transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:01] This week's episode is brought to you by Well Go USA's new creature feature horror, The Yeti, only in AMC Theaters April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th. When an oil tycoon and a famous adventurer disappear into the frozen wilderness of Northern Alaska, a handpicked rescue team ventures in to bring them home. But they're not alone. They've crossed into the Yeti's territory and the brutal elements are the least of their worries. Packed with blood splattered suspense, a towering beast and gruesome practical effects, the Yeti is a throwback to the glory days of monster movies. Starring Brittany Allen, Eric Nelson, Jim Cummings, William Sadler and Corbin Bernstein. Don't miss it. The Yeti, only in AMC theaters April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th.

Speaker 2:
[00:48] 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 pin to 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:
[01:30] 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:
[02:07] Okay, I've been following Jon around the last few days, and I don't know what JV saw, but I haven't seen Jon doing anything weirder than he normally does.

Speaker 5:
[02:17] What do you mean, weirder?

Speaker 4:
[02:19] Hold on, let me check my notes. Okay, this is from yesterday. 6 a.m., wakes up by falling out of bed. Blame's left-handed spoons. What's that even mean? Look, this is going to take a really long time if you guys ask me questions every time. Anyway, at 6 a.m., he got up and walked out into the woods. I couldn't follow him though, because when he got to the path, he crushed up a light bulb and a towel, and sprinkled it all over the path. Before you ask, I think he got that from the first Mission Impossible movie, to know if anyone was following him.

Speaker 1:
[03:00] I know, you said not to. But why would he be worried someone was following him?

Speaker 4:
[03:06] Again, no idea. But when he came back about an hour later, he cleaned up all the shards and then threw them away. After that, it was sort of a normal day of talking to himself and whatever he was doing with us at the time.

Speaker 1:
[03:20] So we aren't counting the light bulb thing as weird?

Speaker 4:
[03:24] Weirder, but yeah.

Speaker 5:
[03:27] Did you go down the path later?

Speaker 4:
[03:29] Of course, but there wasn't anything there. Maybe Jon just wanted to be alone. Maybe he's paranoid about people eavesdropping. I mean, we're talking about him behind his back right now.

Speaker 6:
[03:43] Fair point. I still think it would be a good idea if we kept an eye on him.

Speaker 7:
[03:48] My offer still stands.

Speaker 4:
[03:49] Oh, and for the tenth time, the green man suit only works in movies, to make people invisible because they're standing in front of a green screen. But Jimmy, the trees are green.

Speaker 1:
[04:01] Anyone else worried about the long-term effects of all those darts?

Speaker 7:
[04:05] Hopefully all of us.

Speaker 4:
[04:08] Here comes Jon.

Speaker 2:
[04:10] Hey, everyone. Sorry I'm late. I just had to replace a few light bulbs. I miss anything?

