The House on Edgemont & Hallow Birth

No... This is Creepy!

A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world.

Whether these stories truly happened or about simply fabrication, is for you to decide. These stories make in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, y'all.

“I think it, especially, feels like autumn for me now.”

I don't technically, doesn't start until next week. And I'm not sure what things are like wherever you all live, or reside, or refuse to die. Well, we started to get that little chill in the air here. We're starting to see a few leaves changing colors. Obviously, there are more and more Halloween decorations popping up on moms.

But... it's more than that, isn't that? It just isn't fall for me. I see social media explode with people complaining that their favorite football team let them down after just the first game of the season. It's just a callous emotions of a lifelong Vikings fan. Maybe I'm just evil, and chocolate adults screaming over a millionaires playing a game.

I don't know. So let's get to things I do know. Scary stories.

“First up, from editor D.H. Parish and narrated by Owen McEwn, creepy presence, the house on Edgemont.”

The house on Edgemont Road always looked somewhat different.

Not dramatically different, Mike. You just just enough to notice. In a neighborhood where was often hard to distinguish one residence from another, no other house had the same bi-gable roof and red shuddered windows. No other house possessed a walkway of slate slabs cutting a serpentine path through the lawn from the sidewalk to the small front porch.

Indeed, no other house had an actual Edgemont address. The other two houses that flanked it on the north side of this short suburban street belong to the respective cross streets, and the loft opposite where the fence-off backyards of the homes that fronted yet a different road. In addition to the unique architectural features,

“the homeboard at different color scheme, although that might be the wrong way to explain it,”

since beyond the red shutters it had the same tutor-style white-washed walls framed by dark timbers that characterized many others. Rather, it was if an unusual tint and brightness filter had been superimposed on the property, an almost technical effect that reminded one of a well-preserved postcard from a completely different era. That said, nothing about the house's location or layout suggested that it possessed a distinctive history.

The first person I saw at the house was the little girl. It's not that I kept track of everyone and everything in the neighborhood, but I've been walking Henry after I got home from work on pretty much the same circuit

for the past year since I moved here after the divorce, and I'd never seen anyone there.

So, when the curly-headed cherubic toddler and a powder-blue shift dress stood at the home's doorstep, staring at me as Henry pulled me forward, it was not worthy. The girls' expression seemed neither amiable nor fearful, more curious. I offered a friendly wave, but she didn't reciprocate. Instead, she held my gaze, her eyes locked with mine,

until I was about to pass the property line. One well-demarcated by a row of closely planted well-trimmed cypress trees. Then the door opened behind her, and she disappeared through it. When I got home, the neighbor I shared my duplex with, Joe, a retired widow, who lived here at least 30 years, was sitting on his side of our porch, drinking a can of beer, while listening to the ball game on the radio.

I asked him if he knew who lived at the Edgemont house. And he said he wasn't aware that anyone did, that had been vacant for some time. When I told him I'd seen someone there, he said he'd look into it, so he bought it. I told him I didn't mean to set him a task, and he replied that it was no problem, that he'd had too much free time now anyway, and, well, idle hands and all that.

The same scenario with the girl played out the next evening. And again, the next two, such that I came to expect it, almost look forward to it. Taylor and I had broken up in no small part because I wanted children, and she didn't. She said she didn't want the responsibility.

The fifth evening, the girl waved at me.

“It was a tentative wave, a royal wave, if you will, her raised right hand barely pivoting.”

I mirrored the girl and returned the greeting. The girl's eyes grew wide in response, her expression more sociable as she followed my progress until, once I was past the trees, she beat that same retreat. I didn't walk Henry on the 6th evening. On the 7th, a boy joined the girl in front of the door.

He had short-cropped black hair and was several inches taller and likely a few years older. He wore cacky permutas and a polo shirt that matched the blue of the girl's dress.

The similarity of the color made me realize that the girl always wore the same dress.

A little strange, but didn't kids sometimes adhere to routines where everything stayed exactly the same. Their way of exercising control in a world where they had little.

“Heck, wasn't I kind of doing the same thing on my walks?”

