny, something squirm under my finger tip. I flinched back an honest to God yelped. I gathered up my courage and pressed a finger tip to my jaw once again. The bump was fever warm, churning and nodding like a microscopic menstrual cramp. It could have been my pulse. I tried to rationalize a trick of my mind. But I knew it was more than that. I knew how my pulse felt and this wasn't it. Fuck this, I thought to myself. Any dermatologist or beauty guru

worth their salt knows that popping your pimples is risky. You might introduce bacteria from your hands into the open wound you create. But anyone who's actually struggled with bad skin knows having them gone is worth any temporary grossness, especially those who couldn't look any worse. Like myself. With the scrutiny of a surgeon I pinched the twitching bump between my fingers. My reflection stared back mutely. Puffy eyes narrowed and thin mouth pressed into an ugly line.

Twitch twitch. I pushed out the itching of the other growths, honing on this one, pushing harder.

Cutting it come on. I grunted, pushing back harder until the pustule burst with a painful wet

“squelch, sending vile chunky fluid from my poor. It hit the sink basin and I immediately started”

to wash it down the drain, disgusted at myself. As the glob of fluid spun around the drain and vanished inside, I caught a brief glimpse of something that turned my stomach. A soft, translucent shape, bristling with little spines. Insect legs. I'm sorry, man. The dermatology centers receptionists said with a rehearsed pity that conveyed the exact opposite. I understand you're experiencing some skin concerns, but Dr. Kemper is at a symposium until next Monday.

Even then with our limited availability, I'm better off going to urgent care. I cut her off. She was the tenth receptionist to tell me the same thing and I was tired of hearing it. My voice rose into a desperate cracking yell. I went to urgent care. They told me to see a dermatologist and I called nine other fucking offices who completely shut me down and now I'm here

“about to get turned away again when my face is covered in these tiny tumors and you won't just”

let me see a fucking dermatologist. There was a lengthy pause. I felt a throbbing growth push-up from the epidermis of my cheek, one of too many. There were the size of marbles at this point, nearly tripling since the incident the night before. There's something wrong with me. I choked out, trying my best not to let on that I was starting to cry. I failed miserably. She sighed, either out of annoyance or pity. I heard her long manicured nails tap tap tapping

on her keyboard for a moment before she finally said. Dr. Kemper is getting in late next

Monday, but he lives near the office. I can tell him about your pressing concerns and you can see you after close. 730. I accepted immediately. So overcome with relief I didn't even thank her. It was only after the call that the grim reality set in. I'd have to wait eight days for an answer.

“My already flacid social life withered and died. I spent each day leading up to the appointment”

obsessing over everything dermatology. I'm also using my job one day when my boss caught me looking at skavies instead of spreadsheets. I found articles and allergies and contact dermatitis on oil clogs and hives. All things that could cause itching and lesions. Yes. But nothing has rapidly growing as what I had. I tried searching up the brand nymph

and only found pictures of storybook fairies and articles. I scrolled for hours and never found

that account again. Soon I didn't have to look over my shoulder anymore. My skin had gotten so bad that I was practically forced to take sick time so my open air office mates wouldn't have to look at the oozing buds pulsing all along the bridge of my nose. I told my friends I needed some time to myself and ignored their messages of sympathy. I didn't want them to see me deteriorate. The little pin-pric blackheads I used to torture myself over were dwarfed by these massive

painful grape-sized knots. The tan I'd mistaken for skin turned to a larval off-white. Globes of maggot meat pushed greedily against the walls of my epidermis. Like they were testing the limits. Seeing how far I could be molded. How big they could grow. In my dreams I woke up in a deep, dark cave. It was so dim that I could barely make out the shape of its walls with my straining eyes. It was humid. The kind of muggy heat that you drink more than breath. I felt every clammy spot

of my body. Thought beads of sweat and rank cave condensation dripped down the back of my elongated spine. Miraculously I couldn't feel the bumps or their painful itch anymore. I tried to grow up my face. So happy to be free of my pain. But I couldn't reach to touch. I couldn't move at all. Panic gripped me. I tried to break free, undulating from side to side, but it was no good. I was tangled in myself. In case, in some sort of membranous hole, I cramed my neck trying

uselessly to see what could be holding me and felt a fresh horror when I pressed my digits against the greasy walls of my prison. It was breathing. I shrieked with foreign lungs and the echo shook the pulsing sax walls, sending more rank liquid on my face and into my open mouth. Puss. This was no cave. It was a coffin. And I would die if I couldn't escape. I gagged, spluttering and choking on the disgusting fluid. I was like a prey animal desperately

moving in any way I could to escape my confines. Flailing my limbs against the thin material, feeling it starting to give to shred. Yes, yes, let me out! The air was growing thin, the smell of my own body repulsive. The sound of my scratching like a thousand insect legs. I kept slipping on oil and dust, but I dug against the walls,

growing blurry with the lack of oxygen, but freedom so close nearly something I could identify

