Lifeblood & Late Night Service Calls: The Witching Hour

"Are you sure?" He's the one. Something very bad is going to happen.

“Is an atmospheric psychological horror set in the five days leading up to an intimate wedding,”

starring Camilla Morone, and Adam Demarvel? This isn't just a story about cold feet. It's about the visceral anxiety and mounting terror. Of realizing you might be marrying the wrong person. As Rachel questions, whether Nikki is truly the one, her doubts spiral into something darker, and the show explores the ultimate horror. How can you ever be certain? You've made the right choice.

It's edgy, and it's not a spoiler if it's in the title. Something very bad is going to happen. The only question is, "What is it?" Watch something very bad is going to happen. Now playing on Netflix. It begs to be seen in a pack theater. Please remember to clean up the blue. Wow!

“I think we'll kill you, only in theaters March 27, and make it ours.”

Under 17, not admitted without parent. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world.

Whether these stories truly happen, or about simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories make contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey everyone, while if I figured this out right and actually recorded it correctly, this is the last one's day episode before we start dropping whatever we got recorded at camp.

Buying any technical issues, or whatever other mess the narrators have gotten me into this year, but we'll all find out about that soon enough. In the meantime, let's get right into today's

stories. First up, from either JS, Douglas, and Narrated by Mega McDuffie, creepy presence,

life-blood. Darkness oozed beneath the sliding glass door of markets living room. It spread as she watched her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the two AM world. She'd given up trying to sleep in her un-air conditioned house a few minutes ago, and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of ice water. And now as she stared at the ooze, staining her living room carpet,

she had to wonder if she was hallucinating. Her breath came in short bursts at the idea. She retired only seven years ago. Surely she was far too young to be losing her mind.

“72 was still a spring chicken. That's what she always told Aspen at the Med Spa.”

Dementia, Alzheimer's. Those words scraped at the back of her brain every day, along with words like osteoporosis and pneumonia. Her husband had died in a delirium of early onset dementia only a decade before. Her mother fought for air in a hospital bed before succumbing to pneumonia a year later. And now an improbable mass of darkness crept across her white carpet. She had to know. Had to find out if it was a hallucination. Her hand scrambled against the wall,

finally hitting a light switch and flipping it on, the glare from the dining room,

chandelier exposed to the puddle for what it was. A red pool that was rapidly expanding across her living room carpet. Blood. It looks like blood. Margaret's pulse leaped, making her feel choked and woozy. She leaned against the wall and took a calming breath through her nose. The heavy scent of iron smacked her in the face. Keeping a hand trailing along the wall, she stumbled through the kitchen and dining room of her ranch style house. She stepped down

into her living room and approached the liquid, careful to keep her bare toes a few inches away from the pool. The rich scent of blood filled her senses. The bitter taste of bile filled her mouth. She covered her nose. Is this real? She pinched herself with two arthritis-noted fingers,

really happening. Relief turned to anger as she stared at the crimson infecting her snowy rug.

“She'd paid good money for that carpeting. She'd vacuumed it, she imputed, even had it professionally”

cleaned once a year, and now it was ruined. By what? By what? The question echoed in her mind. Peering through the sliding glass door, she squinted to see what could be causing the leak, but the interior light reflected off the glass, obscuring her view of the outdoors. Margaret stomped back to the light switch and flipped it off. She looked outside again. Nothing out of the ordinary. No burst pipe flooded her back porch with rust-colored water.

No human body bleeding against the glass. It's not blood. Obviously not blood. She muttered.

I'll figure it out. Walking back through the dark kitchen, she opened the door to her mudroom

and shoved her bare feet into her gardening boots. It's a soil from previous garden excursions

“crunched between her toes, the feeling made her smile. It was like walking on bare earth. She”

inhaled the dusty scent of her mudroom and felt good to smell something other than the sharp scent of an oozing gash. She grabbed the heavy flashlight, she kept near the door, then made her way back into the living room. The entire place wreaked of iron, of blood. Margaret held tight to her anger as a chill brushed her skin. A chill, in a hundred and one degree weather, a chill that was pushing goose bumps to the surface of her arms. No, she wasn't going

to be afraid of this thing. It was a mystery and she would solve it. She stomped over to the puddle, the abituarsent twisted her stomach, cupping both hands against the glass. She looked out, moonlight glented off the slick surface of her yard. A yard normally filled with flower and

“clover, accented by irises, culminating in a small rose garden. The proportions were all off.”

