transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] Eight years ago, Katie Cannon was playing in the backyard of her family home the day she went missing. When she was found, she was uncovered alive in a 3,000 year old sarcophagus. What happened to Katie? From the studio that brought you weapons and producers, James Wan and Blumhouse, comes a terrifying new vision on April 17th. Discover the truth. Lee Cronin's The Mummy. Some things are meant to stay buried. Only in theaters in IMAX, April 17th. Rated R, under 17, not admitted without parent.

Speaker 2:
[00:37] Hey everyone. Okay, don't skip this. It's your chance to win. We're currently celebrating the fifth year of Creepaway Camp. And to spice things up, we've teamed up with Torchbearer Sauces to give away a pack of hot sauces to five lucky winners. You might even recognize some of Torchbearer's iconic flavors from Hot Ones, or our own Bloody Disgusting Podcast. To enter is simple. Just find our show on Instagram at Creepypod and look for the pinned post for more details. Giveaway runs from April 15th to the 30th, so enter soon. Again, you can find more information by searching Creepypod on Instagram. No.

Speaker 3:
[01:19] This is Creepy, a podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing Creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Speaker 4:
[01:58] Hey Jon, do you have a minute to talk before we do stories for the week?

Speaker 2:
[02:03] I'm kinda in the middle of something, Michelle.

Speaker 4:
[02:06] I can see that. Uh, what exactly am I looking at?

Speaker 2:
[02:10] Well, what's it look like?

Speaker 4:
[02:12] It looks like you're trapped in the middle of a giant spiderweb.

Speaker 2:
[02:16] You're pretty confident about that considering you just asked me what I'm doing. But yes, that's exactly what's going on. Also, why aren't you scared of the giant spiderweb?

Speaker 4:
[02:28] Probably because I know there's no such thing as spiders big enough to make that.

Speaker 2:
[02:34] Obviously, you never heard the No Sleep story, The Forest of a Thousand Legs.

Speaker 4:
[02:38] No, guess I missed that one.

Speaker 2:
[02:40] It was a good one.

Speaker 4:
[02:45] Jon? What's up? Why are you stuck in a web?

Speaker 2:
[02:50] It's not a web.

Speaker 4:
[02:51] But you just said.

Speaker 2:
[02:52] I said it looks like I'm trapped inside a giant spiderweb, which it does. But this isn't a spiderweb.

Speaker 4:
[03:00] What is it?

Speaker 2:
[03:01] It's kind of like a dream catcher. But to be very clear, it is not a dream catcher.

Speaker 4:
[03:07] Okay. Then what is it?

Speaker 2:
[03:12] It doesn't really have a name. Just take my word that it's for our protection.

Speaker 4:
[03:16] From wild animals?

Speaker 2:
[03:19] Sort of.

Speaker 4:
[03:20] Well, seems to work.

Speaker 2:
[03:22] Of course it works. Now, can you please give me a hand down from here?

Speaker 4:
[03:27] It looks like you're just stuck on this.

Speaker 2:
[03:30] No, don't pull that.

Speaker 4:
[03:34] Oh my gosh. Jon, are you okay?

Speaker 2:
[03:38] Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Wouldn't be camp if I didn't get a mild concussion. Come on. Let's get back to the campfire. You've got a story, right?

Speaker 4:
[03:52] Are you sure you're okay?

Speaker 2:
[03:54] No. In fact, I might head over to the medical cabin again. What did you say the story was about?