“until I was jolting upright and bed. I tried to catch my panicked breath. I tried to forget”

the whole thing and get as much sleep as my painful bumps would allow. Even in the cold sweat stark truth of my room, I swore I could still hear my desperate scratching. Somewhere distant, but steadily growing closer. So Lindsay, I heard you've been suffering from some unpleasant dermatitis. Dr. Kemper was a short bald little man who's shiny head looked like a hard-boiled egg on a

little serving cup. His nasally voice sounded like a bad passage of Kermit the Frog, but it was music to my ears. I'd made it eight days somehow. He gave me a pitying smile as he

saw how covered up I was. A cloth face mask and beanie leaving on the little exposed skin

for me to purchase sunglasses on. The soft fabric of the mask was like broken glass against my weeping skin. I opened my mouth to respond, but my face pulsated indignantly. Clearly, the bumps wanted to speak for themselves, so I took off my face coverings without a word. Doctors, in my experience, are good at keeping their cool. They're taught how to be compassionate and collected. To keep the severity of the situation away from their worried patient,

Dr. Kemper's wide-eyed stare betrayed that facade. Well, he got. I'm glad you came to see us. I told him everything in halting bursts. The ad, the mask, how my complexion had gone from mildly irritated to colonized within two weeks. He didn't recognize the skin care brand either. Let alone the kind of allergic reaction it was giving my skin. After that, I gave him the squeeze bottle of that damn mask and let him pull a little fluid from my face. Even with the

size of my growths, I felt every millimeter of the cold needle plunging in. I felt myself growth just a little lighter without some of my contents. I'd suffered for eight days straight only to be sent back out in less than 30 minutes with some prescription cream and a promise that they would run tests on the mask and sample as soon as their technician could manage. Every bump on the uneasy ride to the pharmacy brought on a fresh wave of squirming. I hid my

face as best I could. Calculating how to get my medicine and leave in the least amount of steps. None of that would matter. Lindsay? Shit. I knew that voice instantly. I'd heard it so often, singing along off-key to terrible pop music, joking about shitty bosses, giving me the "It's not you, it's me, speech." Megan was across the aisle grabbing vitamins. Even in running close she was gorgeous. Face a glow with a faint sheen of exertion. Sun kissed complexion still

do we in the harsh drug store lighting? She approached me like a compassionate zookeeper approaches a frightened animal. Slowly, with the gentle smile and apologetic eyes. My warm breath was fogging up my sunglasses. The heat of my skin permeated my mask. My sweat stung the swollen nodules that crowded the corners of my vision, like tumors walnuts pressing insistently against each other.

“Why was she here? Why now? I'm sick. Was all I could blurred out, taking a step away from her?”

One wrong move, one twitch of a postural, and she would know. She would see the monster I turned into. She just how right she was to dump me. Mercifully, she stopped. We stood three shelves apart like a standoff from a terrible spaghetti western. That sucks. She said with a sympathetic winds. I'm, look, I'm sorry I bothered you. I know it's shitty to try and do this here, but I just don't love how things went when her lips kept moving but I couldn't hear a word. Megan's voice,

the canned music on the shop speakers, the ambient noise of shoppers was all drowned out by a cacophony of muffled riggling. Something I felt more than heard, like the sound of fluid and bronchial

lungs, millions of microscopic legs crawling on my bone marrow, insistent getting louder by the second.

My stomach lurched in nausea as the awful tumors on my face quivered. So heavy and obvious that I could no longer mistake them for anything other than independently living things that were now awake and writhing deep inside of my epidermis. Dozens of masses, both ticklish and torturous as their contents arrived. Pushed and pressed against me, testing the limits of their little confines, and desperate to get out. Each spasm was a railroad spike of blinding pain straight through my front

tolobe. Each part of my face, my bloated cheeks, my squashed tomato nose, the papery skin under my dull eyes was a light with the sea of ebbing and flowing agony, as the bumps that blanketed my face began to split and crack, weeping foul clear fluid that seeped through my face mask.

