The Deepest Part of the Ocean is Not Empty

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 happened, or while simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories make in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Everyone, please take a moment with me to welcome and thank new patrons, Stuart Finley, Jelly Flurry, Jerry Sandeval, and Noah Sande. In an added special thank you to our five-year-and-more patrons, Stoner Vamp 3, Anthony

Milina, Gregory A. Georgia, Hellcat Kelly, Romeo Chestnut, Petra Phillips, Podrigo Donovan, Aaron Kaisen, Blue Goddess, and Matteo Fried. All patrons get their shoutouts and early commercial free access to all episodes. Other reward tiers also include weekly bonus episodes and logo merch. To see how you can support the show and get rewarded for it, please check out Patreon.com.

Also, a quick note for the writers out there. We do still have some spots left for the 31 days of horror. We're still going through submissions, but if you want to get in on our annual October event, please get your stories in ASAP.

And if you've never submitted to us and want to submit, please check out our guidelines

at creepypod.com/submissions. Don't delay, once we're full.

“However, please remember that submissions are always open for both our live episodes and”

Patreon bonus episodes. We just have limited spots for October. If you have a story out there that you'd like to submit for consideration, we pay for all accepted stories. You keep all rights to the story.

We just ask for a small exclusivity period and the right to narrate the story. We've had hundreds and hundreds, if not over a thousand writers get their stories narrated over the years, and we would love it if you were among them. Okay, let's get to this week's stories. First up.

The veteran deep sea explorer pilots an experimental submersible into a newly discovered

“abyss beneath the Pacific, where each mile of descent reveals that humanity has vastly”

underestimated what waits in the deepest parts of the ocean. From writer Jesse Clark, creepy presence, the deepest part of the ocean is not empty. It took 12 hours for the Tuskegee to sail from the U.S. base to quadri-line a toll to a remote path to the Pacific. About 50 miles east of Wajra in the Marshall Islands.

As soon as we dropped anchor, I climbed into the boldly go and started getting ready for the big dive. After two weeks of training, I could practically run the start-up sequence blindfolded. The master powers which activated the instruments, I checked the oxygen levels, the comms, the lighting, and the camera systems, and the pressure equalization.

Then I set the ball of system to neutral buoyancy and tested the thrusters, which made the small one-man submersible, highly maneuverable, and three-dimensional space. After the final go-no-go, the A-frame lifted boldly go off the deck of the mothership and dropped her into the gentle swell, then she slipped gracefully beneath the waves. The first part of every dive is beautiful.

It's full of life in the sunny area just under the surface, especially near the reefs, and water that's maybe deep enough to reach your knees. Boldly go, go of past schools of fish swimming through a sunbeam, and crabs that

scampered among the colorful plants on the rocks, which I always thought looked a bit like

Christmas ornaments. I could have stayed there for hours, but I had somewhere to be. Soon all life and color were behind me. The water turned navy, then midnight blue. Down, down, down, I went, and had endless empty twilight.

The ocean has its silent caves, deep, deep, quiet, and alone, though there be fury on the waves, beneath them there is none. In 1872, the Corvette HMS Challenger began the Challenger Expedition. It was the greatest undersea exploration ever attempted at the time. It made 492 deep soundings in 3 years and discovered the Marianna trench, recording a maximum

depth of 26,850 feet below the surface.

31,693 feet.

“Another 30 years passed before a nearby depression in the sea bed was found.”

32,197 feet below the surface, a new record. And then, in 1951, HMS Challenger II found the Challenger deep at the southern end of the Marianna trench, who was 35,760 feet down.

We believed that record would never be broken.

We were wrong. I kept my eye in the depth gauge as boldly go to send it. 500 feet down, 700, 1000, 1250, the inverted height to the Empire State Building. I kept going, 2500 feet, 3000, 3200. This was the bath pledge zone, the deep ocean.

Beyond this point, sunlight cannot penetrate.

“No sunlight means no photosynthesis, which means no plants, which means no marine herbivores,”

which means no predators, which means no life. It was just boldly going me, descending alone into the eternal lonely dark. The 800 feet, 4000, 4100. In April 2022, an OIA detected a strange sound originating from the ocean floor, near the Wajayatul.

At first, they dismissed it as malfunctioning hydrophoned, but the sound repeated. Then the U.S. Navy detected it, then scripts, then jammed stack in Yokosuka. Every research team that tried to triangulate the origin of the sound independently determined that it was coming from a region of the seafloor that wasn't on existing bath metric maps. There was only one possible conclusion.

“The Challenger Deep was no longer the deepest part of the ocean.”

There was something else there, something massive. In June 2023, Oceanic Survey Project, OSP, was formed to investigate. We called the New Hole the Ma. It was a dumb placeholder, but it stuck in growing everyone at the OSP. We sent several robots down to the Ma to map it out, but none of them survived the journey.

Those machines were built to survive the deepest part to the ocean that we knew about at the time they were built. This was different. The water pressure crushed them like soda cans before they ever got close. I thought about that as boldly go up again to creek and grown, 4,700 feet, 4,800, 5,000.

Water pressure is measured in atmospheres. One atmosphere is the amount of pressure you endure by standing outside, literally the weight of all the gas between the ground and the edge of space pressing down on you.