Speaker 4:
[04:03] It's about the King's Own Clothes. The worst thing about the wilderness is the people. It's sort of like being stuck next to someone on the airplane. You're soaring majestically through the air, enjoying the view and maybe trying to get your rest in. But instead of centering, you're stuck between an overly solicitous young man asking if you'll finish your snack and an older one trying to sell you some sort of powdered shark for longevity. On the trail, most folks are better, but there's still bad behavior. Rappers litter pristine lakeshores. I've had to sleep through a blaring episode of Love is Blind to tense over. The fabric doesn't muffle Nick Lakey's sonorous voice, folks. Well, I started trying to avoid the crowded spots, remote over photogenic. But I've learned that when you're days into the trail, with none of the niceties of civilization to enforce civilized behavior, people can get weird. I don't go out there anymore. The last trip I had was six years ago. My friend Elizabeth and I heading up north from Tuolumne Meadows. It was early in the season, that perfect time when the days are warm and the breeze is crisp, but there's still a soft blanket of snow over the slumbering peaks. The first day was crowded. We passed about a dozen people on the trails. Elizabeth was breaking in a new pair of boots, and I hadn't kept up with my fitness through the winter. So we idled up, stopping when we saw tracks in the snow and guessing at the stories they told. It was mostly deer, walking alone through the shallower drifts. Old men, stuck in their daily routines, drink here, a bite there, passing the squirrels in companionable silence. Too stubborn to move down the slopes for greener pastures. As we got up closer to Ragged Peak, we saw a few more sets of tracks. Large pads tipped with talons. Something big enough to sink heavily into the snow. We followed them a quarter mile off trail as they loped steadily through snow deep and shallow. The beast had found a brook still burbling amidst the ice and must have been considering a drink, but just before it arrived, the tracks turned direction. The rhythmic strides turned into a furious charge, and then we found a spray of blood painting the serene snow, and the wild thrashing of a life fighting to remain. It lost. The wolf, we were sure now, had dragged the stag another hundred feet. More tracks had arrived and the pack had feasted. They must have forced their snouts into the body until all that was left was a bloody mantle of skin, which had once covered the deer's shoulders and back. I was fascinated by this primal display of nature's vicious circle, but Elizabeth looked ill. I started to joke about young wolf pups needing their first solids, but she just glared at me and strode quickly back toward the trail. On the way back, I noticed the stag's unconcerned tracks, where it had been approaching the stream. Elle stayed quiet for the next hour, pondering, maybe grieving. I was lost in thought as well, but mine were more positive. We all go some time. That I've never doubted. What better path out of this world than the maw of a majestic wolf? I could imagine my friends describing how I died sustaining an apex predator. I tried to mention that to Elizabeth, but she politely told me we'd be camping at different lakes if I kept talking that way. As we settled down for the night at Shamrock Lake, she remained on edge, and I'd often catch her looking back over her shoulder at any sound from the darkness. It was a cold night, and even bundled up as we were, I tossed and turned throughout. My body was still adjusting to the altitude, and I found myself trapped in a cycle of thirst, draining my Nalgene, and fighting the complaints from my bladder. I had camped before, of course, but had no desire to step out into the frigid air and stumble through the darkness. I finally worked up my courage as thin threads of light began to show, and returned for an hour of uninterrupted sleep. As we arose the next morning, we cracked frozen threads of ice off of our tent. Little as I'd slept, I felt rejuvenated holding a coffee like a warming coal between my hands. The soft winter sun looked drawn and wan in the sky, but lit up the lake like a glowing crystal. We lingered over our paltry breakfast and wrapped up Elizabeth's torn feet before packing and heading on. As we'd hoped, the second day was quieter. We planned to make it up to Coughin Glacier by midday, and then go off-route and scramble to a little unnamed lake we'd seen on the map. No trails approached it, and we hadn't found any posts of more intrepid hikers on the forums saying they had visited. It would be an adventure, we figured, and if it was too adventurous, an adventure we could backtrack and camp sheltered beneath the lip of the glacier. It took us longer than we expected to make it up to Coughin, with Elizabeth limping gamely along her increasingly weeping feet. The hulking mass of the glacier still lurked behind layers of ridges when we stopped for lunch at a runoff stream. Our plan for almond butter