“And so my therapist was saying that maybe Jesus, then, are you okay?”

Fuck off! I cried out. Each sound my mouth shaped out agitating the shuddering masses more and

I was sprinting out before she could say anything more, shoving past shoppers and workers,

“hands clamping my sod and face mask down tight hoping that the dribbling liquid could form a sort of”

plaster and keep the inevitable from happening. I know you feel insecure. Two blocks from my condo. I had to survive two more blocks. I didn't have the medicine, but it couldn't do anything for me now. Nothing could. I did too. I ran not caring about traffic or who I had to shove aside to get home, lungs burning, skin burning, brain burning, everything on fire with all consuming pain and fear. Oh god, get out of my way! Don't look at me!

Don't you deserve a change? My ankle caught on the curb and I stumbled, barely catching

myself and sending my hand slamming into my chin in the process. My vision went white with pain.

A pustule opened in an explosion of squalching fluid and I felt the awful relief of its weight spilling onto the ground below me. Don't you deserve to feel beautiful? A passerby screams. I don't stay to see what fell out of me. I'm almost home, the red stuck over of the condo two houses over, just one last push and I'll be away from all these people. They're frying eyes,

“they're disgusted stairs. I can give you that. I turn the key in the door, staggering into”

the dim living room with a ragged cry of triumph. Half-ran have limped to the sink, leading a trail of chunky blood clots and fluid in my wake. My face revolting is escaping itself. When I say I saw a difference after just one use, I mean it, girl. I was terrified to take off the mask, even as the squarming noise became a deafening drone, even as the pustules broke further and further open. Even as I knew what I would find, my pores haven't been the same

sense. I didn't even need to peel the mask off. They did it for me. One right after the other, hundreds of frantic pinchers and insect legs shredded their egg casings and burst from every pore on my face, shittin' a spotty snaking out from my flesh. Every covering I'd put on my face was pushed aside by the weight of 100 giant sentipedes, hatching from my soft tissue. My vision

“completely obscured by the writhing of long insectoid bodies, and greedily scrabbling legs.”

My eyes swam with tears in the pain of my countless offspring using them for leverage to climb fully out of the eggs I'd been gestating for weeks now. All I heard was the chattering of carepices and soft clicking of pinchers on my abused flesh. All I could feel was the awful, hideous pushing, like fingers forcing their way out. Every sense I once held dear was forfeit. My body wasn't mine anymore. I was nothing more than a host. I tried to focus my eyes against

the unbelievable torture, tried to find my nose that I'd hated so much amidst the sea of carnage. I wanted to die. I wanted someone, some merciful bystander to set my condo on fire with me in it. I wanted every trace of my hideous face burned to ash. With a broken scream I grabbed a tight handful of the wriggling insects still have lodged in my face and pooled with all of my might. Blinding pain gave way to nothingness. Lemon sented sterility. A bright light pierced my vision.

A low whistle of wind. Pain. Unimaginable pain. Awareness came in horrible waves. One sensation crashing into me at a time until I was awake in a hospital room. I gripped the ham of my thin paper gown. That was real. I ran my hands along my hated body, feeling the solid warmth. I was alive. I hovered my shaking fingers over my face. I couldn't see myself but I couldn't see the insects either. Slowly, hesitantly, I touched my cheek and felt my fingers light easily into the

mass of holes in my face. No, no, no, no, no, no. I started freaking in pain and terror. Each cavernous flesh pit quivering with my voice. Each gasping inhales and an air whistling through the perforated sack of screaming meat I had become. The nurses ran in trying to calm me while shouting out codes bringing an attendant to prick me with a syringe as I jammed my fingers deeper into my ruined epidermis. Desperate deter at the exposed nerves and end it. They had to keep me

sedated for several days. I needed multiple serious skin grafts, stitches, and around the clock observation for a week after I woke up to keep me from hurting myself. The doctors didn't believe

me at first. They'd never seen someone with their pores carved open like this and thought it was

self-inflicted. That changed when the dermatologists came back with those test results. The mask was teeming with centipedes. The careful instructions unused just ensured my face was the perfect hatchery. The authorities got involved and kept telling me they're looking into it. I doubt they'll find anything. I've looked everywhere I could. But I can't find any indication the account I saw ever even existed. When I look in the mirror I see a patchwork quilt of scar tissue

I would give anything to have my face back every single flaw. I'm recovering now as best I can.

“Physical therapy has helped, but I'll never be the same. I'll I can do now as share my story.”

