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 most simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.
What's up everyone? We have something a little different today, but not a total departure from our usual format. This is something we put together to help you all get in the mood for the new horror movie coming out called passenger.
130 million people take road trips every year. 15,400 of them are never seen again.
“Have you heard the story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately?”
A young couple sat out on a van-life trip, but a few nights in, they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road. I'm not talking about a typical crash. Something about this was off. And this one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side. Not dense, scratches. They stopped, they sought, and then they laughed.
But here's where things got strange. Not long after creepy things started happening. You know, I love creepy things. They began to feel that they weren't alone in the van, like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly, it attaches itself to anyone who encounters egg and marks their car with three scratches.
What's that happens? It doesn't let go. These reports are true, this couple didn't just witness something on that highway. They carried it with them. From Andre Ovidal, director of one of my all-time favorite horror movies, the autopsy Jane Doe, comes passenger. Only in theaters may 22nd. Get tickets now.
And as I mentioned earlier, to get you in the mood, we have some driving-related stories to get you in the right or wrong headspace.
First up, for my direct, firmly inherited by Owen McCune, creepy presence, traffic stop.
I don't know where else to put this, so I'm writing it here. Chief says I have to process through what I saw before he'll bring you back to work. My therapist says that sometimes writing things down can help the brain process through certain experiences. Like putting it on paper will make it any more distant from my mind, or any less terrifying. There's nothing I seem to be able to do to get it out of my head.
I can't sleep at night. Sometimes during the day, I see your here at, and it's the hearing at that's worse. I'm going to give this my best go, though I still think I'll sound a little crazy. Just bear with me, and maybe this will help me let go of some of what happened that day. The stress from work is what Chief calls it, but I take stress over this any fucking day.
The yellow Chevy Cobalt blew a stop sign. That's how it started. I was sitting across the street at the gas station catching up on reports. I happened to look up and see it. I flipped on my lights and pulled out behind it.
The Chevy seemed to speed up at first.
I thought I might have a runner, but soon it started slowing down before pulling off the road in front of an old factory. I ran the plates, and nothing came back funny, everything was up to date. But when I got out of the car and went to the window, I saw a middle-aged looking man staring straight ahead, and what looked like a shit ton of sweat pouring down his face.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can I see your license and registration?”
He jumped, like he didn't know I'd been there. Oh, yeah, he reached for the glove compartment. His hands were shaking more than what I thought might be nervousness. You all right, there, buddy? I asked. Inside I was groaning, because I really didn't want this to turn into a drug stop or some other bullshit.
It was 132 in the afternoon, and shit end time was two. I was hoping to be home on the couch, catching sports center with a beer, not dealing with a strong outman who was too big for the car he was driving. He fumbled with the papers in the glove compartment, and handed me a crumpled registration. Then he snagged his license from his wallet and his back pocket and gave it to me. The names matched, Robert Pierce, born in 1972 from here in Grandville.
“You blew the stop sign back there. Did you mean to do that?”
He looked shocked at the suggestion and gave me a sort of half-alalf.
Ah, sorry, didn't mean to.
Well, I'm going to go check on something, and I'll be right back.
How long is this going to take? There was a stammer in his voice. Wow, you got somewhere to be? He smiled, but didn't respond. That's when I noticed the sweat again. It was odd. Not like droplets of water, but with a colored hue to it, skin colored. Almost like to do with some kind of melting fucking wax figure or something.
My figure he had to be on some seriously fucked up shit. What the hell? I mumbled. He looked startled again. Sir, can you step outside the vehicle for me? It looked like I was going to have to do a sobriety test after all, or at least figure out what the guy's deal was. No part of me wanted to. It had already been a long day, and I had already busted a meth ring earlier.
Wasn't going to get lucky on this one. He acted like he didn't hear what I said.
“You need to step out of your vehicle, sir. He clenched his teeth and slowly opened the car door, acting super sketchy.”
Like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. God if we could convict just based off a body language, this guy would have been arrested right there. He slowly stood up out of the car, and his shirt and his pants were soaked. Like he's been sweating gallons all morning. It was July and kind of hot, but in the upper 70s.
But this guy was sweating like we were in Death Valley doing P90X. You seem awfully jumpy, I said. Have you taken anything this morning?
