Walk Among The Whispering Willows & The Server Ocean

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 made in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey y'all. Happy Augtober.

I don't even care about the summer-loving people who just let out a groan. With that much closer to the time of year, I've been looking forward to since. Oh, since all this started, I guess. Okay. I'm going to roll under the stories today because there seems to have been a slight turn in the mailbag this week.

I didn't get anything from listeners that I can tell, but I did start getting some letters from coworkers here at the station that I've never physically interacted with.

“And they seem to be under the impression that I'm, well, that's between me and Dale, isn't it Dale?”

You don't even think about bringing HR into it. I know you're the one lurking in the shadows when I leave here at night. Or maybe you aren't. Either way, let's handle this like, I was going to say like adults, but I know you paid for that awful mills retreat, so really more than anything, it seems like you just need a hug.

Not from me, you burned that bridge. And I'm pretty sure you're the one who started the fire in the break room when you set the popcorn setting to 30 minutes. Instead of three minutes, it's 2026, what kind of monster is still making popcorn in office microwaves? And I swear, if you ever bring in fish, we're going to handle this like dark age peasants. And you don't want to play that game with me, my friend.

I've been building up an immunity to rat bites. I don't sleep much.

“Okay, first up, from writer Brady Karner and Narrative by Owen McCune, creepy presents.”

Walk among the whispering willows. Settle down now, children. Grandpa's got another story for you. Yes, it is another old one, another from my childhood. It's something your parents and your grandmother would not believe.

They'd rather trust the stories in the newspapers and the rumors around town than what actually happened. But believe me, when I tell you, there is truth to every word I say, as a story of an old friend of mine. A friend I misdeerly to this day.

Yes, you are correct, young one, and you could have called him my best friend. I was his, and he was mine. But like all good things, my young kin, even the best childhood friendships must come to an end. I tell you, youngsters, the loss of my old pal was one of the hardest things I've

ever had to overcome.

“But I believe he would have wanted me to carry on his story to pass it on so his memory”

would not be forgotten. Tonight, I'll tell you the story of my friend Robbie and me as we took a walk among the whispering willows. It started back when I was just a little one. Around your age, in fact, you see, back then the houses that now

reside on Willow Street, the same street you all pass by on the school bus on the way to school every morning, had yet to be constructed. Back then there was a grove of actual weeping willow trees in their place. It was a small grove, but large enough that one could still get lost within. Large enough that when you stop and look in through the trees along swaying leaves, you

cannot possibly see through to the other side. Old Robbie and I, when we would pass by that grove every morning and night as we rode our bikes to and from school, and it was uphill both ways, of course.

Oh, never mind, it's just an old joke that you'll understand when you get older.

Every day as Robbie and I rode our bikes home, we would make sure to pedal just a little faster and speak just a little softer as we pass the old Willow's. Downtown back then, there was a myth, a myth that whoever had planted the Willows, since the trees are not native to the prairies and therefore had to have been planted, had enchanted them.

Well, enchanted some said, but others would have said, cursed.

leaves, but enchanted because those that disappeared had gone of their own free willow they had wandered into the Willows with a reason to disappear and something within the trees, granted them freedom from what haunted them in reality. It was that these children would follow the whispers of the willows until they found it.

It was not a monster, per se, and not a creature either. Let's just call it an entity. This entity, though it went by many names, was mostly called the planter.

The planter was never thought of as an evil or a malevolent being.

It was simply known as something that was to be respected and given space. Some described it as a living, breathing tree, a solid, unmoving mass of bark and branches that whispered to the children. Others said it was more humanoid, with white bark skin to match the willows it guarded, and long arms to hold the hands of the children as it whisked them away.

Regardless of what it was, Robbie and I were terrified of the thing, of the legend, or so I thought, at least.

“Robbie and I had been best friends since I could remember.”

We would spend our days playing jacks or shooting marbles, always with broken and bleeding knuckles from where the teacher had a wrap to us for talking and giggling at the back of the class. In the months leading to his disappearance, however, he seemed to pull away.

At first, I thought nothing of it.