and honey sandwiches was stymied when everything except for the bread was frozen. So I settled on an empty bread sandwich instead. It had taken longer than we planned to make it up this far, and the sun was quickly building downward momentum as we started scrambling up the boulder field toward our little lake. The only sounds I could hear were the wind occasionally whistling in my ear and the grating gasp of my own breath. Elle trudged along beside me, lost in her own thoughts, probably thoughts about the pain in her feet. And then I heard the improbable screech of a pipe climbing toward us. Elle and I, locked eyes. We weren't moving at our fastest, but we had kept a good pace. Who was way out here, off trail, lapping us? We turned behind us to watch, leaning heavily on our poles. Well, one of us at least. There they came, two dark figures picking their way up the scree. The loose-fitting ponchos made it impossible to say more about them, and their faces were hidden in the dark shadows of their hoods. They moved unhurriedly, but their pace never slowed, even as they high-stepped onto the larger boulders. One wore a contraption strapped around his torso, and as it raised one of the spokes to its face, I realized that was the source of the piping. As they approached us, their features became clearer. Men, older. The piper, the closer of the two, was drawn and gaunt. Under his hood was a ball cap, reducing his bony face to geometric angles and shadows. Even as the pipes rose into piercing dirge, only the mechanical puffing of his cheeks betrayed a spark of life. The second man followed shortly behind. His body, meatier, and his face, bright. He was belting out a tune, bold and coarse. I missed some of the words at the time, but I've looked it up since, memorized it. The Toie Corby's. It's an old Scottish folk song about ravens, but really, well, death. The birds are sitting on a fence, discussing their plans to feast on a fallen night, forgotten by those in his life. Through a bit of browsing online, I learned that the lyrics have evolved down the years, but the thrust has stayed the same. Life is dark and you die very much alone. It's not a happy song, but I didn't find it so terrible. I had long thought about having a green burial, returning my body to the soil, even if I'd been left by those around me as the song posits. My partner, my horse, my hawk and my hunting hound. Well, at least the hungry ravens will appreciate my remains. There was one stanza which really stuck out to me since I heard it three times. It's not in any recorded version that I've been able to find. What a girl filled till one runs dry, Believer mock the bonnie, Get Trader Hawk a gritty tongue, And the King's own Clothes tear their water. That gleeful old man gave a mirthful chuckle at the mention of the Trader Hawk, and shimmied out a little dance on the last line. When he sang it, I barely understood a word of that last bit. I'll come to that. But in the verse, the ravens don't just feed themselves. They offer up bits of the corpse as offerings to their comrades, the knight's own hawk, who in this telling lured him to his death, an eye for the maggots in the dirt, and the king's own clothes for the worm. As these two strange men approached us, Elizabeth and I eyed each other skeptically. It was an unusual experience, and I needed to square it with my notion of things it was possible to encounter. I steeled my courage and squared up to them as they drew even, gave a friendly greeting, and asked which trail had they started from. They walked right past. The skeletal man didn't even glance in my direction, though the singer turned his head, didn't pause his singing, though. He just gave a roguish wink and carried on up the slope. Elle and I froze completely, waiting for them to get out of sight. I wasn't sure whether to run away screaming, or start laughing hysterically. Once they were out of earshot, we hoped. Elizabeth started running through the possible scenarios. They were seasoned old hikers who had been traipsing through these mountains forever, and simply had no time for chat anymore. We were fine, and we would surely not see them again. They were on a different mental level. Maybe some cocktail of hallucinogens, and we were probably fine, but should not camp near them. Or, we hoped, they were just a bit odd. Hikers who were working on their act for a renaissance festival, or Celtic revivalist band, and they'd be good chat over some tea or whiskey tonight. We hoped it was the last one, but thought it better to keep our distance. Talking it through made the absurdity more grounded, and we carried on at the slope. The sun was well on its way down by the time we were in sight of that little unnamed lake. It was beautiful, a twinkling jewel with glassy curtains of ice floating in the middle. Beyond it rose another peak whose name was unknown to me, and thankfully not a tent in sight. We wouldn't need to figure out which of our scenarios was the correct one. But once again, the mountain surprised us. We were paused at the overlook one