It sounds like a lot, but you never even think about it when you're walking across the street

for a cup of coffee. But here in the ocean, a new atmosphere is added with every 30 feet of depths. At the edge of the path of pleasure zone, the pressure can reach 400 atmospheres. Picture a school bus, sitting on your thumb, and then it keeps going. I imagine tiny hairline cracks forming in the outer layers of boldly goes hall, chipping away

at the reinforced and paddock foam, little by little layer by layer, down a little more to the cracks, spated across the craft, covering further and deeper with each passing minute. There would be no indication that the craft was falling apart until it was too late. At these depths, I'd be happily drifting along and then it would implode so fast that

I'd simply cease to exist, all in a fraction of a fraction of a blink of an eye, before my brain could register what happened. I suppose that was better than slowly being squeezed alive or waiting to drown.

At the idea that every breath might be my last, that I might never finish the thought.

No, don't think about it, just do your job. 1.3, 1.6, 1.7, 1.6 miles is the maximum dive depth of sperm whales, meaning I was now almost certainly the only living mammal that far down at that exact moment. 2 miles, 2.1, 2.2, it's hard to describe how dark it is to miles below the surface.

You don't get the sense of being in a wide open space, although you are.

“Imagine being trapped in a little closet, separated from the outside world by walls that”

are several miles thick and trying very hard to crush you.

If anything happened to you in that little closet, help would never come.

2.3 miles down, 2.4, 2.5. The abyssal zone of the ocean. Here the pressure ranges from 6,000 to 9,000 psi or 4,600 atmospheres. Imagine 12 elephants standing on your head, or being trapped under a skyscraper. An English fish float a bite.

It was the first life format seen in two and a half hours since I'd left the reef. If you've never seen an English fish, there are frightening creatures with great big jaws and a bioluminous and appendage dangling from their head like a light bulb.

It made me think about the apocalypse.

Can there ever even be an apocalypse?

“If life can exist even here in these conditions, you'd have to blow up the planet to make”

sure everything on it was truly dead. One word else is down here, 2.7 miles, 3.3, 3.5, and 3.8 miles or 20,000 feet, I entered the headless zone. This is normally reserved for deep trenches in the ocean floor, but I was still in the open.

Pressure here is 1100 times what it is at the surface. Imagine balancing a car on a dinner plate. Four miles, 4.7, 5.5, a height of Mount Everest inverted, 5.8 miles. The same distance from the surface is a commercial airliner at peak altitude, 6.8 miles, or 36,000 feet, the depths of the Challenger Deep.

“36,500 feet, my heart pounded, and a new world record, there was nobody around to know”

the achievement. The awful spirits of the Deep hold their communion there, and there are those for whom we weep, the young, the bright, the fair. Despite mounting evidence that the ocean floor here was far deeper than the Challenger Deep, there were skeptics who chucked all up to some kind of widespread instrumentation

failure. It's impossible, they said, there must be some kind of mistake. 38,500 feet down with no bottom in sight, I could personally confirm that the instruments were working just fine. I began to think about what might have caused the sound we'd heard the lead to the discovery

of the Ma. There were a few theories, but none of them were perfectly aligned with the data. The leading idea was that the sound had been caused by tectonic activity, or partial seafloor collapse. Such an event would almost certainly produce a sound loud enough to be detected across

specific, and it could potentially explain how we only just now discovered such a deep part of the seabed. A problem is the sound repeated several times in a way that wasn't consistent with after shocks. Still, it's the most plausible theory, but if you ask me, researchers are clinging to it,

because what it's say about them if the Ma had been there all this time, and they all just missed it. Another theory, how that there had been a hydro thermal vent eruption. But temperature scans didn't pick up anything abnormal. Besides, the sound wasn't sharp enough to indicate that kind of superheated degassing you'd

expect are on a newly formed vent. Human activity was ruled out too. Not only was the area under international protection, but it would have been impossible to conceal a rogue, deep-seaved railing, or subsurface mining after a large enough to make

a sound like this, if such a thing were even possible, that idea was never taken seriously.

So all the existing theories were junk, that meant something else was down here, possibly something unknown to science, boldly go, dove deeper, 40,000 feet down, 40,500, 40,800.

The Ma is a large circular pit, maybe half a mile in diameter.

“It begins at 48,000 feet below the surface, and is estimated to bottom out at Higgins'”

deep. I'm presumptive valley that sits at its base, about 2,000 additional feet below that. But until we confirmed it, we couldn't be sure. 43,000 feet down. 43,500 I was getting close, I hit the lights beneath boldly go, this place hasn't seen

a photon in a billion years, not since the surface of the earth first cracked and split.

There were mountains here, for real, mountains, once it rivaled the alps, and wide arches, steep cliffs and platoes that stretched away until they couldn't be seen. Even so huge trenches and trauma marks in the sediment, that was very strange. If I didn't know better, I'd say Godzilla had been feeding down here. There was even life.

I couldn't believe my eyes. It wasn't just planked in her crill. A squid the size of a house swam right past the craft, peering into it with a giant squishy black eye, there were fish as transparent as glass with no eyes or pigment. I could see every organ in their bodies.

I was very familiar with no marine life forms. Nothing I saw here was known at all. 44,000 feet, 45,000. And then all of a sudden, there was the Ma.

I remember seeing a grand canyon for the first time when I was kid.

“The best way to describe it is to say that photographs don't do it justice.”

Now imagine how an adequate data on a spreadsheet must be to describe something like this. At the bottom of the sea, I was speechless. I descended a bit further, 45,500, 46,000 feet. And boldly go boldly went right into the great, yawning mouth. Columnly the worried seamenrest beneath their own blue sea.

The ocean solitudes are blessed for their purity. For fun, the OSP tried to decide on a name of the post-hattled zone of the ocean that existed beyond 37,000 feet. We settled on the Arabic zone, named after Airbus, the ancient Greek god of darkness. I can say that that name fits like a glove.