The brother, for that is what I assumed he was, followed the girl's pattern, waving and grinning until I'd gone past when both withdrew inside. The children appeared again on the 8th evening. They waved more vigorously this time. Their smiles brought enough to bear their teeth, including the gap where the boys' upper insisers had to get to grow in. The kid I wanted to have would have slotted in well as their younger third sibling.

On the 9th evening, a woman joined the children.

She had wavy, Auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and perfectly framed her soft, pretty oval face. She supported her dress identical to that of the young girl. Whereas the outfit the girl wore, it broke innocence. On the woman, it's a fact it was all oaring.

“Taylor used to wear a similar pink dress when we were dating, and she looked sexy in it too.”

The three of them smiled and waved together. I waved back and offered a tentative "hello" but they didn't return the salutation. On the 10th evening, the three were joined by a man. Just as the woman dressed like a more mature version of the girl, the man supported a hairstyle and clothing the same as the boys.

And the four together presented like the cover photo of a preppy spring clothing catalog. They waved that me in unison as I walked by. Before I could waved back, Henry took notice of a squirrel across the street, and the Irish setters hunting instincts took over. Henry bark loudly and dashed to chase his prey,

tugging on the leash with a sudden force that spun me around, and pulled me about ten feet into the road before I regained control. When I look back at the family, they hadn't reacted. Rather, it seemed that while I was dealing with Henry, they deposed mid-wave, restarting their greetings only when I was looking at them again.

The four retired together inside once Henry and I passed the cypresses. Except for the interruption, the next three evenings were similar. Consciously or not, I'd given up trying to speak to them just accepting them as part of Henry's evening walk. Still, each time they all waved, their eyes focused on me for the 15 seconds it took to walk past them. It didn't feel creepy then, just part of my new routine.

The following evening, only the little girl was outside to greet me. She waved as now seemed customary, except about halfway through, she lowered her arm, turned her hand, palm up, and started backing. Her fingers curling inward to signal me to come to her. I smiled but didn't follow, and once I'd walked off the property, she disappeared inside as usual.

The next evening, the girl was alone again. As Henry and I walked past her, she silently mouthed the word "come" as she gestureed to me to join her. I shook my head, and her smile morphed into a frown, a childish pout. She didn't speak, but she stomped her feet as if throwing an adorable tantrum. I watched her until she retired into the house.

I don't know if it was unique to this instance, or if I simply hadn't noticed it before, but when she went inside, she didn't seem to be moving over her own accord. Rather, it seemed as if someone or something pulled her in, as if she'd been grabbed by a shepherd's crook and hauled off stage. I avoided the house for a while after that, choosing a different route for several weeks.

I found myself in front of the Edgemont House once more.

This time, it was the woman alone. She waved at me, and I waved back.

“She motioned with one hand for me to join her.”

I furrowed my brows and tilted my head in puzzlement. She responded by suggestively lifting the hem of her already short dress, while mouthing a seductive "come" punctuating the offer with an air kiss. My mouth opened, and I felt my cheeks blush. Taking it back into skittish in the moment, I inverted my gaze and walked on.

When I peeked over my shoulder, as her uptitiously as I could, she was gone. I questioned if I'd imagined the whole interaction, whether that flirtation had really happened or was just some idle wishful filament. I mean, the woman had a family, and was ostensibly happily married.

To a man, of course, details like that had never mattered to Taylor.

When Henry and I got home that night, Joe was outside in his familiar pose, beer in one hand,

“grumbling to the radio about why some idiot couldn't lay off a slider.”

He paused his rant to let me know that he'd investigated the Edgemont House, and that, so far as he could determine, no one currently lived at the residence. Hadn't for some time, he said. Although the reasons weren't exactly clear why. I thanked Joe, but said his sources had to be wrong, or at least out of date.

The house was definitely occupied, and I'd seen the woman that lived there, not 15 minutes earlier. He said that's not what he'd discovered, but if I saw something else, I probably had a right to believe my own eyes, so they had to be better than those of the incompetence, getting millions to strike out three times a game, and hit a dribbler to the picture of the fourth. I said my good nights, and resolved that the next day, I would actually talk to the family if they were there.

The following evening, three of them were outside as I approached the house. The woman, her son, and her daughter stood side by side on the cement porch in front of their door. They waved to me, grinning, their arms swaying in unison. I waved back.

