Shadows

Boo!

You know what, Cozenesh, you know?

I have a mobile room. Your whole room belongs to me! [LAUGHTER] I don't want to! I don't want to talk to you!

[MUSIC PLAYING] Just an old trauma. With mobile rooms in real life,

“Frank, just a mobile room for 10-year-olds in Monat.”

Inclusive EU roaming, too, in Switzerland. [LAUGHTER] Frank! Nine. Frank.

[MUSIC PLAYING] No. This is creepy.

A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling

and disturbing creepy pastors and urban legends in the world. Before the these stories truly happened, all my simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

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To see more rewards and how you can support the show, please check out patreon.com/creepypod. And before we get to this week's stories, I want to readjust something as we get new listeners and writers submitting to the show.

Creepy has a zero tolerance policy for the use of AI. This includes AI to create stories that are submitted to the show. I've been asked in the past if it's OK to use AI because writers don't feel confident in their skills yet, but have ideas.

I'm sorry, but we can't and won't accept these stories. The writers who submit to our show put a lot of work into their stories and skills, and we will not take money away from them

“for people who are looking to take shortcuts or game the system.”

As I've said time and time again, I'm proud that we can pay all of our narrators and writers for their work. And I'll end this show before I let AI take things over. And I've seen the discourse out there. I've seen the comments, the reviews,

the social media posts across many podcasts and YouTube channels with people jumping to conclusions about the use of AI. I see these on podcasts that have been running for years and years prior to AI even being an option, accusing the narrator of being AI.

I know AI is an incredibly divisive topic right now, but please don't jump to conclusions about creators using it. If you're concerned that it might be happening, ask the creator. Don't do things that impact their podcasts, their art, their songs, or whatever else they're spending a lot of time creating,

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Our stories are narrators and our artwork are all made by flesh and blood humans who are doing the best they possibly can to entertain you, the listener. They always will be. Okay, let's get to the stories.

The human made stories.

First up, when a traveling thief seeks shelter

in an isolated cliffside mansion, he discovers a place where every light must remain burning. Formatored Joseph Yankovich, creepy presents, shadows. I rode out of town right at the speed limit, watched for pedestrian, slow and steady,

moving to the outskirts before I ramped up my speed. Even then I made sure not to look reckless. Once I was on to a back road, I could relax. I tapped a small satchel next to me. People are so trusting in these small towns.

I'd probably like me as like a lion among baby deer. And another couple hundred miles, there'd be another town, and something waiting to be taken. People probably wouldn't say pro and probably consider me a petty thief.

What I do keeps me comfortable, and I don't have to do much work.

“Well, a little planning, but people stupidity sure makes it easy.”

I found the back road and sped up a bit. With the forest on one side, and cliffs overlooking the ocean on the other side, I'm already felt comfortable. Experience told me I had a little to worry about now. I'd let a cigarette puffed away if you know I'm pretty good about myself.

I went on the dashboard flickered, followed by the car clearly, not moving under its own power, and was on the gliding.

The speedometer had lazily drifted lower.

I pulled off the road, tried restarting, slammed the steering wheel, and got out. Checking under the hood was useless.

“As far as I was concerned, I might as well have been a space shuttle engine under there.”

Steering at the sky and a dark edge of clouds, seeping up from the ocean, I felt a rain drop. Great. Only one small piece of good news, just before the car gave up the ghost, I'd seen something in the distance, suddenly back from the cliff's edge.

Could have been a house, and it didn't look like it was more than a few miles away. Maybe someone there could fix the car or call someone who could. Not that I was crazy about that idea. As I started out, the wind rose, and grabbed my satchel and pulled a coat and hat from the car. Within minutes, my rain pelted my hat like shots a hail,

“and the wind fought against my classed hands, and that just my coat.”

Small satchel inside my coat dumped on my chest as I made my way over a slippery path along the cliff's edge. Even though I felt safe, I wished the car could have been deeper into the woods. Half an hour later, I still couldn't see the house through the rain and mist thrown up by the ocean. I trudged on when suddenly the mist retreated seaword. Stopped properly. My foot trying to break my run, but instead it slipped along the mud and brought me down on the one knee.

My hand grabbed cold rock, but I wasn't interested so much in keeping my balance as it wasn't seeing the house appear. It was a large two-story structure, part Victorian and design, but with modern additions. Long windows filled the gray walls inside. Each won a bright rectangle, so the owner had plenty of lights on. Best part? Someone was home. I rushed over jagged rocks and in a few minutes I sent to the front steps and stood under the

protection of the overhang. Strands of water coiled down the building on each side of me. Shivering, blinking away water in my eyes. I carefully peered in the side window at a brightly little hallway. I saw a long table against the wall covered with unlook candles. There was a metal door knocker instead of a doorbell. I lifted the cold, wet metal and banged it a few times. I looked through the side windows to see if anyone was coming.

I began to shiver and pound it on the door with my fist. Like a giant hand when shoved me, releasing an annoyance that made me pound harder. Someone had to be home. It had lifted my hand to strike once more, a woman approached. Short, middle-aged from what I could tell, dressed in jeans and a sweater. At the door she peered out. Her face didn't look like someone expecting or wanting company.