I hope it can help someone out there. Please, whatever you do, do not buy skin care from the

TikTok shop. You never know what could be living in it.

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.

“And next, a relaxing sailing trip through tropical waters turns into a waking nightmare.”

When a group of friends discovers an abandoned boat drifting alone in the open ocean, from editor Joseph Yankovic, a narrative by Owen McCune, creepy presence, feeding. I can hear the rest of them telling me to get a move on, but I was more chance fixed on the expansive water beyond the palm edge promulventory, the clouds like something you could rest your head on, and the soft, steady warm breeze. If there was a perfect afternoon for sailing, this was it.

Yes, yes I yelled. Just savoring what we have ahead of us. I turned and went back to help load the supplies onto the scooter. My wife, Tammy, shook her head, but not angrily, when she carried a cooler below. Our two friends and their son lifted their provisions over the gunnel onto the app seats. Tim slapped my back and said he understood, and thanked me for inviting them. They boarded while I untie the lines and followed them. We couldn't sail out of the harbor

so I started the engine and backed us out of the berth. Once free, we putter between anchored boats and out into open water. Just past the promulventory, I raised the sails as my wife took the wheel. Quickly, the sails filled as she maneuvered the boat until the sails were tightly stretched, pulling us along into the ocean. I took the wheel. Listening to the gentle switch as the hall cut through the water, I put my foot up and called out for a beer. Tammy already had it ready,

accustomed to the ritual, and went back below. I did it when she sailed out. I looked back at the island as Tammy puttered below, getting drinks for everyone. We had a place

there for decades, nothing big, and never grew tired of it. Something about tropical islands

fed into your sense of adventure, as well as tossing cares away. Tim, Grace and their son Tyler were friends back home in cold New England, but this was the first time they were able to join us.

“I think Grace was a little intimidated being so far from home, but probably more so from the”

new circulating about the two lost boats and crews. We're probably in the bad part of a cycle. Every so often tragedies come together, then there's a stretch of nothing. It happens everywhere. Usually nothing more than bad seamanship. Everyone had found spots to sit on the top of the cabin or at the bow. No one said anything, letting the warm air flow over them as we sailed westward.

Tammy returned and handed out drinks. I felt good for them because it was a feeling I never

got over, just as I never got over the feeling of just keeping on sailing going "Who knew where?" Tammy sat beside me. Her hand rested on my knee while she scanned the sky, not looking for anything, more just taking in the blue and the clouds. I think secretly she wished it was just the two of us, but we've been promising this trip to the others for quite a while. She sipped her drink and leaned back. We were each in the grip of a dream we never wanted to end. A sailing was easy. It was one of

those days when the wind stayed about as steady as it could. We had no real plans and just let the direction of wind carry us along. I barely had to trim the sails. In no time the island we'd left slowly lowered below the horizon until only the open ocean surrounded us. The waves were running around a foot and there was barely any motion on the boat. Two hours out we'd all settled down to relaxation with intermittent conversations. It was like a great unwinding. I knew Tim and his

grueling year of college. Tammy had moved to a long bench scene reading a book.

“"What do you say we have some lunch," I said. "You're turned this time."”

She nodded it was a good idea and went below. 20 minutes later she appeared with sandwiches and snacks. Everyone came af got their food and returned to their previous spots. The seas had become a bit chopper but no one noticed except perhaps grace. I smiled at her, letting her know everything was going smoothly. I put the tiller pilot on the wheel to keep us going in the same direction and settled down to eat. Thumbing through a chart as I munched, I confirmed our direction would take

us near a large island. That would work out well. We could anchor and spend time on a beach,

maybe stay overnight. Conversations got a bit lively or with a lot of questions about sailing.

I mentioned again we had the perfect day and pointed out another sailboat a mile or two to the west.

“I watched it and felt the comfort of the ordinary. Another group of sailors enjoying themselves”

using a fair wind that goes somewhere special. I sipped my drink, glancing at our sails now and then to be sure they were correctly trimmed. I unhooked my binoculars to see if I recognize the other boat. That's when I noticed something seemed wrong. The boat was moving aratically, rolling in a beam wind and then straightening. It was hard to know from this distance, but the sails certainly weren't being tended to. It could be people letting the boat

meander while they, well, did more interesting things but I asked Tammy to take a look. That boat out there, and I said, it doesn't seem to be in control. I'm wondering if we should go over. She appeared through the monoculars. First mentioning the same aratic thought I had, but a green

“we should head that way. I figured the wind would be favorable enough to get us there. Otherwise,”

there was always the engine. We told the others what we were doing. It didn't take long to arrive.