of us might have insisted on a snack before carrying on, when we heard more scrabbling from below. We were faced by a more mundane sight this time, though still an improbable one. Three young athletes were flying up the slope, closer to running than hiking. One woman and two men, they all looked to be in their 20s, and weren't breathing nearly hard enough for the challenge of their task. As they approached, we could see that their clothing was better suited to a day hike near the road than moving deeper into the wilderness. Two days away from the trail start, all three were hiking pants, trail runners and light jackets with camelbacks and no other gear for shelter or overnight stays. We stared at them, open-mouthed for a moment, balancing awe at their prowess with concern about their survival unprotected through the cold night. One of the men, tall and sleek, approached us with a casual wave. He smiled but skipped past the typical hiker's salutations on the weather, the trail, beauty. Instead, he just pointed to a distant peak five or six miles past the lake and asked if that was Black Mountain. Elle and I conferred as she brought up the Cal Topo app on her phone. I noticed that the three didn't seem to have phones or any electronic gadgets on them. The man glanced at Elle's map, scrolling around to confirm landmarks, and then gave a thumbs up and retreated. The woman started off and the two men looked behind without another word. With this last, we'd had enough strangeness for the day and couldn't wait to set up camp by the lake. As we finished the last few minutes of the hike, we also debated over scenarios with the runners. We were more confident they didn't present a risk to us but worried over whether they could last the night further into the mountains. Ultimately, we decided to inform the rangers back in Tuolumne and make sure they had a record of the group and their expected return time. There was little else we could do and searching for them on our own seemed unwise. Once we reached the water's edge, I glanced at the ice on the surface and decided to forgo my usual habit of an alpine dive. Instead, we huddled in our sleeping bags and stirred together a mix of dehydrated pad thai, dehydrated taco mix and tuna. The sunset painted the snowy rocks in boisterous red and pink and then cooled to a frozen purple. As soon as the sun ducked its head behind the ridge line, we piled into our tents and tried to sleep through the frigid night. The first two days, I hadn't heard many animals on the trip. It was the tail end of winter and bears, marmots and the fabled sierra chipmunk were still cozy in their dens. But as I drifted off to sleep, I heard a bird nearby, its screech cutting through the still air. I never sleep well when I'm camping and I must have spent a few hours in a half-dose, mind caught between wake and mountainous dreamscape. At some point, when the tent was lit only by the barest of light of the moon, I was roused by a flapping sound, like a sail unfurling passing nearby. As I came fully awake, I realized it must be the mooring of one of our tents, come undone. But I saw no movement in the canvas around me. Some part of me wanted to investigate, but the sleeping animal within me stayed curled in my sleeping bag. I woke again in total darkness. Once the moon had faded, but not even a hint of the sun's light was visible. In the distance, I heard the echoing of first one bird, then more voices piling in until it sounded like a flock of hundreds echoing through the valleys. I saw Elizabeth turn on her flashlight and heard her step cautiously outside. I thought of joining her, but my muscles froze at the thought of going outside. To this day, I don't know if I thank fate for that decision or regret it to the core of my being. Her boots crunched through the snow and stones as her light moved away from the tents. I held stock still, listening intently. After a minute, both the sound and light had faded away. I strained to hear any noise, but the wind blowing the fabric of my tent drowned out anything else. But my tent wasn't moving. The same flapping I'd heard before swooped overhead, and the piercing shriek of a bird of prey cut through the stillness. At last, my body came fully awake and I pulled myself out of my shelter. My skin withered in the biting cold, and my stalking feet cried out at the sharp stones underfoot. I stumbled in the direction Elizabeth had gone, my head swiveling to find the source of the monstrous sounds. Another piercing cry broke through the night, this time a human voice. I broke into a full run toward where Elizabeth's light had faded away. I dodged between dark shapes of trees hurtling over a small boulder. My foot hit something hard and I was facedown in the dirt, confused. A light approached me, Elizabeth's voice asking if I was all right, wondering why I'd come running. Had it she heard that hideous flapping? Had it she screamed? But no, she said, she'd just been finding a private place to go to the bathroom, and the wind had picked up around us. But she, too, had heard