Speaker 4:
[04:16] No, nothing. I was just about to tell everyone about the time. I found an old cabin in my apartment complex's parking garage. I've worked as a security guard for an apartment complex for 15 years now. With that time comes a pattern recognition of things to expect, day in and day out. Noise complaints, angry couples arguing in the hallways. Homeless people sneaking into the building and people breaking into vehicles in the parking garage. Just typical apartment complex nonsense. Parking garage, however, because of the number of accidents or thefts in there over my entire career, I've spent a good majority of my time there. The garage itself is huge, a dense gray 20 floor cement tower lent by an abundance of old school eight foot long fluorescent tubes. Letting the area cool white with a sort of greenish sterile tint. As the management was too cheap to pay for anything but the bare minimum, I was also tasked with cleaning the complex, gathering trash, mopping messes and the sort. I wasn't armed as I'd only earned the bare minimum licensure to call myself a security guard. I'd have gotten the higher clearance, but this gig was steady, reliable. And the management stated they would not be interested in paying me at that next level of certification. A part of my day that took the longest was walking up and down that concrete megalith to clean and assess any car damage and report anything necessary to the tenants. Each floor was about 200 feet long, kind of canted at a 30 degree angle. And almost always filled to the brim with all sorts of cars, all shapes, sizes and colors. It was a point of pride for me that I knew this place inside and out, down to the random stains and parking patterns. If something wasn't supposed to be there, I knew as soon as I cut the corner going up or down the garage. I'd actually been able to help people find stolen vehicles this way. Sometimes people would abandon those in parking garages. All this to say, it wasn't the best job, but I was good at it, and on the island a steady job is almost impossible to come by. I didn't really aspire to more because my bills were paid. I was fed and as cheap as management was, they gave me a room as part of my compensation. My schedule was whatever I decided as long as the work was done. So, to interact with as few complaining customers as possible, I usually decided to work between 10 p.m. until the sun peaked over the horizon. Dark atmosphere with the buzzing fluorescent lights of the parking garage, that became my zen that all went to hell when the Whites arrived. Now I should immediately clarify, and I know exactly how that sounds. I don't mean white people in this specific case. In this case, it was the only name that I feel captures these things oppressive and mysterious presence. I still don't know what they are, but I have my guesses. I'll explain. It was a typical work day, just past midnight. This apartment complex was isolated off of a back road, so there was greenery and wildlife nearby. Just to say it was not unusual for the nightlife to add to my buzzing fluorescent soundtrack. Well, I won't say exactly where on the island, but honestly, there wasn't a lot of places in Puerto Rico that you can go without the nights being awash with the chirps of bugs and the beloved coquís. Not that I'd ever want to be away from that in the first place. I'd reached the top floor and stared off into the stunning greenery, mountains and beautiful beach in the distance. I've loved this view my whole life. Getting to see it from up this high was another job perk. I began walking down the parking garage when something felt wrong. It was obvious to me that as I was walking down, that there were more empty parking spaces than usual. This wasn't two or three cars missing. This was two or three cars left. All muted tones. This observation stopped me in my tracks, examining the space deeper. I tried to look over the edge downward to the next level, and it looked more normal. Cars of every color lining the parking spaces. In the corner of my eye, I saw something stark white, tall. I couldn't honestly see it well. It was on an unusual shape, sharp, long and thin. It didn't appear solid exactly, but I could see it there, plainly at the corner of the floor below. As I stared more intently, leaning over the concrete ledge, trying to figure out what this was, it moved out of sight. That was confirmation for me that someone was walking to level 18. I decided I would check it out if for nothing else, just to say hi and see what was going on. I turned the corner on to the 19th floor and I was deeply confused. I was just looking at a colorful row of cars. But as I turned the corner to the floor below, again only a few cars remained, gray, white and other muted tones. I looked over the ledge down to the 18th floor and saw the garage was full there. I jogged down to the next floor and as I turned the corner, gone, only four cars, all muted tones. The buzzing of the fluorescent tubes growing harsher, the light bulbs pulsing brighter. This pattern continued for ten more floors. A bright white thing just out of my sight. The cars disappearing as the white entity went past. The sterile, empty whiteness devouring all color in its path, leaving a sad path of gray and white. Lights were so bright at this point I had to shield my eyes. Everything was bathed in a blinding white light. I kept running when suddenly the white light dissipated, broken by natural sunlight. The first thing I noticed was dirt and grass under my feet. I was outside now, surrounded by beautiful vibrant greens, coffee shrubs, flor de magas, mangos, quinepas, banana trees all around me. Such a vibrant, stunning and varied fauna. The air was a perfect mix of salty and sweet, and I could hear the waves crashing against the shore nearby. As I walked through the trees, I noticed the floor turning sandy. In the distance, a small baby blue and white wooden cabin, propped up on wooden