Her irises appeared stunted and drowned as she stared, and she didn't see the fluffy white clover flowers scattered across her lawn. Almost without her willing them to, her hands unlaunched the door and slid it open. A gush of sticky red washed into her home, covering her boots to the ankles, the humid stench of stale blood smacked her in the face. If she hadn't been gripping the door, she would have stumbled. Her mind was thrown back to a movie theater. It was 1980. Her husband had

dragged her into the dark popcorn-scented cavern, an elevator opened on the screen and blood, rivers of it poured from the doors, poured into the hotel hallway, poured into her nightmares. She shook her head, her breath came in shallow gasps, and panic clutched her throat in its claw-studded grip. She pinched her arm again and looked around. This was real. It was real, and it was happening to her, Margaret reached outside and flipped on the back porch light.

It reflected off the red that coated her small cement porch. She could taste the blood scent, salty and metallic. She swallowed and felt the taste flowed down her throat into her belly. The world turned to static for a moment as she swayed on her feet. Pull yourself together, woman. She scolded herself. She gripped the sliding glass door and pushed herself outdoors. Into this stink pulsing through the hot air. She pulled her pajama top over her nose and breathed

in her own scent. The smell of sweat. Of nighttime creams packed with hyaluronic acid to help the

bowtocks last a little longer. Of that old lady stink she could never quite wash out. She let

the shirt drop. She didn't want to smell herself. She'd rather smell the blood. Clipping on the flashlight, she straightened her bowing spine and stepped out into the night. Each step was careful. Deliberate. There was no way she was going to fall and break her hip out here. She wouldn't give anyone satisfaction of calling her an old lady who fell. She couldn't stand the clucking tongues and insincere sympathy expressed by her friends' children

at the many funerals she attended. It's sad, but she was very old. Was a common refrain, or at least we were prepared. As if her friends had been elderly dogs that had slipped away or been put down, not vibrant, beautiful women who deserved to explore the world and enjoy everything it had to offer. Margaret stepped off her porch and squished into her flooded lawn. She shown her light over her irises. The red substance coated everything, pooling and small divots, refusing

there's got to be a source, she thought. She spotted it as she made her careful way to her rose

“garden. Red liquid sprayed up from behind her rose bushes. Aha! She cried and triumph,”

stomping through the muck. In that one moment of inattention, Margaret lost her footing. She felt the slip coming as if she were living in slow motion. A slight twinge in her ankle as she bore down on the foot, then her boot sole sliding, sliding as if she were going to do the splits.

Finally, her hips couldn't take it anymore and she fell sideways, landing on her left arm,

her head plunged beneath the liquid surface. She thought she heard something as she lay submerged, but before she could get a good sense of the sound, her elbow pushed her up, pulling her head out of the muck. Now that the substance was in her mouth, she couldn't deny that it was blood. Margaret sat and dripped for a moment,

“staring at the small guise or spurting behind her roses. It had a rhythm to it. A thump thump thump”

thump thump thump. That was as familiar to her as was her own heartbeat. Margaret forgot about the fact that she was now coated head to toe in viscous losing blood. She forgot about her

myriad aches and pains and even forgot that she probably sprained her ankle or minimally screwed up

a ligament. She placed a hand on her heart and felt it thump in time with the spurting blood. Thump thump thump thump. There's something alive under there. She blurted her words ringing through the night air, taking a deep breath of the metallic stink. She tried to calm herself. The earth could not be bleeding. That spurting could not be a heartbeat. That's just not the way. The world works. No, she would have to dig into that spring, cut through it with a blade

“and find out what was really going on here. Margaret staggered to her feet. She tested her ankle.”