animal noises in the distance, perhaps birds fighting or a mountain goat loosing a dying scream. I suddenly calmed down and we returned to our tents, though I didn't sleep another wink. At last, the weak gray light of pre-dawn emerged and we climbed out of our tents. Almost wordlessly, we packed up. On most trips, we start our mornings slowly, warming over a cup of coffee before going about our usual cleaning and packing. But after such a night, we moved quickly. Every snapping branch or scrap of birdsong brought my head up. Though I became more inclined to agree with Elle, my nerves had gotten the best of me. We started to retrace our route back down to the trailhead, moving at pace. Once the sun was fully up in the sky and the shadows had retreated far back into the mountain valleys, we discussed what we'd each heard through the night. I thought it had been a flock of birds fighting over something, maybe even knocking a young goat off of some precarious perch. Elle thought it was smaller birds, sparrows maybe, flocking together to chase off a hawk from their nests. Neither of us said aloud the other possibility. Carriant birds, squabbling over the remains of a fit but unprepared trail-runner, or a seasoned old hiker whose body had given out. We pushed hard, and by the time we stopped for a short lunch break, more bread, we decided we could shorten the return trip from two days to one. It was as we were shouldering our packs, when seen as cold, sweaty shirts were pressed into our backs, that we heard a noise again. A branch snapped nearby, and if I'm honest, I jumped about three feet straight up before turning to look behind me. It was the two male runners, the young ones, hiking now but with a sinuous speed that quickly brought them toward us. I let out a sigh of relief, both at seeing ordinary human figures instead of some ravenous thunderbird, and at realizing they hadn't run into trouble. I squared up to them, shouting a friendly greeting as they approached. Once they were within easy earshot, I started to ask about their companion and mention our concern. But I was cut off as the first young man carried on, staring straight ahead. The other man following shortly behind did turn toward me. His lips were moving strangely as though he was trying to speak but wasn't quite familiar with how his larynx was supposed to work. At a distance, all I could hear was a wet gurgle. But as he passed closer, I could make out rhythmic words, the same stanza I'd heard the day before, becoming crystal clear as he belted out, and the kings and clays tell the world. All I could do was stare in disbelief as the young man gave a roguish wink and disappeared down the trail. That was the second time I heard the song. I mentioned there was a third. Elizabeth and I finally got off that godforsaken mountain, out of those most unwelcoming woods. Like I said, this was six years ago. I haven't backpacked a day since. Most of the time, I couldn't even tell you what I was afraid of. But something about that thought of hiking deeper into those dark valleys, away from the bustle and lights of town, just started to fill me with dread. Maybe it was the change of interests. Maybe it was some little spat that I can't remember. But Elizabeth and I were never as close after that trip. She'd text or call and ask if I was interested in this or that excursion and I'd demure politely. After a year, she stopped doing that. After two, she wouldn't return my calls when I tried to check in on her. One tipsy night, I glanced at her social media profiles to see where she had ended up. With a running group apparently traversing the trails. Out of happiness for her and her new friends, I blocked her and took another shot. Last spring, the call of the wild had grown enough within me to overcome my fear, and I planned a trip to Zion Park. Start from the grotto on the valley floor, head past the crowds on Angel's Landing, and get up to the West Rim. I figured if I went fast, I could make it to the top by afternoon, and descend before true night fell. It was mostly going according to plan, though my legs ached more than I had anticipated. Packed to start, but after the Angel's Landing turnoff, I didn't see anyone until I reached the rim, but just as I crested the final stretch, I saw three figures approaching quickly. The closest was a woman, half-trotting a good quarter-mile ahead of the other two. She gave a half-nod in response to my friendly wave, heading single-mindedly for the descent. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn't put my finger on what. A few minutes later, the other two drew close. Two more women, eating up the distance with long, sinuous strides. The first didn't even glance in my direction, they kept puffing on a harmonica at her lips. But the second did. It was Elizabeth, different than I'd remembered. A little taller and thicker, not clearly fatter or stronger, just meatier. As I stared at her, mouth agape, she did turn to me with a smile on her face. She was saying something, but seemed to struggle to get the words out.