beams, as is commonly done along the shoreline. Chicken wire fence held together by randomly spaced wooden posts. Hell, could have been branches ripped off a tree. A rope tied over a post to keep the entry door shut. There was no other houses inside as far as the eye could see, which here was extremely unusual. The aroma of bread and coffee wafted over me, carried by the salty ocean breeze. I pulled the rope off the top of the fence and the door fell over, spraying to the side. I pulled the fence shut, the stretching metal crying out as I pulled it into place and re-secured the rope. The yard was full of chickens, and roosters could be heard randomly. Goats walked about gnawing on the grass and weeds all around me. It was as if I had been transported to my childhood, visiting my great-grandfather for pan y café, bread and coffee. I walked inside and was overtaken by the delicious smells around me. Penil made my opinion the best pork dish, empanadillas, rice and beans, pasteles, mofongo, bacalao, every food I'd grown up with, then of course, the bread and coffee. Everything was so plentiful, delicious. No me quieras tanto by Rafael Hernandez played on a rickety old radio. I opened one of the worn wooden shutters to look outside and saw something moving in the high grass. It was hard to see at first, but it looked like it had light-colored fur. It moved too fast for me to get a good look at it, but it was big. Hopefully, a dog. In the far distance, I saw the entity in the garage again, a white. It was so far in the distance that all I could see was the shape, but the silhouette was not typical. Instead of the shadowy features one would expect, this one was bright white. A shadow made of light, extremely tall, thin, the shapes unpleasant and sharp, and jagged. So far in the distance, I couldn't study anything other than the shape. I began to walk towards them to see if I could figure out what they were, what was going on. I must have walked for miles when I realized I made no progress in coming any closer to this thing. The sun was going down and the cookies were starting to sing. I wasn't any closer to understanding what was going on, so I decided to cut my losses and go back and get something to eat. As I was walking back, I frequently heard rustling in the tall grass and in the treetops. I kept an eye out and often I would see a blur of white flash by. Sometimes I'd see a glint of bright shining red for just a second before it disappeared into the foliage. I felt in so many ways that I was being hunted. The hair on my neck stood on end frequently, and I'd rub it down with my hand trying to stay calm. I picked a mango off the ground and ate it as I approached where I remembered the cabin to be. On my return, I was confused, only tempered by the fact that I was already in such a strange place out of my control that all I could do was adapt to the change. The house was now concrete, same sky blue paint against white. The old chicken wire fence was gone, replaced by a sky blue concrete and rottier fence painted white. The wooden shutters replaced by metal shutters also painted white. There were less animals now, but still plenty. I walked around the house and stop checking on a goat that was laying on the ground. It didn't look like a goat typically does when they sleep. It was flat on its side. I flipped it over, and it felt unusually light. I saw multiple large punctures on its neck. Notice there was no blood anywhere around me. Even where the goat had lain. I thought back to the large light furred creature I couldn't set my sights on on the way back to the house. It couldn't be. This place was already so strange, but this was a little on the nose. I laughed to myself and went inside. It was quiet. There was still food out in the kitchen, but about half of what there was before. The more luxurious items were missing. It had a pile next to the table, some sugar cane. I opened the blind and noticed that a decent amount of the foliage had also been replaced by large sugar cane shoots all around the property. Knowing how little progress, actually none, I made on my walk before, I figured my best bet would be eat, sleep and hopefully wake up back at work. I awoke to music blasting from the kitchen, desiandote by the father of salsa music himself, Frankie Ruiz, filling all the rooms. I got up and saw the food selection dropped yet again. The paint on the walls was chipping a bit. The chicken had let itself inside through the shutter I left open. The bright sun beamed down on me as I stepped onto the yard. I was shocked to see at least six goats in the same condition as the one I found the night before. As I rounded to the back, I stopped cold in my tracks. No more than 20 feet from me. There it was. It was about five feet tall. Body covered in a whitish, baby blue green fur. It had long thin arms with three digits, claws like a raptor on each. It stood on goat-like legs with sharp talons on the toes. Its eyes were huge, red alien-like masses that took up large portions of the head. And most striking, it had long spikes that ran from the top of its head down to its tail. It stood up straight on its hind legs. I was staring at an urban legend of the island, the Chupacabra. Its quill stood on end, and it jumped into the grass and the trees so fast that I know if it came for me, I would have been dead. What was this place? How could it be so close to home but so different? The people. That was it. I was always surrounded by family and friends at home. But this place was isolated to just me. How did I get here? And what was happening? It seemed like decades in time were passing me in a day. The landscape around me was changing so dramatically. The white being in the distance has to have something to do with it. I had to find out. I grabbed a machete off the front porch and looked at the horizon and gasped. There were six of the white entities now, looming enormous in the distance. Now, they must have