She stared at my dripping body and seemed confused as what to do even though I thought the answer should have been obvious. I'm Roger Kerry. I said, giving a fake name. Car broke going. I need some help, a phone, perhaps. She looked behind me, still thinking, until her confusion softened being more thoughtful. Lightning flashed. Her face lit up and I could now detect fear in the softening expression. Just till the rain stops. I spoke against the sound

of the wind, while opening my jacket to show I had no weapon. I had to catch it such a little. She glanced behind her then nodded and opened the door. Without hesitation, I entered. The door closed behind me and the sound of the wailing wind stopped. I shook my coat and stamped my feet, a natural action that I quickly stopped when the woman looked at the floor. She continued down the hall and I followed her into a large living room.

She nodded that air remain and left. Light's gleaming everywhere, killed a gloom. She must have won hell of an electric bill, I thought. As I waited, I wanted amongst the dated furniture and some obviously expensive items,

finally sitting in an ornate chair. But I didn't feel comfortable.

His old little ripples of energy were fluctuating within it.

“I attributed it to my suddenly becoming anxious, feeling unbalanced, worrying about getting as far away as possible.”

Sitting no longer moving and creating body heat, my drenched clothes lay cold on me. Whatever heating system she had in this place, it wasn't doing its job very well. But I was inside and the hope of getting back to my car provided a certain kind of warmth. I removed the satchel from my jacket and placed it on the table next to me. I looked for a phone but didn't see one.

The old woman came back into the room. She held a tray with a teapot and a few cookies. Her face remained solemn. She glanced in my satchel as she placed a tray on a small table that rested against the wall next to a fireplace. I walked over and poured some tea. Nice and hot and munched on a cookie. You live here alone. I asked. Woman nodded.

She sat down with her hands folding in her lap watching me sip tea. I appreciate you letting me in. I said, "I am a silver bowl in the fireplace mantle."

“Do you have a car or could maybe drive me to the nearest town if my car won't start?”

A phone? And she shook her head saying she had no car and the phone line was being fixed. She needed her hands and stared out the window. Great. That's odd. I'd be hiking or hitchhiking maybe 15 miles if I remembered my map correctly. I glanced at the rain sweeping across the window. I shivered and finished the cup tea.

No way I could head out now. I'd be dead in no time. Putting on my most pitiful face. I asked if it'd be possible to stay until the storm ended. I'll be glad to pay you. I added and spite another object that would make up for that. The woman smiled tightly and didn't answer it first. I realized it was her house but got a bit pissed she'd send me out in weather like this. Maybe she saw the muscle bulging in my neck or

something. But she finally nodded and said that wouldn't be a problem. Do you always have

so many lights on? I asked. She gazed out the window for a moment and looked back at me like it

“was most important question in the world. She mentioned the storm and that the sun made things easier”

one of that meant. I poured more tea and hope perhaps there'd be a bit more to eat in cookies but how does an uninvited gas task for a meal? I didn't finish another dry cookie. I walked over to the window and stared out, lightning flashed in the mist swirled, cutting off any vision of the outside world. It seemed like it wanted to seep inside. I began to appreciate all the lights. As I turned back I caught something moving at the far end of

the room where a wingback chair sat against the bookshelf. I waited for a cat or a dog who appeared but nothing did. I walked over to take a look. It could have been a rat which wouldn't have been out of place here. I looked back at the woman. She stiffened and I got the distinct impression she didn't want me over here. Anything to make her happy I decided and returned to my chair. She took a few fert of glances towards a corner before lifting teapot toward me. I declined.

Even though she had indicated I could stay the night I still had the feeling she wasn't thrilled about it. Nonetheless I asked if I could look around giving a spurtest reason that I loved these older homes and would like to see the architecture. For all her ambivalence bow my being here she did seem to brighten. I put my teapot on the tray and followed her all. She started in the kitchen and moved to the dining room and had done. Lime blazed in every room, illuminating as much of the room as

it was possible. When she opened a cupboard put something away as her stacks of light bulbs. Every room also had a healthy supply of unlock candles. Upstairs we checked out bedrooms including the one I'd be sleeping on. Back in the living room my settled more comfortably into the chair as

my clothes had dried and it'd agree of warmth it finally enveloped me. It certainly is well

lit in here. I pointed out again. She lost the more agreeable manner she'd had as we toured the house.

As she sat stiffly her fingers tapped on her knee but she said nothing.

“Thinking her eyes drifting now and then to the corner where I'd seen something.”

I dropped the subject. The wind held especially loudly and the window shook. When that happened she looked at the candles placed around this room. Power out of just were certainly a feature here along the coast. Yeah when she looked at the candles all of them tall and thick she had a look at dissatisfaction like they could barely live up to her expectations.

Then she said something that took me by surprise. The lights needed to stay on all night. She stressed that I must not turn them off all night. To say the least I looked surprised

but her face did stern. Why? I asked. She didn't answer it first but then just said please.

The word "why" started to come out but I could see she was adamant.