I recognized the name Wanderlost. A boat with that name had been lost not a long ago. I called out. No answer. There was no doubt about my first impression that the boat was intended. The sails flap sometimes loudly. I called again. Sailors, good sailors, don't just let their boat bounce around like this. At least you lower the sails. We pulled alongside and I tied up after lowering my main mast. Halures and shackles slapped the aluminum mast from both boats,

clanking noises I usually associated with carefree sailing, now a relaying tension. One more yell, and I climbed aboard. Nothing seemed a miss. I peaked into the cabin, unsure I wouldn't find a couple below canudling, but when I went down, I found no one. Everything seemed neat and in order. The front birth looked like a set up in a department store. Back in the cabin, a few food-stuffs lined the stove area, but no water came out when I turned on the

faucet. The head needed a pen. I went back on deck. Nothing. I said to the faces lined up watching me. It's like a showroom in there, but no people. Grace let out a sob. As I surveyed the ocean around us, I offered one opinion. I hope these dumbasses didn't jump overboard for a swim and couldn't get back on. Tammy gave me a look that said I wasn't helping. Better call the Coast Guard, I quickly said. I went below for the radio, but there wasn't one. No way a cell phone worked out here.

These people must have really been stupid. A dinghy was tied up to the stern. My opinion of the people went from stupid to imbicillic. You're stuck in the water so then get into the dinghy at least. Easy climb from there on board. I began to wonder if this boat ever had any freaking people on it and just broke loose somewhere. I climbed back onto my boat and headed for my radio. On my way, Grace's hand touched my arm like someone looking for assurance. I patded her shoulder.

Tim wrapped his arm around her. The radio made its usual static sound as I turned it on. Calling Coast Guard, I spoke. When I got the same noise, I more delicately adjusted the channel and asked again. This time a voice came on, asked the usual questions, and I told them about the wanderlust. I gave them the coordinates, but the man said it would be about an hour before they got there. Could I wait around? I agreed and signed off. From moment, we both looked at each other

unsure about what was going on. Things happened on boats, some inconvenient, some tragic. This

little blemish in it. I stepped back, ready to go on deck, when my foot slipped on something and I

“glanced down. I thin layer of water covered the floor. As I reached for the pump switch and turned”

on, Tyler yelled when we rushed on deck. As we got there, he was pointing at something underwater pulling away from the bow. I didn't have time to take a closer look as I heard gurgling. Looking below, I saw that the thin layer of water had progressed to several inches and was rising. I could see the pump couldn't keep ahead of it, and now the boat began listing. The side of the wanderlust seemed higher. We were sinking. I ordered everyone onto the other boat.

By the time I'd hoisted Tamia board, I had to pull myself up with both hands. I looked down at the sinking boat and caught a last glimpse of the shaped Tyler had seen receding under the wanderlust. Within seconds, my boat was gone, the sail a white rave disappearing into the ocean. We stood on the deck, everyone speaks less. I still stared into the water wondering

“about what Tyler had seen. Whatever it was, the connection with the sinking of my boat was something”

I couldn't ignore. I waited, expecting the same fate for this boat. But nothing happened. I heard nothing. I checked below, and there wasn't a trace of water. When I returned,

Grace had fainted on a seat, Tim comforting her. Even Tammy always saw it in storms and

boat-miss-haps was visibly shaken. They looked to me for an answer. Let's get this boat underway and head to the island I was heading for. I said instead. We're much closer to that than home. I'll contact the Coast Guard from there and tell them why we left. I needed to get Grace among other people and at least a sense of safety. Getting the boat headed into the wind, I could see that to get to the island at best we'd have

a beam reach wind and decided to also use the motor. I looked for the starter. It was then that I noticed none of the instruments on the panel were working. Not only that, but they seemed more like something only for show. I turned the wheel, nothing happened. It just spun lazily like it was attached to nothing. I kept it from showing on my face, but my thoughts weren't racing to a positive conclusion. A harder look down below is in order. What I expected turned out to be true,

nothing worked there either. And then I noticed for the first time the boat itself was disjointed.

Everything was there to be sure, but edges didn't line up. Pipes in the head were skew unusable and port holes weren't aligned with the hull. Like a boat thrown together with your eyes closed.

“I didn't know what to tell everyone. Tell them we were on a maple leaf boat?”