46,500 feet, 47,000, 48,100.

“The pressure down here was 22,000 PSI, imagine trying to lift a mountain.”

Not even unmanned vessels had descended this far. I was an uncharted territory, but we could make educated guesses about what might look like. I was told there might be clouds of mock and sludge that would limit visibility, especially if the sea floor collapse theory was correct, because it took a long time for all the

sediment to settle back into the sea bed after a seismic event. If the degassing explosion theory was true, I should look for plumes of superheated bubbles jetting out a hydrothermal vents, maybe surrounded by small lifeforms, huddling around them for warmth. At the bottom of the mind might even find whale carcasses.

We predicted that the remains of small animals would have been dissolved in the vapor by the water pressure. I was even told the look of for a plastic garbage, like fishing nets and soda bottles. It would be sad, but not surprising. In fact, none of this would be surprising.

In 20 years of exploring the oceans, I've seen underwater volcanic explosions, alive giant squid, and brine pools on the ocean floor, which look like underwater lakes. Very little shocked me.

But I never would have imagined a multi-colored glow, 50,000 feet below the surface at

the bottom of the maw. What the hell is that? I dimmed the odor lights to confirm that I wasn't just seeing things. I wasn't. There really was a dim glow, a few thousand feet down, whose changing colors, first was

reddish purple, then green, then purple again, then blue.

to slam into the sea bed.

“I never did, 49,000 feet down, 49,700, 49,900.”

The glow became brighter, soon I shut off the lights entirely because I didn't need them. Oldly go entered a cavernous chamber at the bottom of the maw. I was speechless. This had be documented her house nobody would believe what I was seeing.

Hell I was seeing with my own two eyes right now, and even I couldn't believe it. I flipped the switch and the cameras were a delight. The cavern is at least a mile across. I couldn't see the bottom, but not because there was no light.

There was plenty, as pulsing luminescent pods lined the walls, producing an eerie glow.

The water wasn't empty, far from it. I saw things I could scarcely believe, a thick towering plant dominated the chamber. I couldn't see the bottom of it, but the top was pressed against the roof of the cave,

“which had large jagged stalagtites around the edges.”

Small creatures with very thick shells darted between cracks in the wall. Very large, bioluminous and jellyfish-like creatures floated together in groups of five or six, glowing yields zipped back and forth. They were eating something. When I got closer, I saw that they were munching on a whale carcass and broken boat

hulls that drifted in the water in the middle of the cave. What is this place? I noticed something strange about the wreckage, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I took boldly going for a closer look. I saw that there were strips of painting off the broken boats and flaps of loose torn

flesh on the whale bones. The skull was soft and pitted and the ribs were warped in strange ways. The decay pattern wasn't consistent with being eaten, or even crushing damage from water pressure.

“The whale bones look like they've been soaking in vinegar.”

There's an optical distortion on the cameras, too, and boldly go up and making strange noises. Little hisses and squeaks, like something was eroding the hull. This immerseful was built with stand 2,000 atmospheres of pressure, but not corrosion. Look, because of that.

I had a thought and sampled the water with the pressure rated intake nozzle.

There was always shocking.

The water had a pH of 1.4. I tested it two more times in each time the pH was under 2. Water this acidic had no business existing outside of a stomach. I felt a lump forming my throat. What am I? It's this? No, no, that's impossible.

But I couldn't get to the thought out of my head. I took boldly go back to the plant in the center of the chamber. I fired up the lights to max settings and caught my breath. This was no plant. This was a tongue covered in suction cups, each one bigger than the submersible.

I gasped and tried to pile the submersible back towards the mob, but the hull got stuck to one of the cups, triggering loud, blaring alarms. I blasted one of the thrusts to rip away producing a wet tearing sound. And then the tongue came to life. It whipped around the cave, scattering the wildlife.

It pressed back up against the roof of the cave. Of the mouth or stomach or some combination of the two. Then it crashed down like a falling building deep into the darkness, producing waves within the water that threw boldly go around, a gundit, submersible small and maneuverable, but she wasn't exactly built for speed.

Just then, the tongue swished up out of the blackness, like a blade and sideswiped submersible, sending me rolling. I don't think it meant to knock me back into the mob, but I found myself climbing back up the way I'd come as quickly as I could. Fifty-two thousand feet, fifty-one thousand five hundred, fifty-one thousand.

I could feel the tongue rumbling behind me searching. It didn't know I was about to escape. Forty-nine thousand five hundred, forty-nine thousand, forty-eight thousand, eighty-eight hundred, forty-eight thousand, four hundred. I could see the end of the tunnel above me, just below the open ocean. It wouldn't be open for long.

A ring of vast spike rocks. Teeth are realized, began to slide together like a thousand inner locking fingers.

I hit the throttle and boldly go slip between two of the long spikes just before they

sealed tight.

“I was back in the open ocean, but I wasn't safe.”

Behind me came the loudest where I'd ever heard. It sounded like an atomic blast. The instruments on the panel shook in the rubber cases. Emergency supplies fell off the walls of the inside of the submersible. I was deaf for a full minute.

The creature I just escaped was awake and looking for its supper. Just then, that tongue, the size of a city block, shot out ahead of me and curved inward blocking the path forward. I yanked the joystick fast and hard, missing a bite-feet. Oldly gobbled to the side and bone-stopped the ocean floor, kicking up a cloud of silt

and launching me into the viewing dome.

At least first, my vision swam as I fought to regain control of the vessel.