“Anyway, who was I to tell her what to do with her house where it is it seemed?”

She could see my consternation and reiterated that it must be this way. Well, sleeping with the lights on was far preferable the lying unconscious or dying out there in the storm. I agreed but she didn't smile. At that moment the light dimmed ever so slightly. The woman turned to the hallway and I knew one of the bulbs there burned out. The woman stiffened she quickly grabbed in nearby candle and let it.

I followed her as she carried the candle. I thought, weirdly, into the hallway and placed it on the thin table. She glanced around as she did and backed out into the living room. I watched this performance and began to think perhaps it was a good idea to have the lights on in my room.

The girl was a bit strange. I never got her name and decided not to ask.

“I got up and walked around suddenly feeling antsy. I glanced into the hallway with the candle burned.”

The candle did a poor job but it did provide enough light to make things visible. The light didn't penetrate the far end near the door where the hall entered the small alcove. The darkness seemed thicker there. Thicker than one normal lack of light would produce even with the side windows. Something moved in a manner like the one I had seen in the living room. I kept watching and it seemed to move forward but would suddenly turn back.

I started to walk closer to find out what it was when a hand gripped my arm. The woman looking at the shape pulled me back. She just said that it was best we stayed in the light. The wind shook the house and the lights dimmed. The woman standing in the doorway to the living room grabbed the wall.

Her eyes wide and searching for God knew what. Nothing went out and she looked at me before heading to the kitchen. I hoped to prepare food. I sat back down but this time on a couch at the far end of the room. The lights reached here but weakened a bit at the corner near the couch's left arm.

I just sat there and looked out at the storm hoping like how the car would start tomorrow or the phone would work. Shimmering rain on the glass picked up the light. I found myself getting drowsy. I heard something and looked to see if the woman had entered without me hearing. She wasn't there.

I closed my eyes and again heard a sound like a small jet of air. But it wasn't air. I could tell that. Mainly because it wasn't steady but rather had inflections in it. Almost like a weakened whisper. I pulled myself up and sat on the edge of the cushion and listened more closely.

Without a doubt the sound came from the dark corner. I rose and leaned over the couch looking down into the dark space. No holes or cracks the wind could come through. But the sound persisted coming from that same thick darkness I'd seen before. The darkness moved more like oil at the bottom of a barrel and I began to see something.

No longer a smooth blackness. The dark took on a shape but nothing I could recognize.

Colder than the outdoors air. Like being wrapped in an icy cloth.

“I yanked my hand out and then stumbled backwards when I turned and saw the woman standing behind me.”

I thought I heard something. I immediately said. She glanced behind the couch and said houses like this had plenty of noise. When I mentioned the darkness in the sound she stared for a moment. And then said a light dinner was waiting. I wanted the same war but I also relished the thought of something in my stomach and

followed her into the kitchen. We ate quietly. The food was simple but tasty. The woman seemed nervous. She watched me like I was untrustworthy. Well, she wouldn't be completely wrong there. I had seen a few objects I figured could fetch a good price. Get out much. I said just to say something.

Her answer? Never.

Came out a bit strong. She didn't attempt to tone it down.

I began to sense an animosity toward me just in her looks.

“I had a feeling she regretted allowing me to stay the night.”

I brought up again the sound I heard and added how it almost seemed like a voice even I wasn't sure about that. When we finished, she picked up the plates and put him in the sink. She asked if I want a coffee. Yes, I said figuring she'd hope that'd say no. She moved a lamp before opening a cupboard. She stared inside her head tilting while doing so before reaching for a cup.

A cup to near the front and she wouldn't have had a problem seeing them although the light did illuminate the inside better. Why are you afraid of the dark? I spoke up, deciding to go for the more obvious reasons for the light.

Her group tightened on a cup she held.

Ten facides when I was asking him about I reached over and switched off the large light above the table. The room dimmed considerably. The woman staggered a couple more slip from her hand. Quickly, she brushed past me, knocking me forward and turning the light back on. She glared at me. This lady is nuts, right on.

“Taking a few things from her will be a piece of cake.”

I wonder if she'd even noticed anything missing. I realized she was no longer making coffee. She moved across the kitchen and was keenly watching me. I gave a shrug in place of an apology which didn't minimize that stare. As I sat there remembered something when I shut off the light.

Again, the shadow's deepened and moved. And I was sure I heard that same noise that I couldn't help but think was whispering. Thunder cracked. My role isn't went back to the living room. The woman followed me but remained at the room's entrance.

She asked again that I keep the lights on. "Sure," I said. But this time I didn't see any relaxation on her face. If anything arise narrowed, she nodded, although it seemed more to do with a grain to something she had decided.

As I sat on the couch I heard the noise again. But this time it was clearly a word. I almost had it when I heard a slap on the wall. The woman mentioned that I must be tired after this long day and perhaps I could rest better in my room. I hadn't gone to bed this early since I was four.

But my son or reason disagree. She kept a steady gaze on me as I lifted my satchel and crossed the living room into the hall and climbed the stairs to my room. When I looked down, she stood at the bottom looking up. She wasn't pleased with me.