Hardly, but they were going to notice I wasn't at the helm and we weren't going anywhere. I wish I'd retrieved a flare from my boat before we left it in case we saw another boat. Only one option. I decided to lay it out as it is. No history on it's just the facts, and hope they'd accept, hey they had to, that we were stuck out here until someone came along. I went on deck and gave them the news. I expected something bad from grace, but she just sat

stunned. Tim and Tyler agreed, stone faced. Tammy understood without telling her. I tried to alleviate the uncertainty by saying I knew someone would come along. This was a popular place. As for myself, I had the oddest feeling this wasn't only a waiting game. Tammy had gone below probably to get food or drink, but I knew how that would end. She returned holding a bag that she turned upside down and nothing came out.

She matter of factly said it was the same with everything down there. I wasn't surprised. The clacking shankles and the flumping sails were driving me crazy, so I lowered the sails and tied off the halards. A cool wind had come up. The boat rocked and waves slapped the hall like an impatient hand. Tim carried grace below with help from Tyler. I really didn't want them down there. I didn't trust the boat. Not just because it looked

like it was built by a moron, but because how else to put it? I didn't feel right. In a tactile sense, I didn't tell Tammy, but when I came back on deck, I pulled myself up on the wooden handle. There was a softness to it. I could have sworn my fingers compressed it.

Tammy always attuned to my mood asked what was wrong. How could I answer when my own mind was

in turmoil? I wanted to tell her to get into the dinghy, the others too, but without an explanation

everyone huddled at the table. I asked if they were okay. Grace was awake, but hardly coherent. The others mumbled agreements. Tim stood up in motion with his finger for me to come down. I could see he was concerned about something. He led me into the front berth. He closed the door behind us. Without saying a word, he pulled back the comforter and pointed to a spot on the hall.

At first, I didn't see anything, mostly a crumpled sheet and another misshapen seam on the fiberglass.

Tim, seeing I wasn't getting it, leaned over the bed and stuck his finger near a sharp object.

“I looked closer expecting to find a chunk of the boat sticking out. I gasped the, what the hell?”

And touched it lightly. When I turned to Tim, his face was a hogge podge of emotions. I don't get it, I said. How could a bone be stuck in the hall? Tim told me to look closer. I did, and instantly saw my mistake. The bone wasn't stuck in the hall as though someone had ran it in. It was embedded. A part of the hall, as though when the boat was made, then mixed bones in with it. I shook my head. What could I tell him? But it did get me to

thinking in a way I didn't want to be thinking. We'll figure this out. It was all I could say.

We went back into the cabin. I knew I couldn't just go on deck and sit there waiting for help. I made the excuse I wanted to make sure the boat was seeworthy, so I'd be checking around.

“Whether Tim bought that, I don't know, but he didn't say anything. He sat back down with grace”

who tried to put on a good face, but I could see your fingers needing the edge of her shorts. As soon as I opened the door to the head, I knew something was a miss beyond the pipes I'd seen earlier. In one corner there was a bulge in the hall, and that didn't necessarily mean anything except for its appearance. The subtle lines and the object's shape told me it could only be one thing. And that probably wouldn't have registered in my mind if it hadn't been for the bone.

I looked closer. Sure enough, it was the top of a skull. I tried to tell myself it was the defect, but these stads that deny on no longer work. No doubt what I saw was the top of a skull. No answer formed, but a lot of fear crowded my thoughts. I checked under the sink and found nothing.

“Inside the closet I found a brown smear on the wall with small patterns, stringy patterns,”

in it that I couldn't decipher. I didn't need my imagination to figure out what I saw amidst the shelving on one wall, protruding next to a salt shaker, must part of a jaw bone with a few teeth, looking like someone trying to chew their way into the boat. Uncertain about what to do next, I told everyone to go on deck and wait for me. The three of them gave me a quizzical look, but I tossed my head in the direction of the stairs, and they got the message.

Tim looked back at me as he got ready to step out. I'll be up in a second, I said.

One more place to look, that one place was under a hatch in the floor that would have led to pumps and an engine, but I didn't think from home and I'd find either of them. Now I was right. When I pulled the hatch door up, the space was empty, not even build water. I lowered myself down and peered inside, and enough light came in to seek clearly, but I still poked my head in deeper. I shot backwards my head slamming against the table. I sat there staring at

the opening. More than anything I wanted to be mistaken, but I'd already seen the bone in the skull top, which quickly eliminated that possibility. I cracked back to the hatchway and looked in again. There it was, a face, or most of one. The back half of the head was in the hall, but the rest of the face stared up at me. It's mouth again, like someone gasping for air, but this time it wasn't just bone. He composing flesh draped the skull.