Speaker 2:
[29:34] Hey, everyone. So, if you've been listening to our Nutri-Fol ads for the last couple of months, you might know that I've called on some old acquaintances of mine that have had some, well, let's say, follicular issues. Now, if that's something that's genetic or simply a side effect of subjecting oneself to the endless miasma of twisted pleasure and pain, who's to say? But while I hang around here, I wanted to remind you all that Nutri-Fol is the number one dermatologist recommended hair growth supplement brand, and it's the number one hair growth supplement brand personally used by dermatologists. Nutri-Fol's hair growth supplements are peer-reviewed, NSF certified for sport and clinically tested. Stop waiting for all your wishes to come true in the form of a mystical puzzle box and do yourself a favor. Let your hair be one last thing to worry about. See visibly thicker, stronger, faster growing hair in three to six months with Nutri-Fol. For a limited time, Nutri-Fol is offering our listeners $10 off your first month subscription and free shipping when you visit nutrifol.com and enter promo code Creepy10. That's nutrifol.com, spelled nutrafol.com, promo code Creepy10. Hey, can someone let me down? The hooks are sliding into places. I don't much care for hooks to be.

Speaker 4:
[31:03] Hello?

Speaker 2:
[31:05] That's nutrifol.com and promo code Creepy10. Shoot. I missed the story again, didn't I?