Before the first syllable of "Hello" could pass my lips, however, the woman reached behind her back,

and produced a long kitchen knife. She grabbed her son by the hair, yanked his head back to expose his neck, and slashed him with the glistening steel from ear to ear. A gush of blood spurred it from the wide gash, then began seeping down his chest like a falling red curtain. The woman released her grip, and the boy collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been severed.

She seized the girl by the arm and pulled her through the door into the house. Heart racing, I dropped Henry's leash and rushed to the fallen boy and crouched by his side. His head was almost detached, yet his eyes remained wide and bright, and he still smiled, as if Rick just had set in instantly. I fought off a wave of nausea washing over me, and had to collect myself.

The boy was lost, but I could save the girl. I glanced out at Henry, who remains surprisingly still. The dog sniffed out and sought after every dead and dying animal in a myoradis, hadn't budged from the sidewalk where I left him. I didn't think there was time to call the cops.

Nor was there anyone on the street, though I yelled for help just the same. I rose up, stepped to the front door, which the woman had left slightly a jar, and pushed it wide open. Passed the doorway, the house was dark, unnaturally dark. A adrenaline giving me more courage than I thought I had,

that raised my arms in defensive fighters pose and strode inside. After only a few steps, everything became pitch black. The outside light didn't seem across the threshold. I turned in a circle, flailing around searching for a light switch, or even a wall, but found none. Then guarding my face with my left arm, I reached into my pocket with my right to get my phone so I could use it's flashlight,

and call 911.

“That was the last thing I remember doing before I lost consciousness.”

I don't remember being hit if I was. I don't remember falling or collapsing if I did. When I came to, they was still dark, complete darkness, void-like darkness.

Was I still in the house? Was I in a hospital? Was I blinded? Was I dead?

“Then a scratchy voice whispered in my ear.”

"Wave!" I thought that must be a rest you were, or some emergency care provider trying to see what function I had. I opened my mouth to ask where I was and what that meant. Before I could utter a word, something sharp, an ice cold stabbed into my left flank. The agony was excruciating and overwhelming, but brief.

They followed another whisper, "Do not speak, never speak.

Wave!" Man, light replaced darkness. I blinked as the world came into focus.

“I was alive, standing alone on a doorstep, looking out on a lawn.”

An es-shaped walkway led out from where I stood to the street in front of me. A woman wearing ear buds and sporting a pink jogging bra and matching spandex pants was walking by on the sidewalk. I raised my right hand and waved slowly. She smiled and waved back. "Wave!"

"Wave!" "Wave!" "Wave!" "Wave!"

“Then next, from writer Marisol de La Rosa and narrated by Risa Monteness, creepy presence, hollow burst.”

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the trees leaning over me.

They were tucking me in under a blanket of stars and whispering soft lullabice through their rustling leaves. There was a piece resting on me, despite not knowing how I had come to lie in the duet grass. Just on the periphery of my hearing, there was a faint muiling, only broken by staccato thumbs and wet snorts. As I sat up to look over my stomach, I could see the source of the noise at the edge of the clearing. It was a dough lying on its side, writhing and pain, clouds of dust rising from its flailing limbs.

I saw what was interpreting its paint mounds as she suddenly lifted her head, stretching her neck until I was certain she would strain the muscles. She slammed it down with earth shaking force upon the rock just below her head. I could see the bulge in her eyes as the impact forced broken teeth from her bleeding ma. I tried to look away, but couldn't get my eyes far enough away from the dough to avoid the source of her suffering. Her belly bulged, as waves of flesh stretched, leaving lightning bolts of raw pink flesh that rift through the soft white fur.

The dough's cries were back. It's stomach distending with renewed furver. I was peering through misty eyes at the suffering of this gentle creature.

As she raised her head again, she looked up as if praying to a God she could never know.

Her head reached as far as her neck would allow. The striations in the muscles apparent through the skin for just a second before she swung her head down. Her skull hit the rock with a sharp crack. A trickling of blood ran like a tear drop from the eye that faced heaven. An oppressive silence sat in the air before her stomach began to move frantically again.

The stretch mark lines that had formed before were now pressed outward until blood began to run out of the fishard skin. I tried to move, but my body betrayed me. I was rooted, watching as the deer stomach finally ruptured. Opening to a bloody hollow. The noise that came from within was unmistakable.