I pulled the joystick the other way as far as it would go.

“This submersible rolled around and slipped alongside the tall rock formation, clipping”

it, sending broken shards flying like arrows through the water. There were many similar formations up ahead that hit the lights to avoid smashing into them. Only then did I realize ten were rocks at all, they were ships. Twisted metal holes littered the sea floor, broken battleships, jutting out at dangerous

angles flew in from the shadows. I jammed the joystick this way and that, heart pounding, particles of debris and silks zipping by like bullets. Oldly gobbled past chains and anchors stuck into the ocean floor and under the main mass of old warships.

There was a whole submarine lying on its side against the slab of rock. Any impact would destroy this submersible, but I dodged it all with inches to spare. Whale and sharp carcasses were everywhere too, lying on the ground or floating eerily,

“getting picked clean by clouds of tiny scavengers that flew apart as boldly go burst”

through. Behind me, the giant creature, the Leviathan smashed through the nautical graveyard, sending metal debris flying in all directions. The force of water pressure crushed everything in the flat hydrodynamic shapes that rushed past me like giant spears.

One hit and I was dead, I dodged and dove, missiles flew by and vanished into the blackness. As we're clear of the wreckage, I restarted the climb, 45,900, 45,200, 45,000, 44,800, the creature roared again.

It wasn't less shocking the second time.

At least I found the source of the mysterious sound. Some seismic event. I clapped my hands over my ears and screamed, but I couldn't hear myself. A hundred and ninety-four decibels is the lethal threshold. The Leviathan's roar was likely in the 240 decibel range.

If boldly go ahead and ban heavily sound proof of this exact reason, it had been custom-designed to investigate a mysterious deep water sound after all, my bones would have been pulverized in an instant. Just then an orange glow flashed across the water lighting up to sea. For the first time in hours, I could see from miles.

It was the glow from the Leviathan's eyes. There was no hiding now. Up we went, 44,244,043,700. I looked at the rear camera. The ma, which I now understood the diesel of the Leviathan's mouth, was roughly half a mile

wide, bringing with teeth to size of buildings. And now it was on the move. The rest of the body scaled proportionally. I couldn't see the whole thing if I tried. It was so vast and most of it fell away into the shadow of the water.

But what little I saw there was consistent with something miles long. When it moved, the ocean moved with it. Water compressed unnaturally in front of it, producing strange currents and riptides, which dispersed clouds of deep sea wildlife in a world walls of sediment and all directions. It opened its mouth and roared again.

The sonar instruments flatlined overwhelmed with signal. On the rear camera I saw the broken ship hulls disintegrate because of the sound. It was layered like a rocket blast off, a thunder clap and a mountain being ripped in half all at once. Even inside the submersible, the force of the blast made nuts tremble in their housings

and sent everything not tied down flying across the cabin. I thought my ear drums were burst. My whole body shook. The vision in my eyes swaying like the fluid in my eyes was moving.

By now, the Leviathan was swimming directly upward, pursuing me. The water below me. The water below me was already black, but the Leviathan still managed to cast a very large shadow. Except for the fierce orange eyes, a look like I was falling into a dark planet. It was gaining. 37,500, 37,000, 37,000, 3,000, 36,400. The pressure gauge started to drop. It made me think. Leviathan defied many rules of biology.

“Mostly due to its size, but I couldn't imagine to be able to tolerate lower pressure conditions any more than a human could tolerate 22,000, PSI and the Hubble and Arabic zones thought of protective submersible.”

If I would implode down here, the opposite would happen, it's a Leviathan's surface. Without heavy water pressure, internal gases might cause it to expand like a balloon and pop.

Killing every living thing for miles, you'd be able to see the explosion from space. I wondered if it had the instincts that turned around before this happened, but so far the pressure was still immense, it continued to pursue me.

“29,000 feet, 28,300, 27,500. I could feel the moth open up just behind me. The water began to rush backwards, dragging it boldly go.”

The reinforced window glass chipped slightly. I checked the gauges. 20,000 feet, 19,800, 19,400, 19,300, 19,250. He sent was slowing. The submersible began to sway side to side.

18,900, 18,800, 18,700, 18,800, 18,900. That's it. I was caught. The depth gauge slipped and boldly go instantly.

“20,000 feet. I flew out of my seat and smacked my nose against console above me. Blood exploded. I held my face to control the bleeding, but boldly go flipped around and around in a whirlpool, hurling me this way in that.”

20,000 feet. I backed my knee into the hatch ladder and dislocated my shoulder. The cracks in the window was spidered. All around me, the water rushed backwards like a flood into the gaping moth.

I limped back to the controls and gripped the side of the console holding on for dear life. I waited until we tumbled into the right angle, facing out, then blasted the thrusters. The vessel rolled around quickly to the side now, just passed the edge of the moth. We grazed the Leviathan and tumbled out into the sea like we were in a wash and spin cycle. I was thrown right back into the ceiling head first. I collapsed back onto the floor, cracking my ribs on the console. I threw up violently, then climbed back into the chair, bruised and bleeding. Another quick burst from the thrusters stabilized the vessel.

I watched the Leviathan fly past me, filming as much as I could. Mostly I just sat there, marveling at it. It stretched into the abyss below, for over a mile rushing by like a freight train. It had a force of tentacles, each one of the size of a highway, with sharp hooks on the end. On its back, with three parallel rows of spikes, each of the size of small buildings. It took 10 minutes for it to fly past me. Then it swung around the way I came, roaring, and it was gone. I let Boldly go take its time limping back to the surface. I didn't want to push her. When I got back, I didn't say much, although everyone on the Huskeny mobbed me with questions.