Speaker 4:
[31:14] Only by about an hour.

Speaker 2:
[31:16] An hour? Well, that's a little concerning. I'm sure I just need to sleep it off. So what were you guys all talking about?

Speaker 4:
[31:25] Just that we were thinking about switching cabins up a little bit.

Speaker 2:
[31:29] Yeah, no, don't do that. Or, I mean, I guess if you do, just don't do that with Cabin 12.

Speaker 4:
[31:37] Why?

Speaker 2:
[31:38] Because Cabin 12 is still occupied. So a couple of years ago, when I first got this place built, there were 13 cabins. Because of course I'd built 13 cabins, right? Well, after we left that year, I hired a property management crew to take it over and sublet it out for other outdoor programs to actually be able to afford any of this. At the end of the first summer, I got an email saying there had been an incident. They emailed me a report saying that a fire of undetermined origin had started in Cabin 12. Moving past all the panic that I felt in that moment of being financially liable to any damages or injuries, I looked through the paperwork and saw what was worded really strangely. It said that, due to our location, putting out the fire was basically out of the question due to its size and that it had burned all night, fortunately not causing any damage to the surrounding wetland or other cabins. But the really strange part was one of the sentences that said there were no injuries and no remains were discovered. The phrasing bothered me immediately. It didn't say no one was inside. It said no remains were found. So I got on the next flight I could to go down there myself and see how bad things were, as well as hoping to talk with the management team and personally kick the ass of whoever just so happened to forget to tell me about a freaking fire at the camp I owned. When I got to camp, I went to the maintenance shed to get some flashlights and saw something taped inside the cabin. It was a handwritten note to the staff that said staff were never to enter Cabin 12 under any circumstances. I just assumed it had to do with the risk of walking through the wreckage. Realizing the management crew still wasn't there, I went and looked for the remains of Cabin 12 myself. It had been a minute since I had been out here, but I didn't remember all the trees and brush being so thick. And the air felt heavy in that sort of way that makes sense in a Louisiana Bayou. But there was something else, too. It was quiet, really, really quiet. I didn't see the cabin site at first. I felt a strange change in pressure, like my ears popping on a flight. Then the trees seemed to part slightly and Cabin 12 stood where it always had in my memory. The structure looked intact. The wood was dark and swollen from the heat and humidity. Boards bowed and warped, but nothing was broken, let alone burnt. The roof saved unevenly, and the windows were covered in grime. Definitely worse off than how I had left it, like it was something that had been standing there for years, for decades. And the door was open. There were no signs of fire damage. I mean none. No scorch marks, no collapsed beams. I went back outside and noticed that the ground around the cabin was all churned into mud by what looked like footprints. I'm no tracker or anything, but they looked fresh. The mud still had a shine to it. The prints overlapped each other in tight circles around the structure. All of them faced inward, toes pointed toward the doorway. Some impressions were deeper than others. I stepped back and felt the hair on my arms stand up. The air felt like a storm was coming, but the sky was clear. I returned to my rental and waited there until nightfall. While when no one arrived, I opted to stay in cabin one and wait for them in case they were just running late. I wasn't able to get through on my cell phone, so I hoped they were on their way. After dark, I heard footsteps outside my cabin. They moved slowly along the dirt path, deliberate, heavy. The sound paused near my door, lingered, then continued past without anyone touching the handle. I waited for someone to knock or call out, but no one did. When I checked outside, I didn't see anyone. Not a single person. I figured it had to be an animal, but I didn't see any paw prints. Just the same kind of prints that were around cabin 12. In the morning, muddy footprints marked the path between my cabin and the woods. They stopped just short of the front steps and didn't continue beyond them. The soil was still wet, and still I didn't see any trace of the management company reps. I tried calling them again and got no answer. To say that I was pissed would be an understatement at that point. I figured I'd take one more look around, take some pics of the cabin, and just head into town and find myself on the way to the airport. The only problem was the cabin 12 was gone. In its place was a blackened clearing and charred timbers half-sunk into the earth. The whole area smelled like a smoldering campfire, and there were no footprints anywhere around the cabin foundation. Obviously, there was something wrong. Either I had hallucinated the night before, or I don't know, maybe I had confused cabin 12 with one of the other cabins. I didn't know. But I stayed. I decided to make sure the rest of the camp was still in working order and that nothing else had gone down without my knowing about it. Before I knew it, the sun was going down again. I went to the mess hall and found some granola bars to hold me over until morning. Again, still no management team. At this point, I was starting to think I should have called lawyers instead. I decided I'd stay one more night, and if I got no response, I'd be looking into what I had to do next with insurance on the right of the airport. That didn't happen. I didn't make my flight home next day or the day after that. I stayed. I learned things about Cabin 12. Cabin 12 itself only fully appeared at night once the sun had fully disappeared and the shadows took over. And just like that, the burnt out remains of the cabin would just sort of dissolve into the darkness, and the cabin would take its place so slowly that you didn't even really realize it was happening. It never looked exactly the same twice. Some nights the boards were more splintered, other nights the roofs sagged lower, but always intact in the darkness, and it was always occupied. Light leaked through the seams between boards, dim and uneven, shadows shifted behind the windows, slow and crowded. The air around it pressed against my chest when I stood too close. Every night footprints circled the burning clearing. They pressed into the soil that showed no other signs of disturbance. None of them ever let away. Every morning, they were gone. I began to recognize differences in the prints. Some were too long, bending slightly, as if the foot had been forced flat. Others showing heel impressions without toes. A few dragged, leaving trenches in the mud that suggested bodies being pulled rather than walking. By the sixth night, the footprints had advanced closer to camp. I took pictures, of course, but what did that amount to? A cabin at night, rubble in the daylight, footprints in the mud. So what? This is the part of the horror movie where the audience yells at the screen, just leave. I know, I'd say the same thing. That's a problem with any haunted house style movie, isn't it? The simple question, why didn't they just leave? Every once in a while, there's a movie that does it right and makes it so the person can't leave. For the record, as far as I know, I could have left, but I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to. All the time and money and everything I'd put into the place. It didn't matter how many movies I'd watched or horror stories I've narrated. When you're the one in the moment, it's different. Before I was going to abandon it all, I had to know. I couldn't live the rest of my life not knowing. As dumb as that sounds in hindsight. Then the footprints started to move. They appeared near the mess hall first, then the medical building, then the maintenance shed. Each morning they stopped just short of the buildings, like they were afraid of something, or testing something. I woke one night with crushing pressure on my chest. The smell of damp wood and soil filled my nose. When I managed to sit up, the sensation vanished instantly. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw the streaks of mud on the floor near my bed. Then, Cabin 12 moved closer. I didn't travel in a way I could track. It simply appeared closer each night, never running into the trees or anything around it. The bayou just seemed to bend as I moved further and further toward the far edge of the camp. The door was open wider now. The interior looked cramped and wrong, stretching so deep inside that I couldn't make out the far wall. It was even shining a maglight directly into it. The smell rolling out of it was thick and sour like vomit and something else. And there was something moving inside. It wasn't walking exactly, it was shifting. Bodies adjusting against each other in a space too small to contain them. Wood creaked under uneven pressure. I went back to my own cabin, slamming the door and sliding one of the bends in front of it as I went back and stared to pull over the records I was able to get access to from the management company, whose phone number was now disconnected. Slowly, a picture started to form. A picture that wouldn't become whole until months later. See, Cabin 12 burned with everyone inside. And whatever remained, had never left. That management company, turns out they made some bad financial decisions with property around NOLA and decided that they were going to try and cut some corners at this camp to make up for some losses. Corners at the people in the camp didn't appreciate much. Those shapes inside the cabin, that was them. What was left of them, stuck here, forced to live in the place that they'd tried to manipulate for their own gain. But of all the questions that I never actually got an answer to, there's one that's always bothered me. Well, one that's bothered me worse than the others. Who sent me the email about Cabin 12 in the first place? All I know is that sometimes when I wake up at night, I smell damp wood and old smoke. So, when I say, don't go into Cabin 12, I mean it. Because Cabin 12 is still occupied. It's only waiting for someone else to join whatever waits inside.