Frankly, I didn't give a shit. I'd already decided to get up early the next day, really for a few items and head to my car. If it didn't start, I'd hike to the next town. Maybe hitch a ride and come back with someone to fix it.

I'm sure she'd be glad to get rid of me. I plopped under the bed. I still had my cigarette so I lit one up. It was getting dark outside, but the storm hadn't debated. It's all the lights, my room felt like it was mid-afternoon.

I leaned against the backboard as I puffed away, flicking my ashes on the floor. I began thinking about where I might head from in next job. Is that late thinking? The noise began again. This time, from behind the backboard, a bit like air coming out of a tire, but still with that voice-like quality.

A thick shadow. I didn't look.

“This time, I thought of a different approach to find out what it was all about.”

I'd shut the lights off in the room. I'd gone up and shut the light off on the table at the back of the room, then flicked off the one and the left side of the bed. However, as my hand reached the touch of the switch on the right side, I stopped. The room adimbed considerably. The dark corners advancing into the room.

But I still sat in a cocoon of light, and that was hesitant to let it go. The noise is a gotten louder. Almost as I'll see in the lights go off, became more animated. More... How can I say it?

More anxious for me to finish. My finger lingered on the pointy switch. I glanced around the room, looking for what I didn't know. I turned the light off. The room became almost completely dark,

almost suffocatingly dark.

I'd never felt this tense doing a job.

My heavy breathing was the only sound.

“The first thing I saw beyond the foot of the bed was an area of darkness, thickening.”

I sort of expected that. I bolted up right wondering if the same thing was happening behind me. Nothing. Only in front of me did the darkness clot. Then a shape emerged.

Only this time it took on I'd definitely form. The vagal line of a face. No, two faces side by side. I shoved against the backboard ready to bolt for the door. But I didn't because the shape stayed at a distance, and I felt that wouldn't come closer.

Don't ask me why. Even the sounds often. The shape swirls is all buffeted by wind, and the sound they may call last into a few words. In definite at first.

“But they finally broke through more clearly.”

They came not sharp, but even. I heard, seller, and a word that would have had tears with it if it came from a person. The word "please" floated across the room as the shadows and the words were again reduced to turmoil.

I had expected something awful when I first saw the faces.

But now I was left wanting to hear more. The woman wanted only lights, and I wanted another reason. But nothing more came. The tenuous shapes drifted in the edging blackness, slowly they dissolved. I sat in the dark waiting, hoping for more, but it didn't come, and I turned on the light.

The brightness seemed far more than a 75 watt bulb. I didn't bother with the other lights. I wasn't worried about them anymore. I only thought about one thing in what it meant. I didn't know I had to get to the cellar without the woman seeing me.

I picked up my door. The woman's door was closed, the strip of light along the bottom. I heard nothing, so I knew I had to go quietly. The floor was carpeted, so that helped. As I cut down stairs, I had a movie image of loud creek city to stop.

But none occurred. Once down stairs, I felt safer and headed for the only place a cellar door might be. The kitchen.

However, first I saw a door at the end of the hall.

I checked it and found it locked. I wasn't successful at my occupation for nothing, and pulled out a small tool, but in seconds I had the lock sprung. I had no doubt this led to the cellar. Carefully I opened it, expecting to find lights blazing down there too.

But I was met by a wall of darkness that almost seemed to embrace me. I turned the lights to a chon. The dark sensation flood. I headed down. Once at the bottom I looked around, not sure what I was looking for.

The cellar was large with a stone foundation and a dirt floor. It smelled old, and the cool dampness made me shiver. I walked around, pushing boxes aside as quietly as I could. In a dark space is between debris, I could hear the noises. The whispering, and they seemed more agitated than ever.

Or did they move about slithering the long dark edge of the pathways everywhere?

Beyond the furnace I stopped. I heard a noise.

“Not the whispering ones, but something above me.”

I listened, expecting to hear the woman's footsteps in the room above, and the cellar door opening. Nothing happened. All I could hear now is the pattering of rain against the cellar windows. I moved on to the last corner of the cellar.

Suddenly the noises from the dark crevices grew sharper.

I searched the walls and floor. Behind a pile of boxes, I saw it. The walls of rough bricks was crudely slathered cementerone them, that tried to look like the rest of the cellar walls. It could have been a repair.

“But the way the slivers of dark around me moved, I knew I was where I should be.”

I searched the cellar until I found a few sharp tools and said to work scraping into cement until I'd loosen the brick. Pulling others out came easily after that.

At first I worried about the noise, but my growing success pushed that aside.

I aimed to one dangling brick, causing dirt and stones to cascade onto the cellar floor. I poked some more and fell back on my ass. A withered arm, mostly bones dropped down. I leaned forward and looked up into the hole. It was too dark to see much, but enough to make out the white shape of a skull.

I knew what I'd find if I'd dug more. The whisperer of noise suddenly became louder and almost seemed to be frantic.

“Excitement, I figured that the secret of unfound, that justice will be met at out.”