I was sure we played less, and we giggled less. We shot fewer marbles and often our bike rides around that time were spent in silence. But I knew his father had just returned from his deployment, and I figured that Robbie was just spending quality time with his old man. Oh, in the innocence of a child.

It wasn't until the day Robbie walked into the willows that I finally clued in the things might not be all right at home for him. I remember it clear as day. Robbie came to school late with an eye that was black and blue, and an arm and a makeshift sling.

I remember becoming furious. "Who did this to you?" I asked, "Was it Tom and his gang?" I whispered, as he sat beside me. They were the older boys who sometimes stole our good snacks from our lunch kits you see. All Robbie did that day with shake his head and stare at the board.

“I remember looking over at him and seeing tear drops on the paper on his desk.”

Right then, I didn't care who'd done it. I was furious, and I wanted to avenge my pal, so when he took off home before I could ask him who had heard him, I'd tell you I'd peddled that bike as fast as I could to catch up to him. Then I caught him, just as he rode to a stop and they ditched beside the willows.

As I came around the bend in the road, I saw him. He had dropped his bike in the tall roadside grass, and was locked enough thousand yards stare into the waving willow leaves. I called out. I called out as loud as my young lungs could shout, "Robbie!" I shouted.

"Robbie, stop, wait!" I screamed. My sneakers flew around and round on the pedals, around and around went the chain. In the motion, my shoelaces untied, and through the chain, around and around my shoelaces went, sending me sprawling onto the rough asphalt. Glory my skint knees and forearms, I leapt to my feet and shouted once more to Robbie.

Robbie turned to me, he raised the hand, shook his head, and walked into the willows. By the time I limped my way to where Robbie's bike lay, young ones, it was already too late. My best friend in the whole wide world had heard the whispers of the willows, and had followed their gentle summoning through the waving leaves of the grove.

“I remember that moment like it was yesterday.”

My heart racing, my palms slick with sweat, blood dripping down my knees, I followed Robbie into the grove of the whispering weeping willows. I don't quite remember how I knew which direction to go. I just remember the vague outline of Robbie's figure passing through the leaves ahead as I trudged along through the moss covered ground.

I saw a few feet into the trees, I heard the first whispers, they said, "Leave him.

That him be." I shiver around down my spine when I heard it. I knew what they meant. The trees were guiding Robbie to the planter.

"No!" I shouted. "Robbie, stop, please!" I quickened my pace.

“I needed to reach Robbie before it found him.”

After what seemed like an eternity, an eternity being bombarded by whispers which had grown

ever more adamant than my old pal did not want to be saved. I reached the edge of a clearing, and I saw him. I parted the hanging leaves of the edge of the clearing and peered within. It was as if the trees had decided in unison to stop growing in a perfect circle around a giant willow in the centre of the circle.

Robbie stood before this tree. Head tilted back, and tears streaming down his face, he stood. I leapt forward, I needed to stop him. But something snatched up my ankles and held me back. With terror in my heart, I realized the leaves of the willows had snared me.

The grove was doing all it could to stop me from reaching Robbie.

“I kicked and screamed, but I was powerless to move, and my cries seemed to fall short of”

Robbie's ears. That was it, then, children. That was when I saw it. The planter peeled itself away from the tree in the centre of the clearing with the sound of creaking and cracking bark.

It was enormous. And much to reach nine feet tall, it's skin and amalgamation of white and brown bark. Its face was made of conformed blended tree knots. It's arms long and thin, dawned the appearance of branches. It peeled away, and knelt before Robbie.

On the wind lay out a low rumbling whisper, "Come child," it said, as the planter pulled Robbie close and wrapped him tightly in a hug. I cried one final cry as the planter stood, took Robbie's hand in it, and guided my best friend to a great knot in the giant willow. The planter laid its other hand on the tree and muttered a chant.

Before my eyes, the bark of the tree appeared to swirl and morph until a small doorway appeared on its surface. Robbie turned to face me one last time. I saw my pals face for one last time. The solemn and tier-ridden face of a beaten child was replaced by a smile that reached all

the way to his eyes. Behind Robbie, the planter turned the knob and swung the door wide. Robbie spoke to me, and he sounded a thousand miles away. Goodbye my friend, it's OK. I can be happy now.