Speaker 4:
[43:55] You're telling us the camp is really haunted?

Speaker 2:
[43:58] What? No. Come on, it's just a story. That's what we do here. But seriously, don't go in Cabin 12. It's sticky.

Speaker 4:
[44:10] Did you say sticky or stinky?

Speaker 2:
[44:13] Yes. Whichever keeps you out of the cabin. Speaking of which, I should do some rounds before going to bed. Seriously, the rest of you can talk and it isn't your week to do stories. People are going to start thinking something weird is going on here. Nothing? Great. Awesome. Thanks. Well, I'll see you all later. Feel free to keep sitting there just staring at each other in silence. Seriously, are you the nurses from Silent Hill or something? Wait, are you?

Speaker 3:
[44:59] 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 commons share alike licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the Creepy Podcast production team and the stories author.

Speaker 5:
[45:47] Imagine a city, unlike any other, simmering 300 years in a raucous gumbo of debauchery versus devotion. Catholicism. Confession is anonymous. Versus voodoo.

Speaker 6:
[46:01] I think I done made a deal with the devil.

Speaker 5:
[46:05] What you call life.

Speaker 6:
[46:07] And what I called death.

Speaker 5:
[46:11] It's a mysterious crossroads where the denizens of this world. And others.

Speaker 6:
[46:16] He is a trickster.

Speaker 4:
[46:17] And I'm sure whatever he brought back from the world of the dead was a one-way trip.

Speaker 5:
[46:22] Collide Daily. And for Detective Frank Dupreeh.

Speaker 6:
[46:26] I will see you in there.

Speaker 5:
[46:28] And Nicky Goodluck. This will be a dark ride. Welcome to New Orleans, Babies.

Speaker 6:
[46:38] Listen to something wicked on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you enjoy listening.