The noise is grew up becoming clearer, but the no longer came to me as acceleration. Sound seemed frantic. I heard the scraping of feet on the dirt floor. A shadow fell on me, and I heard the woman's voice. They were angry words, and at the same time, demeaning.

I began to turn and looked up only long enough to see the woman's determined face, and the object she held sweeping toward my head, followed by sharp pain and darkness. I can see the woman mulling about in my room. My vantage point is a corner shadow behind the dresser. She's rummaging through my satchel, pulling out the cash inside.

I tried to move toward her, but I can't. And I know why. Like the other two, I'll slip along the shadowy crevices of the house, hemmed in by the lights, waiting for a moment when something will extinguish her defense. Then I and the others can rush forward, and bring her into our realm.

Boo! You were so close to me! I had a mobile phone call. Your whole story is now over! No, my story is over! Just a little bit.

The alien-private and development is still on a different side. The reason for the reason and the world-wide are our personal and free-world telephonic area. And for a better general. And if something is still going on, we'll leave a few more episodes. More on Aliance.de/unfall. Aliance. There for your life. It's a bit of a isolated, Connecticut town where counts its generations of unexplained misfortune

and madness. From writer John Evans and eryda by Joastofko, creepy presence, little devils in the moonlight. The forest is deep and heavily wooded. Even during midday, the canopy is so thick, its dark as night under their bows. Nature, unbridled, unbound, free from the hand of man

It was a primeval garden of Eden or shall we thought, but it was the devil who inhabited those woods.

“Promised fertile land for farming and the space to breathe and stretch one's legs.”

Many people came to the small town of Greeley, Connecticut. All they had founded in 1747. The man the village would be named after,

Burke Greeley, never set foot in the Americas. Though a wealthy landowner granted tidal holdings

by the crown, the Greeley Patriarch had known designs on the new world. It was not until his descendants, children or grandchildren, I know not, fled Britain under circumstances of religious persecution that the land came into use. The Greeley family built several farms on the land,

“despite protests from the local Indian tribe. The Mohax, who had lived in the area prior to”

the arrival of good Christians, used the valley to bury their dead, and tried to scare off settlers

with wild claims of spirits lurking in the woods, superstitious savages. Some claim this

led them to place a curse on the valley. The earliest settlers in Greeley laughed at the idea of evil spirits hiding in the forest, and built a church in the middle of what served as a town square as a sign of defiance. God's protection would serve as a bullark against any old vengeful pagan gods. There might have been something to the idea of a curse, as the consumption ravaged the town a few

“years later. The town had grown to over 2,000 families, but was reduced to less than a handful”

and only a year's time. If disease was not enough, life itself was hard. Crops did not seem to grow well in the rocky soil. On top of that, the valley's position made the growing season's short, and the winter seasons seemed to draw on, as the surrounding mountains kept the bitter cold in. The forest also isolated the village, at the same time it provided the town with timber and iron, which helped to bolster the town's economy. It kept the wolf from the door for many of the town's

families. With these new industries, they were able to rebuild the population by 1753 to double the previous amount. That was the year I arrived in town, all of 16 years old, and it seemed as if greatly would see a resurrection at the hands of a forgiving god. For a short time, we felt blessed,

though it didn't blast. That is when the queer events began. They were innocuous at first,

little things, people would just up and leave. That wasn't unusual, living in the settlement was hard, and so it was not unheard of for people to haul up stakes and move further west for more fertile lands. Those who remained held fast to their pride and their faith. In the face of disease, famine, drought, they stood resolute with faith in the Almighty. The first were the lightning strikes. Paris' ridge was killed when lightning struck her as she ran to the outhouse on a rainy night.

It was a terrible sight. Her two children watched from the window as their mother crumpled to the ground, her hair still on fire, and her corpse smoking, even in the rain. Her husband said she had just gone out, and when she was halfway across the yard there was a blinding flash, and a sound like God tearing the world usunder. Then his poor wife was just so much burned meat. She was the only one I can recall that was struck directly. Most of the damage was just barns,

outbuildings, and maybe a house or two. People tend to exaggerate the tales a bit, and make

While this happened more in Greeley than it did in neighboring towns, that can be easily explained

“by the iron-rich nature of the soil. But the church, now that felt personal, as though God was”

displeased. I could see the church from my house at the other end of the valley. It's great wooden edifice stood proudly above the nearby homes, and that night I watched it burn through my dining room window. Once they were on fire at the buildings mostly wood, though with stone foundations and sellers were nearly impossible to extinguish. No matter how many strong men with buckets were there, once it started burning all we could do tried to prevent it from spreading.

The church was never rebuilt. Stories as to why it was never rebuilt, ran rough shot through

“the rumor mills, tales of visions of God's wrath and demon dancing in the fire. In my opinion,”

when God sees fit to wipe something off the face of the earth, it's not for man to second guess him. Furthermore, tales involved the Greeley family. True, the Greeley clan and their kin were somewhat odd. A rather pale skin-lot with weak chins and heavily-litidize. Several of the younger ones were rather dim. The product of their habit of marrying cousins. The youngest daughter of the family was supposedly born with only one eye and webbed fingers and toes.