It was a desperate gulp of air followed by the telltale cry of new life. I cried then.

I found my sob's were strangled, as the instrument of the mother deer's destruction reached out from the void.

“The chubby pale appendage found its way to the ground shakily.”

Each of its five fingers played out and grouping for stability. Has the crying got louder.

The head finally crowned and pressed out of the unnatural birth canal.

The infant crawled towards me. My body shook and I couldn't breathe. Time stood still as it closed the gap between us. I closed my eyes as I felt the hem of my dress lift and pressure began to take hold. Mercifully, I opened my eyes not to the voyeuristic stars but to the ceiling of my bedroom.

The dreams have gotten worse since Eric died. And our weekly sessions, Dr. Gautice assures me that vivid nightmares are common in grief and pregnancy, when she asks about them.

I shade myself from her son-line gaze.

“Only telling her about my daytime anxieties.”

That I am not fit to raise my boy alone. That something may happen to us. That when there's no movement inside of me, it truly feels as though my baby has left me. The hollowed absence more palpable in my heart than my belly.

She tells me this, two, is normal. Reminding me of the generations of women who have endured the divinely gifted pain of this little miracle.

I thank her for her time and care, holding my breath when she asks if I'm really okay.

Only exhaling when the silence is filled with one-sided plans to talk again next week. I do not leave our home anymore.

“The mountains have gathered around us like family, providing all we could need in a sunrise baby shower.”

Sprinkling gifts of herbs and blessing the hands with health. They whisper encouragement on the wind with the dust from which all life was made. And the dust to which we will return. Mom calls me every day. The maternal need to relate to me as she remembers the past privilege of motherhood.

One she took for granted. A fact she ignores along with the ashes of our rickety connection. Still, the olive branch must be offered even if no rainbow comes after. She shares her horrors with me, nightmares of her inadequacy, of death stealing my breath. She slept. Of gravity's truth proving stronger than her sleep deprived arms.

I give her solace by admitting that I have the same fears all the time and that I've been having bad dreams lately. I just don't admit that in those dreams, the black mob the well gazed up at me as I held my child like a prayer. It skin matches the pallor of the moon. The purple and billical scarf shining wet in the night, the levy of my arms. Bricks, leaving the last feeling of the motherly connection.

As the tug is my placenta is ripped from me. The only sound the child ever made being the distant crash as the darkness devours its meal. Mom asks about Eric's family the way the wind whistles. Unable to carry the tune of compassion. The toxicity of my reply seeps through the full line.

Those relationships long rotted away in someless corners of a ghost's memories. She asks me if I'm really okay. And I manage to lie without gritting my teeth. My mind took pity on my heart as it focused on my current reason for existing rather than the one that had just left me. When she offers to visit, the air bolsters my opposing poise.

Our Collins, the goodbye is exchanged miles away. My attention stole in by a fox snooping around the henhouse. I talk to Eric all the time. The breeze carries my words like birdsong through the open nursery window so that the smell won't be overpowering. As I paint murals of thickets, trees and thrushes.

My arms are tired as joy finds me, inviting memories in like old friends.

I tell Eric just how badly they swell.

“Sharing also how my belly itches as zig-zag lines of pink raw flesh are pulled to give space to our child.”

Smiling. I leave the window open.

Letting the soft air blow tears off my face as I tell him that he will never need my forgiveness.

I find pleasure and how well I've prepared this room. The star smiled down on me with timeless wisdom. Assuring me that this room has everything my baby will ever need. I pucker my lips and leave a wet kiss. A promised signal of protection on what the baby will need most.

The warm feelings of love are much stronger than the cold my lips reach from Eric's forehead. A wet slam shook the house.

“My heartbeat filled the silence, like after an echo.”

My broken daydream spilled over into reality as hard images of what might be standing at my door. froze my steps. Worst was the sight from the people. The emptiness of our porch was dyed in a smeared sunset bread.

At first, what lay on the door mat was inconceivable.

Needle bones jutting out of pink blobs, spilling overstretched white flesh. A deflated eye sat in a crush socket, staring upwards blankly. A beak, one strong and black, was now crushed. Splintered like broken tree branches. The ground saturated in a growing puddle of blood with broken feather life rafts drifting in the flow.