He turned together with the planter and stepped through the doorway. As the door faded, I was released from the snare of the willow leaves. I sprinted to the tree in the center of the clearing, but it was too late. The door was closed. I was not meant to follow.

Well, that my young kid was the story of my old pal Robbie.

“I want you to remember that story as you drive by Willow Street on the bus tomorrow.”

Remember that you never know how badly someone is hurting, and that you should look out

for your best friends and your siblings as best you can. What's that? Oh, that old Willow tree in the backyard? Yes, I suppose not all the willows from the Grove were chopped down after all. Do you know this moment of true crime podcasts?

A Augenblick, a Enchider, and nothing is more to do with the German Fluxich Room. We all know that this moment is always a happy end. If you want to give your job the right to get mixed out of action and your own land, then you will be happy and happy. www.fluxlosevered.de. And next, for my diploma, I'm married by Lisha Hacens.

Creepy presents, the Surfer Ocean. I was 5,000 miles deep into the Pacific servers, billions of machines, stretching thousands of miles and all directions. The dark gray steel surface vibrated and hummed. It was a cacophonist facsimile of the organic life that used to thrive here.

Decades ago, there was greenery dotting the Pacific.

islands.

“The computing space was much more important, however, and the islands needed to be cannibalized”

by the continuous expansion for data storage.

It was a worthwhile train-off, 60 miles until destination. The voice for my narrow port echoed within my skull. I'll be there soon. 20 minutes, if I kept my foot on the pedal and didn't take any breaks, I was the seventh repairman sent for this job.

I signed up for this gig for a substantial discount on a parking ticket. 30% off is a steel. The original price I had to pay would have killed me. The greater of the risk, the greater the reward, after all. I steered and weaved my bike between jagged metallic signal pillars that shot out hundreds

of meters into the sky.

The antennas and server blades were all from different companies and stations.

“All stacked on top of one another, weaving into themselves in a warp monstrosity of”

wires and poles and lights, fighting for dominance. They pierced upwards and haphazard directions, creating colossal forms that appeared like massive talons reaching for a savior. On my journey, I noticed flayed corpses spread thin on the broken mechanical surface, corpses who most likely belonged to the repairman sent before me.

They probably lost direction or weren't quick enough to everlessly dodge the station pillars. Their poor body's baked in the scorching sun, which then turned them into melted sludge that dripped into server caverns below. They were a reminder that this job had a devastating cost, and it's another reminder of what happens when you cheap out and don't buy the premium neural ports.

It may put you into three lifetimes of debt, but keeps you alive. Your duty is below. The optical attachment flashed red arrows on the screen of my cooling unit, pointing below the metal surface.

“As screeched to a halt and spun around the spot I needed to descend, I parked my bike and”

let it aisle. I looked down into the broken and maimed entrance inside. It's a deep dive. I unlocked the wind from the back of my bike and hooked my harness onto the cable. On the head up display, the timer read two hours and forty-five minutes.

That should just be enough time to make the repairs and get out. I stepped down, balancing on a shard of fiberglass that I used for a makeshift step. I tugged on the cable to make sure it was sturdy and squeezed myself down, nearly cutting my suit on the sharp and broken server blades in the process. I dropped into the bus.

Fifty meters, millions of layers of glass and wire and plastics around it made. There used to be an organized system to find which servers belonged to which, but that process was deemed too expensive. And the endless construction quickly made them obsolete. The demand for new technologies, new AI systems, and newer faster products required even

more computing power. Five hundred meters. In a mad dash to create more data storage, companies rushed and began to slap their servers on top of one another. It turned the old system of refined stairs, hallways and rooms into a chaotic mess of

compressed haphazard layers of copper wires, silicon and flashing lights. This slamp-dash method of data storage meant that repairs were needed to untangle the mess that was created decades ago. You'd think the wise idea would be to bulldoze at all and start over.

But to entirely destroy 63.8 million square miles of area would be an impossible task.