But the poor thing only lived a few hours and was buried in their family cemetery.

“Outside of town affairs and church business, they mostly kept their own counsel.”

Their farms and houses were the largest in the valley, and they were the wealthiest due to their ownership of the lumber and mining operations. This obviously led to jealousy among their peers, and so many a drunkard in the tavern would boast stories of the family, engaging in occult rituals, gallivanting with pagan deities in the service of eldritch beings, holding blasphemous orgies, and black sacraments. One rumor reported that in the burned wreck of the church,

there were bodies twisted in human things beyond description. Things with too many limbs and eyes, and teeth, obscene prosay occultors, and books bound in human flesh. Petty jealous rumors that no one but drunken fools would entertain. After the church burned, things began to escalate, a madness began to seep into the people. At first it would seem like someone would be distracted or a little forgetful, but then they would start to do the oddest things. Scary things,

standing at the window in the night, staring off into the woods, or looking up at the sky. Their heads thrown back like turkeys in the rain. A vacant expression in their eyes,

but they would come around when called or touched on the shoulder. It was always unsettling.

As such things do, they got worse. The Tillman boy was working as a handyman over at the Porter Ranch. He had been fixing the roof that had been damaged in a storm when Esther Porter invited the young man in for a glass of something cool to what his whistle. Many a man might infer that he was tempting them to engage in sin, when invited in by such a widow. Instead of a more carnal act, she dropped his guts onto his boots with her butcher knife, slid him open like a hog,

before drowning herself in the rain barrel. Such violence was a rarity, and the otherwise peaceful village. Yes, there was the odd kerfuffle, when one or more man got a little drunk or routy,

By 1801, the number of such events was still so low that I could count them off on one hand, those of which I can remember anyhow. None, as bad as that. Joe Billings leaves wife and children

just walked into the woods one day, never to return. Some say that she left him and went to live

with their relatives, others say that they were taken by Indians. Whichever the story may have been, she and the children were never seen again. After this, Joe burned his home to the ground, and he himself wandered off into the dark forest. I know if it was a curse or some contaminant in the water from all the mining, but the people who didn't leave would start to slowly lose their

“minds and goes to denial with occasional fits of violence or wander off into the woods. I believe”

they were to blame. The forest is deep and dense and dark. The trees are as old as creation, very hearty and tough. It took an entire crew just to fill one of them, and clearly the valley farmland had taken decades. The ironwood was very much in demand, but not even grown men would venture into the depths of the forest, no matter the fortune to be won. The forest that surrounded really was wrong. You would be hard pressed at first to put your finger on it, but very quickly,

you would notice the lack of usual sounds one would hear. There were no bird songs,

“or the sounds of insects, even at night, especially at night. Nor were there any game in those woods.”

On the occasions that a hunting part he would venture out into the wilderness, they would come back empty handed. Few would not return at all, and no one ever dared camp in those trees at night, for the silence was so eerie that it would quickly tax the sanity, and the entire time you would feel that frickle on the nape of your neck. That frickle that meant something out there was

watching you. You couldn't see it, but it could see you. And there was always that sensation

of being followed, as though one's own shadow had turned traitor. Kids were not warned to stay out

“of the woods because no child was full hearty enough to go into them. Though they would dare”

one another to reach the treeline, if caught in this game they would receive a scolding. I had ten the hides of both my sons for this, and my wife had scolded our daughter for her part in it. I feared for my children because I know what lurks in the woods. My long-time companion and friend Charles whom I had fought in the war with back in 1779 had begun to show signs of whatever it was that affected the minds of the townspeople. I caught him one day, not long before he walked off into

the woods, standing in his garden, whole raised above his head, but his expression was vacant as he stared off into the distance. He nearly struck me with the hole when I startled him back to himself. I had asked if he had been okay, and his reply I had thought was strange at the time. Little creatures he had said, speaking dreamlike, as if to someone that I could not see. They come at night, they come from the forest. Clearly his mind was gone, so was he come the following week.

His words, the last words he had spoken to me, weighed heavily on me. Anyone would have dismissed them as the ravings of a mind slowly losing grasp on the dreadings of its remaining sanity. But they troubled me greatly. I had lived my life in

grilly, and while I had my misgivings about the forest, I always dismissed them as superstitions.

I sat by the fire, reading my wife and daughter having gone to bed. I had

“rentally glanced out the window when something caught my eye. Some subtle movement in the corner of”

my eye drew my gaze to the darkness of the tree line. At first, I thought something was moving in

the shadows until I realized what was moving was the shadows. Something was coming out of the forest. They were short, little creatures, maybe three feet tall, and their legs were so short, and boldlegged that they used their long, lanky arms to move, ape-like. They walked with an odd jittery gate, and an almost swaying back and forth motion, as though they could not be still. Their eyes glowed to yellow bobbing lights as they moved. I cannot describe them any more than that

through the shadows. Not to say that it was too dark, but they were like living shadows made

“solid. From the forest they came, scores of them, an army of what? Devils? Is that what they are?”