been hundreds of feet tall. As I turned to inspect the horizon south of me, another eight colossal entities towering over my world. They had no faces. Simply humanoid features aside from the sharp lanky ever-reaching arms and legs. The heads were featureless, coming to a sharp point at the top. They were lumbering around, seemingly studying where I was, speaking to each other in a language I could not understand. They were more tangible now, taut white flesh the color of bone. But their departure from their ethereal form made something very clear to me. Should they intend to make their presence felt, the impact would now be very clear and devastating. You could hear the world creaking beneath their feet as they moved. How could something so far from me be impacting me so directly? The fear and helplessness I felt in that moment was overwhelming. I explored the landscape among the trees, staying away from the sugarcane fields that the giants seemed to watch more closely. No matter where I was, the towering giants cast their shadows upon me. Wherever their shadows fell, the landscape was ravaged, replaced by concrete and sugarcane. The stunning forest around me falling prey to these monsters, growing in number and in size as time passed. Nightfall and my worst nightmare came true. The once-omnipresent chorus of animals that lent us the beauty of their songs had completely ceased. It was completely silent here. The silence only broken from the sounds that the giants made, now so absolutely massive that at this point I feel it appropriate to call them cosmic. No matter where I looked in the sky, I would see these sharp, pointed white monsters blocking out the sky. Some were so massive, it even looked as though they were studying the planet from a distance, larger in size than the earth itself. I could do nothing, but try to preserve anything I found here. But I was greatly outmatched. Further exploration revealed more desolation. Most of what was forest was now nothing more than concrete slabs as far as the eye could see, and that damned sugarcane. Savest place was somehow the mountains. I questioned that notion as I found myself frequently being watched by shining red eyes nearby. It felt as though I was being hunted from the sky and the land. I would not escape this place with my life. I felt sure of that. So much time had passed in this place with no escape. I ate what I could find. I decided, stranded as I was, to adventure back to the shelter. Something happened to me on the journey back. I found myself complacent, wearing my helplessness on my sleeve, watching so much of what I love. Be violated right in front of my eyes. It was too much to take. The moon was hardly able to shine on me due to the 50 planetary sized monsters above me, taking away even my sky from me. The house fell back into my line of sight. It was something else entirely now. A tall brick and wood home. Not unlike something you'd find anywhere in the suburbs of the US. Certainly not the type of home I'd known my entire life. The colors gone, just gray, tan and white. Only a dark blue mailbox standing out against the monochrome sadness. No longer the sky blue I'd always loved. I opened my mouth to speak, to counsel myself, assure myself that it would be okay. When I did, the words that emerged from my lips were not the language that I knew. Now, I spoke the language of the giants. I had lost a dear part of myself to their influence and dominance. I was almost to the house when I was tackled to the ground, my back slamming hard against the concrete where the sand used to be. I tried to fight back, but the beast was much too fast. The urban legend had returned to feast upon me. Its mouth open, roaring right in my face. Its large, thick, sharp teeth with holes in the points. Its red eyes shining. It was so much smaller than me, but so much faster, so much stronger. I could move. When I was sure that my demise was imminent, it stopped. It sat up on my chest and put one of its hands close to my face. Opening it, to reveal a coquille inside. Tiniest little frog, no bigger than a pinky nail. But its sound was loud and proud. Sound of my childhood. My people. My pride. I was broken out of my stupor and this creature of legend acknowledged me. And as fast as he appeared, he was gone. I got up and walked into the house. There was a can of gasoline in the garage. I tore a piece of my shirt and stuffed it into a glass bottle I had filled with the gasoline. I lit the cloth on the stove and walked outside. I stared up at the monsters in the sky for a moment before turning and throwing the bottle right through the window. I watched the house burn as I stood defiantly against the white entities. I saw them reaching their massive hands towards the earth, towards me. I did not falter as the hands crashed down upon me. An explosion of sound crashed through the air as their hands erupted in flames as they broke through the atmosphere. Much too fast for me to react. I thought I died, but just as quickly as I transitioned to that world of the past and present, I was back on the top of the parking garage looking out over the landscape. I was no closer to understanding anything that just happened to me, but I knew that some things in my life had to change. I had to lend myself to the service of others, to fight for those who can't. Be it going back to school, getting into politics on the mainland, whatever I need to do, all in the name of helping my people. I looked up at the flags flying above my complex, always flown together, that 50 star red, white and blue, that titan of power. But I take a moment to admire my beautiful flag flying above the complex as well, just below the other, stained with that dark blue, and imagine that beautiful sky blue flying once again. It is clear to me now though, there's something terrible feeding on the island, on all of us. I just hope it's not too late to stop it. Um, Jon, don't you have a story to tell next?