They knew something had happened, even if they didn't have the details. They heard the roars and detected what they thought were minor seismic activity. And now they had boldly go on me, both in very sorry shape. Stubborn research leads were still squabbling over their theories. I couldn't care less. I recovered in quadriline for a week, then flew back home. The story was hard to keep a lid on. The OSP released a preliminary report using terms like bio-mass displacement, and bio-acoustic anomaly, so I've run to keep their jobs. But armchair experts and XNOAA consultants figured it out quickly, and the news spread.

I've studied to see for 20 years. I don't want to go back. I'm sick of it. There are things down there that own the deep, and I think we should leave it that way.

The Earth has guilt. The Earth has care. Unquiet are its graves. But peaceful sleep is ever there beneath the dark blue waves. Nathaniel Hawthorne. And next, when a desperate young boy bargains for his missing brothers return, he discovers that the creature waiting for him wants something far stranger, and far more unsettling than a human soul. For might or lb-walt scenario by jv hemp and vans hemp, creepy presents, "God has given you one face."

Riddle me this, little one. What serves as a window to your soul? Your eyes very good. Let's start there, shall we? Let's stare together into those windows.

Go on. There's a puddle right there. Feel free to gaze deep.

“So, here we are. You and me, peering through that porthole, past translucent tissues, and organic lenses, beyond a vicious mess of membranes and tangled root veins, to what is the single most precious part of your identity?”

Which looks like what precisely? That's right. Exactly the same shite as your other ocular bits.

Because if there were anything ethereal and a glow inside there, you'd have been vivisected as a freak. Humans are corporeal creations.

And if logic dictates that a equals c and b equals c, then a equals b doesn't it? That means if a equals gunk and b equals gunk, I'm just saying, I can't see anything intangible in there. Can you?

“Yeah, as it turns out, the soul is one of the most rapidly biodegradable body parts. Crazy, huh?”

No, I'm not crazy. No, I'm not mistaken, either. Yes, I'm aware there is a difference between the two. Much as there is a difference between a glass pain and what lies beyond it. Look, the eye as a disgusting glue sack that shares the structural integrity of bog mulch. That the same thing can be said of the soul is a cork of evolution, a matter of coincidence. Correlation, not causation. Not that it's my fault either way. I didn't sign off on your blueprints. Don't blame me for the strange design of your skin suits.

I am, but a messenger, relaying humble fact that the eye and everything behind it is made with identical Goop Jelly Slop. And in the natural world, that Goop Jelly Slop generally has a post-mortem shelf life of around two months. In other words, it's rapidly biodegradable. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. If anything, it makes for a more environmentally conscious choice. Like compostable products will be when shopping, or switching to solar panels when those become available.

“Given the state of the world, it might not be the worst thing to soften my views about specific clichés.”

Or, alternatively, I could lean into your views about those same clichés. Exacer-bait existing paranoia, milk that fear into a cup that run it over, drink it in, throw it out. After all, it's not the container itself that nourishes. But, uh, honestly, I have very little interest in souls. They're just not to my taste figuratively speaking, or literally.

And, if we're to be exchanging goods and services, isn't it only fair that I should receive something that I want out of this?

Mm-hmm. Naha. Oh, indisputably.

“You make a valid point. The way to a man's heart is indeed believed to be through his stomach.”

Assuming you don't intend to twist that expression into some pedestrian joke about stabbing him through the rib cage, as if no one has ever heard that bit before. Oh.

Apologies. That was uncult four.

My patience is quickly worn thin by the banal I'm afraid, one of the common side effects of long life. Regardless, it was rude of me to presume disingenuousness on your part, especially when your reaction tells me your question came from a sincere place. Honest curiosity is a trait I do not begrudge. Quite the opposite. So, if you allow me, I should like to rescind my previous response and offer a more genuine reply. Thank you.

To begin, you are not wrong. There is a kernel of truth to that idea, to the heart being won by way of a stomach.

But that seed, when planted, is not guaranteed to grow into something quicksatic.

Just as often it bears practical fruit. Man is an animal, you see, and like all other animals, he requires basic necessities for survival. Food is a prime example. Water is another, yes. A cottage is convenient, but most aren't picky about shelter. A shack will do.

A hut, a hole. An inconspicuous circle of grass in the shade of ruin trees. You get the idea, but see, food is important. Everyone knows that you know that. And because of that, food is one of the most straightforward, manipulative tools available to anyone, looking to exert power over another.

You are familiar with this concept. The stories cannot be escaped.

“Was it not through the bartering of greens that the witch gained custody of Rapunzel?”

Hansel and Gretel made some famously bad choices where food was involved, as did Persephone and Eve. Perhaps you may even be acquainted with a character whose deeds are not confined within a book? Why, whatever do you mean? I insinuate nothing, but please, stew if you wish. Get it stew?

As I was saying, it doesn't end with access. Oh, no. After access, we get into content, sugars, minerals, carbohydrates. Your gut bio is a greedy. If delicate ecosystem comprised of trillions of individual organisms that can only serve their purpose, if the God they literally live to serve is able to provide them with the means to do so.

Your body is a temple, you know. If the accolades who tend to fail, everything crumbles back to the dust from once it came. Oh, speaking of death, your immune system. Bless, it is trying its best, but considering we live in a simmering zest pit, it can hardly be judged for its incestant need of boosts.

“Has your mother or father ever fed you chicken and orange juice when you've caught a cold?”