The shovel made a fine hers for the crow's trash caned funeral. The only attendees were my grimace, and the fox with the hungry eyes, which sat at the edge of the trees. I turned my back on it with a shiver.

The pale and sponge did little to blot out what remained after.

I gave up what my arms led in and my back screamed at me, threatening to buckle under my shifting center of gravity.

“The concrete will be forever stained by a rust-colored secret.”

And our door is forever dented by beak and saturated in death. Truthfully, I don't think I could ever get the crow's memory out of the wood. That night dinner was chicken. Eating slowly, I suppressed the comparison of the meat's pinkness with what I had scraped for my porch. The meager portion I was able to retain was still caused for celebration.

Lately, spices and the slightest overcooking caused debilitating nausea. Leaving me to slave to that porcelain hole as it rips the meager scraps I can offer up so that our child doesn't begin to scrape away at my marrow for nutrients. Though, as the mothers before me, I give of myself to ensure my baby thrives. Bending hours brushing clumps of hair off my shoulders with brittle fingernails as I forward rivers of nausea and wrestle with my fatigue. Only herbal tea could remedy my hurt.

Another gift from the earth. I would find what I needed for them in the garden, topped with bows of dew. I can already tell he's strong like his father. Sharing that further for life and the inability to sit still. Traits that ones captivated me and Eric now do so again in our sun.

Simultaneously, filling me with fear and joy, has I slipped into daydreams of tuddling walks in the woods and jumping off logs into creeks. The vividness of my dreams has only increased. They bleed into my reality, straddling the line between daydream and hazy memory. A sheen of sweat sticks a thin fabric of my dress to my chest. The forest air rests heavy on my shoulders and guides me with gentle hands in between the trees.

A deeper darkness than I had ever seen, prowls just beyond a clearing. The wind whispers with a voice that drips like honey into my ears, giving me understanding beyond words. I enter the forest made night. The trees bending over me with curiosity. Animals lie resting on either side of my path,

Dose with heads lean down to clean their fawn, look up with loving expressions.

A grouping of blackbirds sits farther back in the trees, silent, like judges taking account of the new being in their sanctuary.

“Heads turn as I glide into the norl of an ancient oak.”

Eric must have found me and carried me back. I don't recall anything but strong arms under my knees and shoulders. And the visions of death. Nearly all the animals cleaved clean into from head to flank. Each half mirroring its partner on the other side of the path.

Only the birds had been saved from the savetry, lying in pairs with the gore. Heads simply turned away at unnatural angles. I woke from this nightmare to a steady-crickying. Sure that it was just Eric working on something for a child we had been praying would come. I found Eric.

He had created a human marionette for someone whom he would never be able to introduce himself to.

To our answered prayer.

“Now, I spend my days idly floating around the house to a course of mist calls and birdsong.”

Vierged to allow nature and through open windows grow stronger each day. Inviting the ivy into touch Eric like a lover and to rest its head on the crib and anticipation of its occupant. We finally chose a name. It was one of the few things the awful dreams gifted me. It looked down on a scrap of ash and paper as I watched Eric wave at me from the upstairs window before our home was swallowed by flame.

Kusimir. Since his christening, I have had nothing but peace. Finally able to fade into blissful nothingness for hours on then, often waking up so ravenous, but nausea cowers from me as I gorge myself to feed our growing boy.

Though my meals grow larger each day, the blessings never cease.

The garden is plentiful.

“The number of chickens only seems to increase with my appetite.”

And gifts continue to arrive at my door. As I watched the leaves fall, I know it's almost time for our little miracle to come. I can feel it in each distension of my skin made by his little foot. I can feel it in the soft pressure he puts on my bladder. Each cramp that doubles me over seems like thunder claps before the approaching storm.

Mostly, I can tell by my dreams. No longer do nightmares shackle my mind. Instead, I dream of the mundane. The tender moments of love. Warm water baths, where I gently wipe our laughing voice body with a washcloth.

His father laughs along with us, a deep, bellowing sound that seems to shake the house and re-verbory off my rib cage. It fills me with warmth. Reminding me, we will all be together again soon. The fox is in the henhouse. Feathered meteors crash to the snow, trailing arcs of blood.