So, repairman would instead be utilized. Two thousand meters. The further down I went, the older the technology appeared. In the distance, I heard the massive streams of the ancient ocean roaring throughout the server caves, funneling down and attempting to cool the roiling heat pulsating off the

rested machinery. Billions of cooling vents rushed all the heat from the computer's downward, which prevented the overheating of the surface. However, this meant that the servers below now burned far too hot and boiled most of the water away.

The remaining streams were now nothing more than roaring boiling rivers, blasting massive fumes of steam into the caverns. This ocean has outlived its usefulness. It is now just a worthless reminder of what it used to be.

the spot I needed to fix.

“The wipers on my visor wiped the condensation from the steam away, and I swung myself”

forward, where I found purchase on a wide clearing of cracked plastic tubes in broken metal. I found myself in an ancient cavern that used to be an organized server system, before the idea was abandoned for our current one. The plastic and glass chips cracked underneath my boots as I moved forward.

This area I found myself in was similar to the office spaces of old, where a consisted of dozens of halls and doorways, with labeled signs made for human eyes, which hadn't been necessary in a very long time. The steam misted through the space like a haunted fog, threatening to burn away any unsuited

poor soul that found their way in its path.

The cooling suit kept me stable enough to keep moving. Destination near, the arrows began to blink and direct towards one of the server hallways.

“I saw a large sign that labeled the entrance.”

Unfamiliar with these old words, I scanned it in the neuroport spoke. Oh, hi-o. Wow. That place has an existed in a long time. I'm surprised someone's device was still connected to an Ohio port of all things.

The iron door that was previously underneath the entrance sign was ripped from its post, where its pieces were scattered nearby on the ground. With my headlamp shined in the dark and broken server ruins, the red LEDs that dotted the walls were still barely operational and flickered on and off. Apparently, electricity still reached these depths.

I looked up at the gaps between iron railings and copper wires and saw vast distance above me, shadowed in deep darkness where there existed millions of blinking blue and white lights.

“Coming from various cables and machines, they reminded me of stars, which I haven't seen”

since I was a child. Here, I snap from my daydream and focus back on my duty and fiddle with my pouch, unhooking a fiber plastic bag with the client's fix and sign. I scanned the smaller sign above the broken server port, Sanduski, Ohio, a couple of seconds of whining machinery crackle to life and then stopped, speeding out a year's old server

chip with a click. Looks like Ohio is still going strong after all this time. I pulled out the damaged chip and tossed it to the ground, where it clattered with several others at the same model. I inserted the new one where it slid back inside.

A green light appeared, indicating that my job was done. 35 minutes left on the timer, looks like I get a bonus for completing a job a little early. I typed in the return code and readyed myself for the core to yank me back to the surface. Hopefully, this repair was worth all the trouble. I sure as hell don't want to do this again.

6,000 miles away, in a ruined uninhabited zone that used to be Sanduski, Ohio.

An elderly woman had finally noticed that her phone was back online, after a grueling three

weeks of no service. This was a common occurrence with people of her status level, and ironic existence considering her old home had been moved over by one of the world's largest data mega centers, encompassing the entirety of the state of Ohio in half of Michigan. She is just one of the many civilians that try to make their existence work under a shadow.

She limped into a ragged hovel, pieced together from the wooden ruins of human homes. It existed under the shade of a white steel canopy that jutted out from the mega centers exterior, out of sight from the security drones. She struggled to sit down on the dirt rough ground and powered on her old phone. It powered on with a dull time.

Fortunately, it had enough power to send out a singular message, and then right after her order a new repairman to fix the server chip that powered on her device for several precious minutes. She asked her AI companion to send her daughter a message, where it then generated a crude image of what is supposed to be a dancing giraffe saying, "Happy birthday."

The message reached its destination, where it was then promptly ignored by its recipients. The 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.

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To catch this moment out through CreepyPodcast, a huge click, and nothing is more to say.

With the German Fluxicherung, we will tell you that in this moment we always have a happy

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“If you want to see your job on the right, make it out of action and take a look at it,”

then I'll see you again today and see you again on www.fluxloosewerden.de.