It seemed okay, just a little achy, but not sprained. She stretched her hands, then formed them

into loose fists. The arthritic pain that usually plagued her head backed off for the moment.

Waving her flashlight across her yard, she located the small tool shed set against the fence. She shared with her neighbor. Margaret squished across her lawn and tried the handle. It was unlocked and as usual, she pulled the plastic door open and stepped inside, casting her flashlight around until she spotted a shovel, a spade, and two trowels. She grabbed the shovel, a tool she hadn't been able to use for at least two years,

and hoisted it over a curiously pain-free shoulder. Pauzing, she took inventory of her body. She felt great. Better than great, actually. She felt as if years had been stripped off her bones, even though she'd slept. Even though it was the wee hours of the morning, the chronic pain that had plagued her every waking moment. Gone. Her fatigue, gone. She flashed the light at her knobby knuckles only to find pink, smooth hands, coated in dry, flaking blood. It's the blood.

She marveled. A word she'd heard in church years before she'd stopped attending echoed in her memory. Lifeblood. Gazing at her soaked lawn, Margaret wondered what lay underground, spewing life-giving blood, and what she should do about it. Should she dig it up, or should she capitalize on this gift? She put the shovel down and walked back to the spring. She stripped off every stitch of clothing, warm mud squished between her toes. A vague thought

about her ruined lawn, flated across her mind, but she let it go. She stepped into the spring, letting the blood coat every inch of her skin, letting her body absorb the youth and beauty spouting up from the ground. Stepping out of the spray was like walking into a dream, her loose skin had tightened against her rejuvenated muscles. Her hair, once thin and gray, fell glossy and black against her creamy shoulders. She was a naked goddess, reborn, pain-free,

beautiful. She danced across the yard each footstep light and filled with joy. She hopped into her home, the blood staining her entire living room now. It didn't bother her. Nothing bothered her. She lay on her soaked carpet and spread her arms and legs in the liquid, making a blood angel, an angel of rejuvenation. She grinned up at the white ceiling. A sight was comforting, boring, tiring, and why shouldn't it be? I haven't had a good night's sleep in ages. Decades,

Sunlight slanted across Margaret's body. The east facing window closed against her thin eyelids,

“forcing them into a squint as she opened them. The carpet had dried tacky against her skin,”

the pile adhering to her hands, her back, her buttocks, her legs, her heels. She groan, rolling onto her side. Her head swim with morning fog, her mouth tasted of carrion, the room smelled of a slaughterhouse. Then she remembered. She sat straight up and stared at her red flaking hands, her smooth knuckles, her unlined skin. It's real. She grinned at the sun. It's all real. Margaret looked down at her stomach and breasts, expecting taught firm skin. They said,

against her scarlet striped ribs, the blood had tried overnight and peeled away in her sleep,

leaving her stomach and breasts vulnerable to times relentless press. She rolled under her stomach

“and squirmed like a slug. The tacky carpet was almost completely dry. A thin coating of blood”

smeared across her skin. When she'd rubbed as much of her skin as she could, she sat up, crossing her fingers. She looked down and giggled. There they were. Purt breasts, a tight stomach, abs, where one's saggy flesh had held sway. She pressed her hands into the carpet and rubbed the blackening blood under her face. Margaret got up and skipped into her bedroom, closing the door to see

herself in the full length mirror. A red, smeared woman grinned back at her. Her expression

slowly fading as she took inventory. Black hair cascaded from the base of her skull while fragile, gray strands speckled the crown of her head. Her skin was uneven, blotchy, like a sunburn after poorly applied sunscreen. Her face gleamed with youth beneath a smear of clotting blood, while her neck sagged into an ugly water. The skin on her triceps was creamy and smooth, while her biceps were covered in age spots. She needed more. An unending supply. Margaret flung open her bedroom door and