As I now trying to gain some equilibrium, my hand pressing on the floor felt strange. I looked down and saw that it had entered the floor a quarter of an inch. I yanked my hand out and jumped to my feet, but they also sank into the pulpy texture. When I reached for the ladder to climb back on deck, the rubbery steps bent under my grip and sagged to a breaking point as I scrambled up. Everyone was huddled together. Tammy ran to me. She wrapped her arms around me. Her pain faced

pleading for answers as she pointed to her feet sinking into the now slimy fiberglass. I did have one, but to say it made it too real and I didn't want it to be real.

But I wanted, however, no longer matter, as I heard a noise behind us.

“Grace was the first to scream. I heard Tim call from near the bow. Tyler fell back against the”

steering wheel and it spun, carrying him to the deck. Tammy looked behind me and simply shoved her face into my chest. I turned and felt myself squeezing Tammy like someone trying to hide her inside my body. I squeezed harder as I saw the mass had become misshapen, no longer stiff aluminum. But now, awaiting tentacle. The front of the boat shed its white veneer and had become arriving mass of flesh. Tim started rushing forward, but sank into the throbbing goo. He lay imprisoned, staring at us.

His lips moving and words I couldn't hear. Grace felt her knees but her body didn't stop at

the deck, but kept sinking into the brown flesh to cover her until only her head sat above it.

Her mind had fled, and she only stared skyward. Tyler had started to fling himself overboard,

“but simply ended up flattened across the leathery body that had consumed most of the boat.”

I thought of only one thing, even as I felt my knee being tugged into the slimy body. The dany. Using all my strength I had to break free of the enveloping flesh, I pulled on the rope, bringing the dany to the stern. I grabbed Tammy's arm and pulled her, trying to get us both at least on the dinghy and away from the changing beast. I managed to get my legs into the dinghy, the boat swaying under me. I reached back for Tammy,

and began pulling her aboard, but she didn't budge from where she was. I yanked harder, perfectly willing to leave her leg behind, if necessary, to have her safe with me. She was held fast. That beautiful face staring at me in a way that drove me to scream and

“pull and cry. The flesh crawled over her arms, covering her shoulders, leaving only her face staring”

down at me, crying, whispering something I couldn't hear, but knew what it was. All I could think of was that I had failed her, but knew she'd want me to escape. I untied the dinghy and the boat floated away from what was no longer wanderlust, but rather a coiling, undulating mass that was slowly taking on the form of some kind of watery creature. As I drifted away, I could see Tammy, Tyler, and Tim attached like barnacles to the creature's body. Tammy's mouth still moved,

I could see Tyler's and Tim's head jerking, and at that moment I knew. I knew what was being done. The little glimmer of understanding I felt earlier became real. The bone, the skull, and the half dissolved face, along with assuredly many others, all of them food, slowly ingested, keeping the beast alive, until it needed more, when it would again become a boat, a boat in distress, or something else. Thankfully, I figured they wouldn't be alive for that. It would dive under,

suffocate them and roam the depths, drawing them down to bones, and discarded. How would I explain it? The dinghy stopped drifting. I reached front or, but it became fleshy, and my foot slipped on the now slimy bottom. I started to jump out with something wrapped itself around my legs, the boat, what little was left of it, began moving toward the creature. As I moved closer, I could see Tammy's face more clearly. She looked at me. Sad. Maybe this is for the best I

thought. I'm not sure I could have gone on thinking over this way. We sailed together. We'll go down together. 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.

And finally, a curious boy investigates a strange object of the crashes into a rural field one night.

All they did discover that some things from the stars are far more terrifying than anyone could imagine. From Etter J. T. Johnson, creepy presence, a bright blue flash.

at least to Malcolm's eyes. He was never allowed out at night. His mother warned him of the dangers.

“Bobcats, coyotes, rabbit raccoons, and dogs. Malcolm had never broken this rule before.”

Not until now. Not until that bright flash of blue in the sky. Followed by what sounded like a very big crack that had erupted somewhere from the call field. Outside the world smelled like sulfur and something else, something sharp and electric. The sky had changed from the deep black of midnight to a strange shade of murky gray. It reminded him of swamp water. The air seemed to radiate a pulsing kind of heat.

Malcolm felt something stir inside him. He wouldn't call it fear.

That would mean he was a scaredy cat. Yet, he frowned at the odd shifting sky.