Little devils? Little devils in the moonlight? They cohorted around in the night air as they made their way down into the village. Were these the spirits, the Mohawk Indians, and peered? Were they responsible for all the blight that had plagued our town for so long? Hobbes that slunk into our fields and crops at night to poison our land and families? Or were they simply the harbondiers of something far older and malevolent that lurked in the trees? I told no one of what I saw that night,

unless they think me mad. Perhaps I am mad. Or I have seen them several more times. I had sat up watching for them for many a night, though it was quite some time before I saw them a couple more times. Each time, right when I started to doubt if I had seen them or had merely dreamed those things, I would see them. Or worse, hear them. They made the most horrific chittering sounds, or a guttural gibberish. It haunts my nightmares, robbing me of any measure

of restful sleep. I would spy on them from my window, as they made their way into the town, and I noticed that the houses they frequented would soon be visited by misery or madness.

“Were they causing it? Bringing it with them like some sickness or perverse gift?”

Or were they somehow able to sense misfortune to be false those people? I try not to think about it. The implications of far too grievous and it is clear to me that God has turned his face from us. I had continued to observe them when I could until one night. I was lying in bed, sleep, eluding me, listening to the creaks and groans of the house. I found the bedroom far too quiet at night after the passing of my wife.

Her absent snoring echoed in the silence of my mind. Their came a sound, soft, but unmistakably there. A light scratching.

At first I thought perhaps a mouse or some other rodent had gotten into the pantry.

I tried to ignore it, choosing to deal with it in the morning, and getting back to the task could hand achieving sleep. It persisted, chipping away at my patience until it felt as if the scratching were on the back of my eyelids. When I could no longer ignore it, I opened my eyes and my mind left me. The window, my God, the face and the window. One of those things had crept

finger. Glowing eyes, it burning with malicious glee, peered in at me and at smiled.

“A rictus of a mouse appeared in its shadowy face. As lips parted I could see rows upon rows of”

gleaming white bangs. Upon seeing that I saw it, the creature began its lunatic jibbering and hooting like a maniac. I screamed and screamed, abandoning all sanity I threw an arm across my eyes and began sobbing like a child. I do not know for how long, but my throat was sore by the time my daughter had rushed in to see what the commotion was. Thinking I had had a nightmare, she had tried to come me down. And by the time I was back in control of my faculties, the thing was gone,

“as it had never been there. Of course, I did not tell her what I had seen. She is a good girl,”

but she fusses over me too much. More so of late. I have been getting a little forgetful, leaving the kettle on her, not closing doors, occasionally repeating myself, just little things, but nothing to be concerned about. I tell her when she gets after me. After all, I am 104. I am allowed to be a little forgetful. I know she worries, and I assure her I am fine. After all, I have lived here since time out of mind. The grilles are gone as are most of the

townspeople. There are perhaps half a dozen or so people left. For how much longer I cannot say, but I am still here. My friends have all gone, but I am still here. My wife and two sons have all gone, but I am still here. I am still here, and so is the forest. More and more each day, I find my thoughts drawn to it, and wondering about the little devils that come from it, and why God has abandoned us. Soon there would be no one left, and the forest would reclaim

the farms and homes. It would be as if we were never here. It seems like these days it's almost

calling to me. Backing me to come, to come into the woods, to walk into the trees, and excuse me. I need to be going. Where? We're into the forest, of course. But don't go in there. There are things in the woods. You know, God is in the forest. I have a mobile room. Your whole room is already dead. Just a little dream. With mobile rooms in real life, Frank, a mobile room for 10 euros in a month.

Inclusive, anew roaming. Oh, in the skies. Frank. Frank.

And finally, a deaf child has given the ability to hear through a mysterious miracle at her church.

Only to discover that the gift is connected to something horrifying. For my

“dear J. S. Orn fell, a narrative at Colbergard. Creepy presents Angel Bane. I can still remember”

the first scream I ever heard. I was seven years old at the time, maybe two young for the things I saw that day. It had started as a normal Sunday morning. As it blended into noon, my mother and I lingered after the weekly church service in social hour. We waited long after we normally would have left, after the rest of the congregation had filed out. I sat in one of the pews as I'd been instructed to, kidding my legs aimlessly. The reverberation each time I healed, contacted the wood,

Even back then, it was impossible to guess Bailey's age. His pale face was marked with light lines,

“but kept it to find features and was otherwise free of blemishes. His hair had been white”

for as long as I remembered, but remained thick and full. He looked like an airbrushed ad models idea of graceful aging. He didn't stay on to still when he spoke completely animated as he had his conversation with my mom. They didn't use sign language and their faces were turned away from me, so I couldn't make out what they were saying. Even when I leaned forward and tilted my body from side to side in hopes of catching a glimpse, it became clear that this conversation wasn't meant for my eyes.