He shook his head violently, like the harder he shook, the more true it would be, but I didn't believe him for a second.
You can tell me, it's not a big deal if you did. I just need to know. Another crazy head shake. I decided it would probably be in my best interest to get another unit over to me before I went ahead and searched the guy. Drug addicts have such an unpredictability about them that can go from zero to 100 quick.
“I grabbed my radio, put my mouth close to it to request backup, and the guy took off.”
And I mean, took off, like he was 2008 you same bold in the 100 meter. Fuck, I said. I flung his license and registration into his car and took off after him, calling him back up while I pulled my taser out of his holster and tried to catch up to the guy I was quickly losing. Here and right to the factory, flung open the rusty blue metal door to the place and ran inside. Inside my head, I was screaming about going in after the guy.
Doing so alone was not a good choice, but until my backup got here, I was still solo. There wasn't a lot of choice there. I decided to do it, and do it slow. I opened the door. I was breathing heavily, my lungs and legs burned with a sudden effort, and I creeped inside. It was a type of foyer space before going into the main factory.
I glanced around, and my heart almost jumped right into my throat. Slumped over on the ground in the corner was the guy, unmoving. Well, I thought it was the guy.
“Show me your hands, your hands, show me your hands.”
I had the taser pointed at him, but there was no movement whatsoever. Eury still, like he was dead or something. I walked over to him and knelt beside him, putting my finger on his neck. But that's when I really saw it for real. I looked in the eyes and could see the back of the skull.
It was like some sort of weird-ass rubber suit or wax thing. It was still dripping and empty. The guy must have ditched the suit and taken off. What the hell? I looked, but didn't see the zipper.
It still looked like a full body, but it was an empty husk. Some weird-ass costume probably had Comic-Con type thing. My heart thundered, and I took a couple of deep breaths. I opened the door back up to see if any other squad cards had shown up yet, but didn't see anything. Shift-chain was a shitty time to be asking for backup.
I let the door creak close and headed for the one that went into the factory. I was already somewhat convinced that I lost the guy. Not that I knew what the guy actually looked like without his little wax outfit.
As soon as I opened the second door, I saw a movement.
I pulled out my flashlight and shined it into the dark hallway. The third door on the left slammed shut. I need you to come out. We can still fix this. I shined my light farther down the hallway.
Office after office, left and right all the way down, maybe 30 doors between the two sides. I tried to remember what this place produced, but was drawing a blank.
They didn't shut down for several years.
I slowly made my way toward the door, grabbing my radio in the process to reach out to dispatch.
“The static voice on the other end was Dina.”
To you and it's almost there, copy. I held the taser in my right hand up to the crack of the door, while I managed to open it with my left, which was also holding my flashlight. Inside the office was dark. I shone my light around the room until I settled on him in the corner.
Only it wasn't him. It was something else entirely. He was huddled on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest, breathing in heavily. But whatever he was wearing for a wax suit before was gone, replaced by what looked like what you seen in an anatomy textbook of what someone looks like under their flash.
His skin was translucent with blood splashing around his muscles and organs.
He didn't have a face, just a skull that looked up at me.
I was. I tried not to panic.
“I tried to keep the bile inside of me down, and tried to convince myself that this was another suit.”
Another costume that this freak was wearing. It was just a lifelike that I had a hard time convincing myself otherwise. I need to see your hands. I said, my voice was shaky. I could see how my light was, too, in my jittery hand.
The thing slowly rose to its feet. I tightened my sweaty grip on the taser. Slowly. It rushed me, lunging right at me.
I pulled the trigger and deployed the taser with shot out and hit nothing.
The guy disappeared. Like he was running at me and just vanished. I heard something in the hallway behind me, and I missed him somehow. Had he gotten around me and my mind was just playing tricks on me. It was an uncomfortable thought and feeling.
I was sure I was somewhat losing it. It turned around and made my way to the hallway. I gathered up my deployed taser and put it away, pulling out my glock instead. The alarm bells were going off in my head about what I'd just seen. There was something dangerous about this guy.
Costumes are not. He was aggressive. I wasn't willing to put myself in the line of fire. I swept both sides of the hallway before going further down. I opened one door only for him to open a door several doors down and run across the hall. Freeze!