marched outside and all her scarlet glory. The world had barely cooled while she was asleep, and the sun was pouring heat back into the air. Sweat sprang from her pores, creating runnels of blood down her arms, chest and legs. Her bare soul is crunched against dead clover. The blood had soaked into the plants and killed everything. It was as if someone had salted the earth and worse than that. There was not a single drop left for her. Panic pressed against her lungs. As the spring

dried up, she broke into a sprint even though she could see the black and rose bushes. No scarlet spray, no life blood. She ran anyway, jogged around the thorny branches. She felt her knees, fine, great dust puffed up around her. No, no, no. She potted the dirt, digging with her bare hands, desperate. Her hands withered with each scraping of soil. She could feel the knuckles knotting into our threaded claws. Pain sprouted from her fingers, running up her arms as granules cut into her.

She kept digging. Was there a faint sound? That thump thump. She'd heard last night. Margaret pressed her ear to the desolate earth. She heard her harsh breath, rasping against her dry throat. Her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The sounds of her body slowly decaying into all age once again. She pulled herself from the ground. It didn't matter. She'd keep digging. She'd find it. Find

“the key to eternal youth and bathe in that blood forever. Her nails cracked, ragged with decaying dirt.”

A nail ripped, exposing her nail bed, blood flowed from the injury into the soil. Her own life, blood, perhaps the sacrifice would help her find the source. Her blood would soak in and like, would find like, and she would, she stopped. This time she really heard it, thump thump thump. Margaret pressed her ear to the ground. The heartbeat of the earth sang to her. Telling her what to do. Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick. Notting in time with the words she snatched up palm

fools of soil. Her hands cracked, dirt coded her forearms and mouth, her back bones slightly with the work. It has to be the work making my back do that. Not all the age returning to my bones. Frantic digging. Dirt piled next to her now. The silty soil easy to move. She jumped into the hole

and she dug farther, faster until she hit something warm and gooey. The source.

“Tears fill her eyes. Finally. Finally, she was here. She rubbed her hands across a dirty line of”

crusted red, a scape, long and painful looking, shocks of static spraying from the crust of skin, electricity coarsed up her arms, making the fine hair on her arms stand up straight. She couldn't stop rubbing against it. Like a cat coming back for more scratches, tingles fill her body, static into her mind, filling her with white noise. She looked the scape. The iron taced coating her mouth, making me young. The scape shifted revealing a swath of smooth skin,

youthful, elastic skin. Margaret pressed her spotted dirt stained hand against it,

translucent hairs feathered the skin, making it soft and eminently strokeable. Margaret rubbed against it, feeling smoothness against her weathered palms. The skin shifted. Just a slight shutter,

“but dirt filtered down, coating her gray hair and narrowing the top of the whole while”

opening a small tunnel. One large enough for Margaret to traverse her heart, beat into her throat, words pulsed through her, their pace quickening with her own heartbeat, youth youth youth, Margaret scrambled through the tunnel, ignoring the shifting skin that slowly slowly blocked out her only light source. Dirt filtered down around her behind her, but the tunnel ahead opened, leading her into the darkness. She pressed her ear to the skin, forever, forever. A wide grin split her

face as she crawled on into the dark. W, T, F. Spend it. USA today calls it "letty" and "bunkers." I'm ready to die. I'm T into players, it's electrifying action cinema, and Poco and entertainment to the max. How many of you are there? It begs to be seen in a packed theater.

“These remember to clean up the blue. Wow. I think we'll kill you only in theaters March 27,”

made it art, 2017 not eminited without parent. And next, for my dear Brady Garner and narrowed by J.V. Hampton Vansant, creepy presence, late night service calls, the witching hour. Another day, another dollar, I guess. The call had come in at exactly 222 in the morning. My dispatcher on the other end of the line said something about a woman having issues with her

tractor on a goat farm. I'd obviously rubbed my eyes to try and wake up a bit at the thought. But yes, you heard that right. A goat farm in western Canada. I didn't even know there was such a thing if I'm being honest. For those of you who may not be aware, Canadians usually eat somewhere between absolutely zilch and not a goat meat per annum. And obviously, I've heard about the goat

cheese pizza being eaten by the richy folks out in the far west. But never have I heard of anything

to do with goats or their products being consumed or used where I'm from. Anyway, after the initial surprise at the idea, I'd rolled out a bed and thrown on my coveralls. Now, normally, I'd have a bit of a sluggish, pre-coffee and cigarette start on these late night calls. But tonight, I was surprisingly spray, even before the caffeine had hit my belly. Maybe it was a premonition or something?