Their death cries choked out before they could echo into the night. I am powerless to stop the carnage. Balls contraction shackle me to the porch railing as I watched those I had grown to cough family, being dragged into the dark spaces between the trees. Winter bears down with the full weight of its harshness upon me.

Fingers of frost wrapped around aching joints leaving me a hobbling mass. The house has fallen into disrepair, discarded plates covered in happy and meals piled up in forgotten rooms. Nature has crawled up like a cat in most rooms. Opening windows I had barely been able to shut hours before. Nature takes my home, but spares my heart.

The ivy that had made the nursery lovely is holding fast to Eric's body, holding it tightly now that I cannot spend all day sewing him back together. The cold sucks his smell out the window, allowing me to leave the nursery door open once more. I no longer talk directly to him,

instead feeling his presence with the preternatural understanding that he is here for me. He peaks at me from the forest. He lays his hand on my stomach at night. He whispers comforts in my moments of weakness. The words remind me of what beauty we have knit together,

Kassimir is similarly excited for his arrival,

“tossing and turning in my belly with forever as he drops into place.”

Each kick of a foot each twist for position reminds me of his enormous size. Every shift threatens to rupture my skin and send him spilling out of me. These thoughts come to me now, as the contraction way builds again. I have begun to amass the necessary supplies for a birthing.

Making sure the tub is spotless, setting aside the kitchen shears for the severing of the imbelegal court, and collecting every towel in the house.

In the early hours of the morning,

I wake to the intensity of my anguish. My body instinctively tries to curl itself inward,

“twisting the soak sheets around me as in human noises crawl out of my throat.”

As I float back up from the contraction, I am aware that my water has broken. By now, the path to the bathroom has been worn into the wood of the hallway. 35 steps that seem to double as I pause every minute to try to weather the waves of pain. In my blurry eye determination,

I pass the nursery. I wish I could step in for a moment, knowing that even touching Eric would strengthen my resolve. I tried to get a glimpse of him as sure that even one glimpse of his gentle smile would alleviate my fear. Instead, the shadows play their cruel tricks,

making his bed seem empty.

“I slam my hands down on the edge of the tub,”

a thin stream of blood on the floor running steadily into the drain. The steam rises from the porcelain as the water rushes to reflect the face washed in the pain. Of eavescurs. My scream echoes in the bathroom like cathedral hymns. My body ruptures between my legs as my pelvis shifts to evacuate my baby boy.

I sink into the water with a belayed moan. They heat offering me no relief from the next spasm of pain. Tears and snots stick clumps of my hair to my face as I try to push. My skin stretches until it tears as I bear down on my pelvis. Relinquishing my efforts only when stars spin in my eyes.

Between contractions, the sweet delirium of my exhaustion seduces me. Offering me the forest path I once knew as an escape from my suffering.

The black void beyond that clearing even sweeter than the first time I tasted it.

The acidic taste of panic rips me from that fairy tale. Another contraction is building. Reminding me to gather up the last of my strength. I pray with no words determining this is the last push I can make. And then the earth shatters as he crowns.

The pain ravages what is left of my nerve tearing an animal's desperate bleat from my throat. The noise breaks as I force my teeth shut to the point of cracking. Fingernails are torn from my nail beds by my grip on the edge of the bathtub. I swallow air and give into the savagery of it all. The muiling ache pours from my lips, only broken by the frustrated knocking of my skull against the porcelain rim.

As the contraction fades, it leaches away all that I had left. The warmth of the water, the strength in my bones, the hope in my heart. Sitting in the cold bloody water it's clear that I can do no more. My body has failed me, has failed us, and now must offer whatever it takes for the sake of gossiping. The moon has already shown its light on our salvation and the grinning metal of the shears seems friendly in my hands.

I don't feel the blade enter, and I don't dare look. Something is guiding my hands, doing the work for me. My eyes are locked on the doorway and beyond it. A gathering of animals lines the hallway, watching with blank expressions. Within the shadow of that threshold, is Eric.

His smile conveys a wordless message.

We will be a family now.

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The new Volvo E60 is about 800 km away.

Now, we are going to head over to Volvo Carsteree.