I suppose oranges aren't native to this area. Some other citrus, then. The combination of protein and vitamin C is the important bit.

Well, if your mother has kicked it already, have your father do it then.

“I'd rather think that ought to be obvious.”

Lords, it's not rocket science. Rocket science. A rocket is a sort of cylindrical projectile designed to reach the moon. Yes, that moon. Don't worry about it.

It shouldn't be relevant in your lifetime. Anyway, I digress.

I could go on and on about the biology of it all,

but I can see your tired, so I'll close my argument by stating that there will be studies. Long, complex, boring academic studies, linking nutrition to food and concentration. And academic abilities amongst other things. So, to bring this back to your original point, yes. Absolutely. Emotions and affections can very well be influenced by food.

Food, which interacts with a person's digestive system. The thing is, the heart is not part of your digestive system. Your stomach is, your intestines are, your teeth too. Your heart is a muscle masquerading as an organ.

“And while the role it plays in running your weird little gristle puppet is undeniably important”

at the end of the day, it's just another handful of sinew. It doesn't dictate emotions or seat the self or host a great number of undifferentiated cells or anything interesting like that. In summary, no, I don't want your heart either. But thank you for the offer.

Now, see here. I will be on as child. This is exasperating. I am weary. And at the risk of being blunt, I don't think we've anything more to discuss. Day after day, you tow the liminal line between our realms

for what appears to be the explicit purpose of ignoring me. At this juncture, what more is there to say? I have expressed myself and my people's terms quite clearly. And in return, you have offered not but disrespect disguised as good faith-buttering. No, I know.

No, it is not the same thing. Bone contains a magic of its own in the forms of marrow and fracture healing. Bones create. Either directly, as in the case of blood and height or indirectly, in how they store so many growth factors.

It's impossible to explain to a creature like you who's sixth sense is so pitifully dull, but trust me, would you? When I tell you that a sort of positivity oozes from bones, porous surfaces, it is of no use to us. What? An idiotic thing to say?

No, really, shut up and think about that mire that just fell from your gobb, you insolent imbecile. Actually, think about it. I don't care a shit-covered wit, what your tome on my people suggests.

“Who do you expect is better informed about the custom's desires and intentions of a being of my ilk?”

A book or the real breathing thing? The nerve. Well, now that we manage to sort that out, which would you rather do, boy? Continue to espouse misinformation or listen, earnestly enough that we might reach a place of mutual understanding,

and by the power of the unsealy court, finally come to some functional compromise.

That's what I thought. To begin, I understand why you would reject my initial request.

Much as I recognize why that request might have been difficult for one as young as yourself to grasp.

There's... Ah, shh, no, don't speak. There's no need. I already know what you're thinking, something along the lines of.

“If you really understood, how could you have asked for such a horrible, inhumane thing?”

Yeah. Ah, little one, that itself is the reason. I am horrible. I am inhuman.

And I do very much wish to wrench all 28 of your shallow white teeth from your puffy pink jaw.

One by one, by one, by one, whilst using every unholy trick and demonic power at my disposal, to ensure that you remain conscious during the entire excruciating affair. Those are my terms. That is what I want. And I want it because that is what me and mine consider fun.

Does that make sense? Is that simple enough? I hope so.

“I'm not convinced there's a way to make it any clearer that mortal agony is fun for us.”

The causing unspeakable torment and pain is fun for us. Listening to a scrawny human-child thrash about in the leaves,

choking on a gullet clogged with gore is fun for us. There is no fun in a soul. There is fun in your terrors surrounding its fate, sure. But not in the gupp jelly slot of it as an object. Your priests don't tell you this, but toying with a soul is like trying to play with a flame.

A wet spark. Once it's there, it's already withering. Then, just as quickly it's snuffed out, cold, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You return to the ground for out of it, you were taken blah, blah, blah, dull. Ripping out your stomach, meanwhile, or even your heart, wouldn't be a bad time per se.

But, crucially, neither would it take a long time. Not even in the way that humans define time passing. Oh, given the vastly different ways our species experience chronology, I trust you can piece together why this is unacceptable for us. And as for bone.

Well, okay, to be fair, I suppose I could spend a long time methodically breaking every bone in your body. Even longer than I would if I were treating an adult to the same sort of attention considering your skeleton has yet to fully fuse together. It's even possible that I could snap each and every one in twain without killing you. Unlikely, yes, highly unlikely, but possible. However, this is where we get into the whole matter of preference.

For you see, in the magic's MyCan and I practice, one might think of bone as symbolic of addition. A plus sign, if you will, positivity, growth, et cetera.

“Teeth, meanwhile, teeth represent subtraction because they destroy, don't they?”

Once caught in their spring lock trap, teeth grind matter down into fragments. Pulverizing prey until it's been reduced to a delicious nothingness. An elegant allegory, don't you think? Teeth as warning, teeth as weapon. Strong enough to exist outside their own protective flesh yet sharp enough to rip clean through the protective flesh of others.

And in that power, a potential both predator natural and scientific.

What? In what possible way would?

“What in the name of the A side are children being taught these days?”

Forget it, there is no use trying to siphon reason from your ramblings. No, there are no rockets in this science either. This is the study of biology, not technology. Genetics, if you must know. Regeneration through the extraction of stem cells, DPSCs, and their use in cloning.

That sort of thing. But God, what is clogging up those ears of yours? Not brains, surely.

Cloning, I said, with a cle, not remotely the same.

Though I suppose we could argue, we... Oh, never mind. I can see it on your face that it's not worth explaining these concepts further. That's fine. You don't need to worry yourself.