He left into a room, not bothering to open the door. Just passing right through, like he was a fucking ghost. Now I was seeing things. I moved for the room, opened the door, and looked inside. Empty.
Completely empty. I clamped my eyes shut, then opened them. What was wrong with me? I knew I couldn't be seeing what I was seeing. I heard another commotion down the hallway, and he was standing all the way at the end, back turned to me.
I walked towards him, looking at his vertebrae, the whole way as I walked close to him. He was spacing the wall at the end of the hallway, slowly raising one of his hands, and pressing it up against the dry wall. Listen, buddy, I don't want to have to use this. Please turn around slowly.
He didn't respond. One of the bony translucent hands, drug its way down the wall. It took me a moment to realize what was happening.
“That he unzipped the wall as the best way I can describe it.”
Like the wall was some sort of flesh that tore as he slid his hand down it. The gap opened, and instead of more of the factory on the other side, it was something else. He turned, looked at me with the islas skull that was his face, and nodded his head one time, before he ran into the hole he ripped into the wall. I'm not proud to say this, but I fired my service weapon three times at him.
If the bullets made any sort of impact, it didn't show. Stop! I screamed. I ran to the opening in the wall, and froze. I can't describe this part the right way.
It wasn't anywhere on the planet Earth. It wasn't anywhere I can describe, except maybe the very foundations of hell itself. The inside of the room was like the inside of a stomach. The walls were made of flesh, organic flesh like plants with razor teeth jutted out of the ground, which itself looked like some sort of pinkish tongue designed to eat.
The structure of the ceiling was like the inside of a rib cage, like the Earth itself was some turd being swallowed by whatever creature was in here.
The air that wafted out was moist and hot, and smelled like the worst sort of...
It turned my stomach and I gagged.
But above all else was the screams. Oh God, the screams.
“There was a cacophony of screams from organic beings,”
not just some that sounded human but worse. Like the whole universe was crying out at the abomination I was looking at, begging for reprieve. I dropped my gun and fell to my knees. The sight, the sound, it was enough to drive me mad.
Tears blurred my eyes as I took the sights in.
I could feel myself gasping for air, choking, but without being able to catch my breath. Then the whole started to stitch itself closed from the floor to the ceiling, like a suture that needed the wound back together that separated our world. From whatever this hellish place was that I was in front of. Soon I was in front of blank drywall, in an abandoned factory in Granville, alone.
That's when my backup showed.
“They said they found me murmuring something, but I'll remember that.”
I do remember the tears that wouldn't stop streaming down my face, and the inability to tell them what exactly happened, what I saw, and where the suspect had gone. I sat in silence for a long time until they brought the chief out. They relieved me of duty. I'm going to have to stop talking about it after I put this here.
I've been trying to convince myself for a month, but none of this happened. But I didn't see, feel, or truly experience all of it. Lying to yourself is an art I'm finding. Because no matter what I say to convince myself otherwise, I know what I saw. I see it throughout the day and every night when I close my eyes.
I'll have to pretend because I need my job. I'll have to keep it to myself because people don't like their comfortable reality being fucked with by things they don't think are possible. But what I'm telling this piece of paper here in my therapist's office is that I know what lives on the other side of this reality. That there are ways where the things over there can come over here, and all I can do, night and day from this day forward is pray that the zipper dividing our worlds stays shut.
130 million people take road trips every year, 15,400 of them are never seen again.
Have you heard the story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately? A young couple set out on a van-life trip, but a few nights in, they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road. I'm not talking about a typical crash, something about this was off, and there's one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side, not dense scratches. They stopped, they saw it, and then they left.
But here's where things got strange, not long after creepy things start happening. They began to feel like they weren't alone in the van, like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly, it attaches itself to anyone who encounters it and marks their car with three scratches, and once that happens, it doesn't let go. If these reports are true, this couple didn't just witness something on that highway, they carried it with them.
From Andre over doll, director of autopsy of Jane Doe comes passenger, only in theaters May 22, get tickets now.
“The first thing you need to know is that the teeth aren't mine, or at least they weren't.”
If they're mine now, it's only in the sense that they're tucked in my jacket pocket, and no one else seems likely to claim them. I'll go back a little, but to help you understand just how I got to this point. Sitting by the side of the road with the smell of smoke in my nostrils and a pocket full of human teeth, but I'll start in the middle. There's something about the very beginning I'd rather not say. Five days ago I left Maine, where I'd spend the weekend with my girlfriend. I don't visit her often since the drive itself takes about 11 hours.