“"I must be close." He thought, with an nervous grin.”

This is probably what people feel like when I find old dinosaur bones. Or mummies. The grass had turned the sickly shade of yellow. He walked farther. Then saw a look like a shallow hole in a ground. The grass around that had been blackened, and had little glowing embers so burning all around. They reminded him of glowing red eyes.

Here it is. He thought, his chest tight and teeth chattering.

The alien. Indeed, it was lying motionless in the shallow crater, still sizzling with a heat that made the air around a ripple.

“Malcolm held his breath. Here, the smell was awful, like spoiled eggs and rotten milk.”

He made his stomach turn, and he thought he could possibly throw up. He took another step closer, aware of the heat radiating up into his shoes. It was like a lot of slime that had been rolled through cat hair. It wasn't entirely motionless. The thing itself seemed to have met the fascinating pale glow. It was vibrating, as if inside its strange and guppy skin something was thrumming.

His hand twitched. He realized with a bit of horror and awe he had almost touched it. His fingers tingling. He looked around, feeling foolish for doing so, but he didn't want anyone else to see the thing he had found. The thing that had come from the sky in a flash of blue, and now lay in the field, looking like a giant piece of hairy gum. Looking his lips, he let his hand do what it wanted. It reached. The closer he came to it, the more it felt like he was reaching into an oven.

The thing shifted. The piece closest to his hand lifting, is if it wanted to touch Malcolm. He let his hands caress it. Just once, a timid sort of touch, you might give a baby gator at one of those petting zoos. His breath rushed out of him. It felt wonderful. It was like touching something. Something. He was petting it now. His fingers riggling into the surface that was pliable and soft. A sharp pain suddenly erupted in his hand, cutting off that strange euphoric feeling.

Malcolm lurched back. A screen poised on the edge of his widening lips. Unable to fly out of his open mouth because, because it doesn't want me to scream, he thought in horror. His hand tingling with a growing heat. He pushed at the scream hard, wishing you would fly out of his mouth already, because the pain, all the pain was like his skin had been filled with fire or something worse. Bits and chunks of the thing clung to his skin. No matter how much he shook his hand, the

goopy substance would not unlatch. In fact, he could feel a weaving into his flesh. Little threads of the blobby goop hardening and digging and digging until, "Oh God, the pain!" He fell onto his back. No, his arm was on fire. Then it's just, that his neck. It flooded down his torso while also racing up into his eyes. His eyes were searing. His choking on his own

thing somehow. He arrived. The thing was in his brain. It was slicing and cutting through his thoughts.

“He once more, he thought, was spiraling alarm, understanding that only a little of the”

blobby's shielding and hadn't baited his skin. And yes, it had to invade it because, "Oh, Lord, this pain! It's in my whole body! I feel it everywhere!" The pain flared in the stretch of paralyzing minutes until all at once, Malcolm's thoughts went cold. They were too far away from Malcolm to know them, to understand them. His own body felt

strange, and whatever he was, well, it was no longer Malcolm. He was just there.

A thought that had nowhere to go, but at least there was no pain now, no searing internal fire

“that made his organs feel as if they were melting. His body stood. There was something in his head”

now, nestled deep into the valleys and dips of his brain. More of that guppy alien, he knew, weaving and threading itself into his mind. He was walking. No, he was running. The field bones than jarred beyond the windows he watched through. His eyes, he thought. The boy body, when they used to be his, but no belonged to the thing was going to the house. Why? Why? He thought with despair, but he knew. He knew because he was still connected to the

guppy alien. He knew that just one body was not sufficient for this strange presence. After all,

“there was so much left of the strange mass in the crater. His mother and father would be next.”

And of course, they would go, because their son would tell them that something had crashed into the field and they needed to come see. And Malcolm knew with a terrible certainty that they would go. 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 rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the expressed written consent of the CreepyPodcast production team and the stories also. Inspired by the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, incoming is a thrilling and hilarious cinematic podcast that explores how people react in their

most critical hour. Are you not hearing me? There are missiles ahead of here right now. Look,

I just want to be with you. Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Hanner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Adelstein, and many, many others. Now, there's going to be them that live and then that don't think you're making a big mistake. Isn't this all my blood? Maybe you're the leader of a doomsday cult or you're a country superstar in 1954 or a gangster in witness protection. The question remains the same. What would you

do if you only had 20 minutes until the missiles landed? This is not a test. You can listen to all episodes of incoming early and ad-free right now with Wondere Plus. Join Wondere Plus in the Wondere App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.