“Whether you understand what it is you'd be agreeing to is irrelevant,”

because in the end descendant of Adam, what it boils down to is this. If you wish to forge any sort of covenant with me, I will require, in exchange, those apple biting teeth. Not soul or heart, not awful or bone. We want your teeth and teeth alone. Fine.

One day more, it's no skin off my... well, it's not my life that is dependent on this deal.

Are you done being selfish then? Yes, no. To be clear, it is no consequence to me if you are or not. Drag your feet so deeply that they dig a pit to hell for all I care. Surrender this quest, give up and go home.

My concerns are with your teeth, not your spine. I shant judge. Neither would I stalk you beyond this fairy ring. Is that your concern? If so, rest easy.

We are talking quid pro quo after all. That means if you give nothing, you get nothing. And what a blessing nothing can be. Think about it. Should you turn around and leave this very moment, you do so, stop free. No curses, no hauntings, no paranormal vengeance?

We are two representatives, stuck in negotiations, you and I. Not a foot and an uncanny hornet's nest. You need not fear, retribution. No child, when you leave unfulfilled, oh, pardon me. If you leave unfulfilled, it shall be in peace.

All right, yes, to shame. You are correct there, I'll grant you that. But in this particular case, I swear that even if I could, I wouldn't. Pinky promise, because let's be real. If my people had the freedom to travel wherever we wanted,

“do you genuinely think we'd waste our time and efforts following you?”

Some scrawny peasant boy from the middle of nowhere? Please. On the subject of humorous though, we have a deal, or don't we? The decision is yours. No pressure from me.

Incorrect, lying is one of the few things I cannot do as it happens. There's no pressure from me, from. Certainly, I am applying pressure to you. There's no denying that. But that is a service I am offering for your own sake, not mine.

I am perfectly content with things as they presently stand. Your brother thus far has made a wonderful specimen for our experiments. I expect he will continue to serve beautifully. I have no complaints. Well, not about him.

Perhaps about a few situational aspects, like being unable to maintain my focus,

Come on, there's no use trying to hide it.

“Regret leaches from your every stinking poor child.”

Let me guess. Bit of a drought this past summer, wasn't there? Reckoned your father would be grateful for one less mouth to feed. And a visually impaired brother can't contribute much in the fields I expect. So, why not try the forest?

No doubt you figured the fairies would have a use for him. And how's all? Wouldn't you know it? You were right.

Isn't it nice to be right?

Doesn't it feel good to be right?

“We fairies have many uses for those who stumble into our rings.”

Many, many uses. It doesn't happen as often as one would expect. So we've learned to make the most of every opportunity. Waste not as the expression goes, which I assure you we don't. We never do.

What I am getting at, little one, is that the longer you wait, the less likely you are to recognize, whatever remains you happen to save,

and the less likely he is to recognize you.

Okay. Well, the shock seems performative being honest. Isn't that sort of thing to be expected? Experiences shape us. Time apart changes people.

That's life. Frankly, I wouldn't bring it up at all, except that humans tend to struggle with all things drastic. And I don't want to deal with the headache that comes from a snott-nosed brat, standing outside our metaphysical door and screaming,

bloody nonsense for hours on end about being tricked. It makes for a rather hostile work environment. Yes, see, this is exactly what I was saying. The volume is annoying, but it's not convincing. Neither is the aggression appreciated.

Ooh, the tears are, though, appreciated. I mean, wouldn't call them effective unless your new goal is to be funny. But hey, if that's the case, keep it up, you're killing it, kid.

“The only way to make it more hilarious is to describe your father's reaction”

to this debacle in explicit, miserable detail. Wow, all right. You choose weird things to get offended over, but whatever to each their own were done here. You. What in the name of the Christ child could you possibly want? This is ridiculous, insane and insulting.

Best gift thanks to these mushrooms, boy, because they are the only thing that is stopping me from ripping all of my wasted time directly out of your... Oh, oh, well, a gift like this has the potential to change a thing or two. Now, now, let's remain realistic. Any rational person would agree a baby, tooth, and a baby brother hardly in equivalent exchange make. We can still do more with our present prize than with your offering, and so have no reason to humor your greed.

Besides, you didn't even let us help remove it, and molars are the most fun to tear out. Pardon. Two representatives was exactly the phrase I used correct. I represent my folk. To quote the future sages, duh. From that, I trust you can deduce for whom you speak.

But what does that mean? Oh, just to double check, you are aware that we are malicious creatures. Excellent. Follow up question then. Are you completely deranged?

Big fan would make it much easier for us as a species to gather what materials we require for our projects should you follow through with this.

“It's just usually mankind isn't to keen on granting us freedom.”

On account of the whole malevolent beings stick. Ah, there we go stipulations. Right. Let's hear 'em. Already out. What do you mean already out? Fully. We won't even get to do the fun part. Why that's... That's acceptable.

You know what? Those are acceptable terms. More than even considering the theoretical numbers being proposed. If anything. Hmm. Tell you what. Will even sweeten the deal for you. Yeah?

“To ensure that no one leaves the table feeling shorted.”

How's this? Depending on the impressiveness of the individual specimen, how convenient the mortal involved makes the retrieval process, we may even feel inclined to leave a little token of appreciation. Tact means nothing to you does it. Yes. Money. Monetary payment. Not riches. But a reasonable amount. Flexible enough to convey various levels of gratitude for a person's contribution to our genetic database,

as well as serve as an acknowledgement of damages. Seems an appropriate method of consolation given they're being sold out. No. No, I won't define that idiom for you. I don't really think you need me to. Now then. One last time, child. Do we have a deal?