Ever since I'd learned to read lips, the adults in my life had been done to turn away from me

when they spoke. Back then, it had frustrated me to no end. I still tried and managed to pick up

“tiny bits, light. Lord, all things are must not reveal. Reverend Bailey always had a habit of”

turning away whenever it was too obvious that someone was examining his face, even when that someone could hear him, so I didn't take it too personally. I soon gave up and settled down, rubbing at the back of my neck and trying not to pout. All I could do was wait as the conversation carried on for a few minutes longer before they both turned towards me. My mother's mouth was turned upward in that nervous smile she used to get sometimes, like back on my first day of school,

or the time dad had traveled out of town for work and she knew he wouldn't return. This time, she made sure to face me fully as she talked, using her hands to sign the words she spoke so that I wouldn't have to rely on lipreading alone. Do you want to hear? She asked.

It was a silly question. I'd never heard anything before. How would I know if it was something

I'd like or not? If everyone was willing to talk face-to-face with clear expressions and gestures I could understand, why would I need to hear at all? But I knew there was a right answer from the way my mom had always talked about miracles. Everyone in town loved the idea of a miracle, and the stories of the things the Reverend had to do. Even though I didn't care, I nodded because I wanted to give the right answer and turn her nervous smile into a joyful one.

It didn't work out. Not the way I'd expected. She drew in a deep, clearly deliberate breath and nodded as well before turning away from me to speak again to the pastor. I stood up, slipping my hand into hers in time to let myself be led back to the platform where the altar rested. There was a door on either side of the altar, leading to the more private rooms behind it intended for clergy. I followed through the door to the left, taking a sharp turn and then another,

before standing in front of a tall wooden door. There was nothing special about it, say for the large metal lock on it. My mother let go of my hand, so she did sign to me.

“Everything past this point is a secret. You cannot tell anyone. Do you understand?”

Easy enough. Most of my classmates back then didn't pay attention to me or even understand sign language. I would have considered a couple of teachers my friends, but in the, we see each other five days a week and did a long way, rather than anything meaningful. It was easy for me to keep secrets, so I nodded again and accepted the hug. She gave me as Reverend Bailey opened the door. Beyond the door, lay greenery so lush, it felt as though we had stepped into the garden of Eden

itself. Vines and bushes along the wall held unfamiliar flowers and fruits that I still haven't been able to identify since then. An abstract stone formation, flowered with water like a fountain without traces of plumbing or like a waterfall without a river. And at the center of it all, was the biggest tree I'd ever seen. It's thick trunk stood upright with branches jutting out in all directions. Not towards the sun as most trees do, but toward all points in the sky. Any

they almost appeared white. In spots where the trees overlap with its circular golden flowers,

“they looked like eyes watching everything around them. If this had been the strangest detail of”

it all, I might have been calmer. The one detail that truly set my heart into a frenzyed race was the body. Whoever it belonged to was neither male nor female. Their skin stretched tot over bone was pearlescent. In place of two arms, three sets of shining feathered wings were displayed to either side, bound in the trees' vines as their two backwards need legs

dandled that down towards the ground. The strange beams head hung low, sits silvery eyes wide open,

but blanked. I would have thought they were dead, if not for the steady rise and fall of their shoulders, as the mouths on their face and chest opened and shut like they were gasping for air.

“Beside me, my mother to just step back in shock, that I couldn't tear my eyes from the sight.”

There was something beautiful about it that entrances me still. Radiance, I can't deny. Reverend Bailey stepped towards the body on the tree, kneeling in front of it and folding his hands in prayer. A short prayer before he reached into the roots and pulled out a spear. Gripping it in both hands, he tore through the iridescent flesh on the angels' side, because what else could it be? And waited for the golden Iquer to bleed from its new gash.

He returned the spear to the ground and reached a hand inside the wound until it came out, coated in that strange liquid. His eyes shut, as he lit the gold from his palm, then drained in as much as possible. His body shuddered as he turned towards me and my mother with our pale faces. With my days locked on the angel, I don't know what, if anything, he said to my mother, but her hand gripped my shoulder so tight it started to ache. She didn't need to do that,

not really. I didn't dare move as he approached. His hand felt too hot on my forehead like some holy fire that didn't hurt, but could do so if he wished it to. The heat filled my head burned through my ears, and that was when I heard. It was a high, peening noise, a scream that even I then understood as adony, as desperation in sync with the opening and closing of the angel's mouths. I fell to my knees and covered my ears, but I couldn't shut it out. The screams had patterns,

words I couldn't understand. My throat grew raw by the time I realized I was screaming those words too, echoing the angel's pain. A high voice shouted amongst the screams, and as I opened my eyes to see my mother grabbing the front of Reverend Bailey's robes, I realized she was the one shouting.

I could hear her now, but never having heard those words before, I could not understand them

without also seeing them. He said something in response, and she raised her other hand towards his face. I've never seen her raise her hand in anger before, or since, but for a moment, I was certain she would slap the pastor. Instead, she pushed him away and picked me up, cradling me, protectively in her arms. I was still screaming as she carried me away from that garden,

“and all night, only stopping when morning came again. My mother didn't seem to remember anything,”

other than the fact that a miracle had occurred. Eventually, the screams in my ears faded, and I learned to understand the words I heard. Years later, I tried to sneak into that garden behind the church, but only saw neatly cultivated rose bushes and cypress trees. But the screams remain forever in my dreams, where I returned to the roots of the angel-bane tree. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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