If you're about to warn me that long-distance relationships rarely work, save it. That's nothing I haven't heard before, and I think we'll make it. There was something about the way she watched me as we said goodbye, as though she were equal parts cautious and optimistic. She was leaned back against the hood of my car, and her crop top and blue jeans, her hair flowing over one shoulder.
It would have made for a perfect picture, if it weren't for the streak of red...
If that's all I'd missed last week, I thought, "I'm doing all right."
“I try not to think about it as I drove, and soon the redness of the dried streak was so lost to the landscape.”
Memories of blood and guts melting into the reds and golds of the foliage. A few hours passed before I glanced down and saw the little white caps, lines which surrounded the car emblem on the steering wheel. I ran my finger tip over the oblong shape they formed. They were hard and smooth. It was strange, I'll admit. But there was an unwillingness to see, at least at that point. As ridiculous as it might seem, I turned the radio up and tried to keep my eyes dead ahead.
The next time I looked down, it was undeniable that they were teeth. It was as though a mouth had been split open and the upper and lower rows of teeth pushed through the steering wheel.
I pulled over to the side of the road and counted them.
31. It was insane to think that this was related to last week, but there I was.
“Staring down at a set of human teeth, punched through my steering wheel.”
The world's strange place. I stopped at the next hardware store, went in and bought a pair of pliers. I hate to say that my mind was more on my reluctance to leave the store's air conditioning than it was on what awaited me in the car. I drove a little way down the road until I found good cover. There, I parked, moved my seat back and threw a sweatshirt onto my lap.
The sweatshirt had the logo of my girlfriend's college and I thought on her tenderly for a moment.
Just before gripping the first tooth with the pliers and pulling.
It came out, raw and bloody at the bottom, but I dropped it onto the sweatshirt before gripping the next one. By the time I had all 31 removed, the oval-late formed around the car's emblem had been replaced by open bleeding sockets. I wiped the teeth off and threw them in my pocket.
“Before pressing the sweatshirt to the steering wheel, trying to stonge a little of the blood which seat down over the black leather.”
I pulled back onto the road and drove. Although I could feel blood tripped occasionally onto my leg. The next time I looked down, I was greeted by the side of empty, socketed, weeping gums. Press through the steering wheel. As though they would swallow the silver lettering at the center,
I pulled to the side of the road again and this time pulled out my pocket knife. I cut through the gums, slicing away lashings of the ginger-vi and, these, I dropped into the sweatshirt, and tending to throw the bleeding strips into the brush. But then, I hit bone.
It seemed the jaw was fully intact, and my pocket knife was just not up to the task. I almost think I would have left it. We're at not for the fact that it kept growing. Soon, an entire lower jaw was inching forward. It's skin-formed, joined by the upper, as they crept toward my heart.
I pulled onto a small road and ran the car up against a telephone pole, gently, to avoid deploying the airbag. I didn't want to see just what would shoot out if I did. I had a can of gasoline in the trunk. Something I'd forgotten to take out before beginning my little road trip,
and I doused the car inside and out before setting the sweatshirt on fire with a lighter, and throwing it onto the roof. The car was engulfed in flames within minutes, and I could hear a blood-curdling scream coming from the inside, followed by a pounding against the hood.
To my shock, it's spring open. A human figure, twisted, broken, and blazing, crawled out, before falling in a shuttering heat to the ground, still within reach of the cars in Furno. Its form was shattered.
The collision, having rendered the body awkward by degrees. The cinch fingertips grasped for the ground as the figure smeared its halved face onto the road,
Inching its way towards me.
I stepped back, a adrenaline soaking my core.
“It didn't make it far enough, and the car's flames grew to engulf the mangled body,”
the fire spreading with each inch gained.
Until there was nothing but charred flesh and exposed bone.
So that brings me here.
“I'm sitting on the curb, with a pocket full of human teeth,”
waiting for someone to come.
I don't know exactly what I'll tell them when they get here, but I've got a few ideas. For more information on this podcast,
“including how to submit your own story for consideration,”
please visit CreepyPod.com. You can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments share a light licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast,
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