And finally, after dying from cancer, a devoted mother remains in the family home as a ghost,

convinced she'll be protecting her husband and sons, even as her desperate attempts to preserve their lives began taking a sinister turn. From writer Shazrad and narrated by Megamaguffy, creepy presence, a happy ghost. Katelyn was a happy ghost. She stayed at home, of course, or else would she go.

A stay at home mom and life, and even more so in death. She watched her three sons and their father, but she didn't need to protect them or anything ridiculous like that. Protect them from what? After the shock and relief and numbing pain of her early death, brought on by cancer had passed, they seemed to be doing just fine.

Well, not fine, fine. Katelyn found herself rather enjoying watching her husband struggle with school lunches and managing schedule for Noah's soccer and ortho appointment with William's dance class. Yes, he only ever went by William, none of that daily, Liam's shite, but eventually he figured it out. Were there tears and screams and missed practices? A few? Yes, but it was all fine.

Anyway, James, the eldest at 16, and soon with a brand new driving license. So funny that he thought it would bring him freedom. Well, James was a quick study in helping his younger brothers with homework and getting them to practice.

“Then, Matt James dropped out of basketball, but honestly, he hadn't been that good.”

And the last couple of years had been rather performative.

Katelyn, now unbothered in death, could finally admit that to herself.

And it was probably better for his future career to spend his evenings doing homework, while waiting for Noah or William to be done rather than chasing the ball himself. It was actually quite easy and obvious. James had to drop out and take Noah, then dad could take William. Katelyn had to fight the temptation to just tell them what she couldn't anyway,

which was probably a good thing for all of them. And then William started learning how to cook, giving up on the constant takeaways, which just stopped feeling like a treat after a while. Burt toast and eggs with great gobs of slime and running as nesting in them. He turned out to be a pretty good at it.

After all, cooking isn't actually that hard. Her husband's famed ability to burn water, notwithstanding.

and couldn't help feeling resentful too.

“And it really taken her to literally die before one of them lifted a finger around the kitchen.”

It was funny.

All the large feelings she had as a ghost, which she never seemed to have time for when alive.

Katelyn thought she'd be sad when James finally gave up on basketball. But actually, she wasn't. She'd spent so many of her hours of life driving him around. Now he could do the same for his brothers. Circle of life.

Not that she felt she'd ever had one. A life of her own, that is, not with managing those boys in the household. What about her life? Standing before the kitchen sink, she stared out at the garden. As she had done all those countless hours, one alive.

And then there was Noah sitting on the garden steps. His shoulders shaking with sobs. He had been reminded of his mom as he looked out at the garden. And he was only 11 after all. Such a young age to lose your mom.

He still need her so much. Katelyn had really felt sad.

“She wasn't a monster after all just a ghost.”

But then she couldn't help being entertained by how her husband. His father had awkwardly padded Noah's shoulder. And then told him that his mom would feel better in heaven if he moved the lawn. That was just the kind of mom's strategy she would use to get the boys to do their chores. Two funny.

Noah mode for five minutes. Then dropped the lawn mower right there out on the grass and ran inside. She watched her husband I greatly finished the job. That was fun too. It had been so much work being there mom.

And the cancer.

At first she had perversely enjoyed the attention.

But then she had been in pain. And then she had gotten really scared. And then the pain got worse. So by the end it had been a relief to die. But now she had all the time she needed to rest. No more work.

Just watching her beautiful sons grow. And maybe she could discover herself. She really was.

“She really enjoyed doing other than just flopping on the couch at the end of a long day.”

But it turned out she didn't enjoy much other than being their mom. Which made sense. She had to watch over them to care for them. She literally had done that just for so many years. That she didn't know much else.

And that was why Caitlyn quickly put a stop to Anika's visits.

Anika was a hot divorced school mom who started dropping around after school with a fresh baked pie

or simmered slow cooked casserole. Barely a month after Caitlyn's death. So basic. How could she trust her beloved sons to Anika? Unable to hold onto her own husband now after hers.

Not the Caitlyn was jealous. Oh no. She just didn't want any meddling with her sons' life. As a ghost, Caitlyn had a few tricks. She superimposed her own cancerous face on Anika's when she looked at a mirror to fix her face.

And that was that. The poor woman couldn't get out of their fast enough. No more pies and casseroles. And then young Sophia started hanging around James. She was even more of a threat perhaps than Anika.

And stronger measures had to be taken. The youngins are tougher. Sophia wouldn't be scared of a faint image. And James wouldn't be able to resist the throes of teenage passion. Sophia kept coming over after school to do homework with James.

And this was causing William to be late, getting to dance class. Well, that couldn't be repeated. William had to be home on time because he was the only one who could fix snow as lunches. The way Noah would actually eat. Sophia was destroying the delicate chain of chores.

Caitlyn tested and practiced her powers. Carefully and methodically. And then one day, Sophia was leaving. Caitlyn was able to nudge her and she was going down the stairs. Oh dear.

Thought Caitlyn looking down at Sophia's broken body and crooked neck at the bottom of the stairs. She hadn't quite realized the extent of her ghostly strength. Or had she? She wasn't sure. She felt a bit appalled at what she had done.

But not too much. She had to be more careful. She told herself as she watched James fuss and shout. She didn't want her sons getting so spooked that they left the house. She wanted them right there.

So she could keep on watching them. No. Watching over them. Enjoying their life just as much as she was enjoying her death. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration.

Please visit creepypod.com.

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. [BLANK_AUDIO]