Regardless, I poured a heaping mug of cold brew over ice, laced up my boots, and fired up the old service truck. And here we are, you're all caught up. Exciting, right? I bet you're all just tickled pink at the idea of hearing about a mechanic's late night trip to fix up a tractor at a goat farm. Aren't you? Well, boy, I'm here to tell you. I'm sure glad to be your entertainer of choice on a night like tonight.

It's going to be a weird one, and I can just tell. As I drive the 66.6 kilometers to my destination, I just can't help but replay the dispatch

to a woman running a goat farm. You go, girl. It's just not the norm, you know?

“Be, it was a goat farm. We've already covered why that seems out of place.”

I guess some of us might eat in mountain goat if we were hunters and got a tag. But it was pretty unusual to see a whole farm. Hell, in my 26 years on this earth, I don't think I've ever actually seen a goat with my own two eyes. And see, there were just too many damn coincidences. The goat, a woman, the fact I'd get there

around witching hour. Too many coincidences, if you ask me, but I digress. It was the job.

I could quit, I guess. Call up my dispatcher and say that I have a bad feeling about this one.

“I'm sure that would go over swimmingly. I squinted in the darkness as I pulled into the farm”

yard under a great, wrought iron and lumber sign which read, blasphemous Billy's goat farm. Seemed appropriate. The pens were on the left and a dilapidated red barn sat with a slight lean at the end of the lane. The tires of my old truck come to a halt just outside the main doors and I shut the ignition. Fuck me, this is weird. I say to the steering wheel as I take in my surroundings. I've developed a bit of a bad habit of talking to myself over the years of working alone

out in the fields in the middle of nowhere, so you'll have to get used to that. The aforementioned pens on my left were teeming with bleeding, black-pelted Billy goats

of varying sizes. I swear one of the ones by the fence looked as if it had a third eye on its forehead.

I nearly shipped myself when I sat in wrapping on the passenger side window assaults the quiet and rips me from my thoughts. It was an old woman. She smiles and waves in the dark before scaring around the front of the truck. I sigh a "what in the fuck kind of sigh and hop out to greet her?" "Well hello there." She croaks and it sounds like her lungs were stained as black as the goats

“pelt from a life of cigarettes. "You must be the mechanic!"”

I roll my mind's eye. What gave it away? The great big decal on the side of my fully-kitted service body, or my coveralls, with the lost lake mechanical services tag on the chest. I replied with a nod and shook her frail little hand. As I do, I feel that her fingers have been cut even at the tips. Now she's got the witch's mark too. "God damn, what am I doing here?" "Well maybe not damn that guy might need him out here soon. I chuckle at the thought and the old lady

raises an eyebrow." She speaks in a more serious tone. "The track is just this way. I have tried everything but I can't seem to get the done thing started." "All right, uh let me grab my laptop and I'll be right in." I reply. "Let's get this shit over with." Laptop in hand, I allow the old lady to lead me to the door. She grabs hold of the crook of my elbow to steady herself as we go. We reach the rotted out mandor at the side of the barn.

An emotion light floods us. That, my friends, is when I notice the granny is wearing some weird kind of robe or cloak or something wrapped tightly around her slim frame. And around her neck was, drumroll please? "A" Pentacle. Yep, that's right. The star in a circle symbol of paganism and wicked beliefs. Now I was dealing with witches here. No doubt now. I need an excuse to get the hell out of here. But all that comes out is a mumble of,

this old girl fast. You can worry about your silly tools later."

“She croaks out, her gripped tightening, the long sharpen nails on her four finger and pinky”

digging into my forearm. She swings the door wide, and, with not enough resistance,

I step through the threshold. The iron-like smell of old blood is the first thing I notice.

The second thing, a literal bloody pentagram drawn into the floorboards of the barn with black wax candles and cloaked figures at each point. In its center, lay a three-eyed Billy goat, not unlike the one I'd seen outside in the pen. "Nope, fuck this!" I say outright and turn to leave. I go for the door and find that the old lady had chained and padlocked

“the fucking thing while I was taking in my surroundings. I'm screwed now, folks.”

The old lady hustles around me and takes her place at the center of the pentagram.

Without skipping a beat, her companions kneel and begin to chant as she pulls a long curve blade from within her robes. This is it. They've called me here to be dinner for some kind of demon, just as I had suspected. She too knelt and grasped the throat of the goat. You can probably imagine what happened next. I'll spare you the direct details, but just know it involved a lot of bleeding and chanting and a golden chalice and blood. So,

much blood. I just stood there while it all happened. I leaned against the wall and watched.

I mean, what else was I supposed to do? My ass was locked in there, and with my condition and my medications, I couldn't really feel fear or excitement, so I just kind of chilled. Children watched as the now blood-covered old lady stood above the goat carcass and locked eyes with me in the dim candlelight. Then, to my absolute horror, far more horror than I felt when watching the goat be slaughtered. The old woman threw open her

robe to reveal her naked and hairy body beneath. She tilted her head back and shouted, "Take me young mechanic, take me and we shall spawn the sun of Satan!" I threw up my hands to block the sight of dangly bits that were far too dangly and hairy bits that were far too hairy. I nearly vomit as I speak in an unusually calm tone. I'm good, actually. In fact, maybe we could get to the part where I fix the tractor and get out of here. She stared at me puzzled,

as if she was genuinely awestruck at my utter lack of emotion at the whole scene. Her arms dropped to her sides and one of her followers hopped up and whispered something in the old hag's ear. She looked down, her face turning red, and covering herself with her hands. "Oops!" She says in a breathy tone. She squats down and dangly bits nearly hit her knees. With two hands, she grabs the edge of the chalice and drinks the blood greedily.

It spills down her front and onto the floor as she gulps it down.

“Quite the unorganized lot, I think. Usually witchcovens are pretty put together.”

Obviously, this lot were a bit on the amateur side of things when it came to demonic summoning. She stood once more and smoke from the candles began to swirl and grow around her. She cackled out a final harassed bee cackle as her body was enveloped by the darkness. When she emerged, I nearly shit a brick. She was dropped dead gorgeous. No more dangly bits, no more hairy bits, just smooth manicured skin and perfection.

I dealt with this kind of thing before.

“Who hadn't dealt with a siren witch or two in their lives?”

Could I even call myself an A.G. mechanic if I hadn't? All I had to do was avoid her eyes and I'd be good.

Which, and I'm sorry to cut the story short here, is exactly what I did.

All in all, it turned out to be a pretty uneventful evening.

“There wasn't a change of words. She grew angry when I wouldn't take her and spawn the devil's son.”

She grew even more irritated when I told her they'd completely forgotten that a ritual such as this

needs to be completed on either a full moon or a solstice to work properly. And last I checked,

it was neither. Then she got really pissed when I told her that regardless of how she looked now, I just don't think our personalities really meshed and made some comment about us seeing other

“people and whatnot. Eventually, they'd simply let me go.”

I'm pretty sure they had ordered a pizza or something after I had left and were hoping the delivery boy might fall for it. Poor kid. I throw on some tunes and crews down the highway home. I'm sorry it was a short one tonight. Usually there's at least some action on these callouts, but there was no chance in hell I'd be getting into any action on this one. It was all good though, and I hope you enjoyed the little tale of tonight's callout.

I sure did. After all, they'd locked me up in there for nearly three hours. All of which would be over time with a callout fee. So, I felt pretty good about it. Another day, another dollar. 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 express written consent of the CreepyPodcast production team and the stories author. you