Speaker 2:
[30:06] What are you freaking kidding me? I'm supposed to follow that? Plus, it sounds like a storm's rolling in, which does kind of remind me of the time I was out camping and stumbled across The Hermit's Cabin. I never meant to stay in the Hermit's Cabin. Everyone in Pinewood Campground knew about it. The rangers, the long-term campers, even the kids who came up here for summer programs. It's at about a quarter mile off the main trail, accessible only by an overgrown path and most people missed entirely. The story went that a man named Eugene Marsh had lived there back in the 70s, trapping and hunting, seeing maybe one or two people a year. Then, during one particularly harsh storm, he just vanished. Search parties found the cabin exactly as he'd left it, with food on the table, firewood in the stove, boots by the door. But no sign of Eugene. The Rangers kept it locked after that and posted no trespassing signs. The forest began to reclaim it. But when the sky opened up somewhere around 11 PM and turned my campsite into a swamp within minutes, I didn't have much choice. The rain came down in sheets. The kind of deluge that makes you wonder if the gods are trying to draw in the earth. My tent collapsed under the weight of it. And the creek that had been a pleasant babbling brook that afternoon became a roaring torrent, overflowing its banks and flooding the low-lying area of my chosen campsite. I grabbed my backpack and headlamp and ran, splashing through ankle-deep water, looking for any place it could give me shelter. That's when I remembered the Hermit's Cabin. The path was mostly washed out, but I found it more by instinct and sight. I fought my way through, grabbing branches and thorns that tore up my rain jacket. My headlamp barely penetrated the sheets of rain. But then I saw it. Dark silhouette against the darker forest. A small structure with a sagging porch and partially broken windows. The door was locked, but one of the windows had lost most of its glass over the years. I knocked out the remaining shards with my elbow, climbed through and dropped into the musty darkness inside. My headlamp revealed a single room, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. There was a rusted iron stove in one corner, a wooden chair lying on its side and a narrow cot frame with no mattress. Shelves lined one wall, empty except for mouse droppings and the desiccated remains of a few decades old canned goods. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and filth. But it was dry, and after twenty minutes of being hammered by rain, dry was all that mattered. I set my backpack down and used my camp towel to wipe the water from my face and hair. Outside the storm raged on, wind howling through the broken window and rain drumming on the rusted tin roof like a thousand frantic fingers. I checked my phone, no signal, which I had expected this deep in the woods. The battery was at 43% and the clock read 11:57 p.m. I could wait out the storm here, I told myself. Maybe get a few hours of sleep before heading back to what was left of my campsite at first light. I pulled out my sleeping bag, shook it to make sure nothing had taken up residence inside, and spread it on the floor away from the fully open door. The floor was solid, at least. Old planks at Creek, but held. I lay down, exhausted, listening to the storm. That's when I heard a sound coming from the wall behind my head. Three sharp wraps, evenly spaced. I sat up, my heart rate jumping. Nothing more. I told myself it was probably just a branch hitting the cabin. The wind was fierce out there. But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't right. The knocks had been too deliberate, too measured. Not the random thumps of windblown debris. I waited, counting my heartbeats. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. Just as I prepared to settle back into my bag, I came again, from the same spot. I scrambled to my feet and pressed my ear against the rough wood. The wall was thin. I could hear the rain outside. I could feel the cold seeping through the boards. But I couldn't hear anything else. No branches, no animals scratching or burrowing. Hello? My voice sounded small and foolish. What was I expecting? An answer? There was nothing but silence, except for the storm raging outside. I checked my phone. 12.14am. I made myself sit back down, made myself breathe slowly as I justified the odd occurrence. Old cabins make noises. Wood expands and contracts. There could be a hundred explanations that didn't involve... Different wall this time. The one to my left, near the stove. I spun toward it, my headlamp beam catching nothing but water-stained wood and peeling bark. The knocking continued, moving along the wall at a steady pace. They reached the corner, paused for about three seconds, then started up the next wall. It was circling the room. My hands trembled as I tracked the sound with my light. Whatever was making the noise had to be on the outside, moving counter-clockwise around the cabin. The knocks were perfectly spaced, perfectly timed. Three wraps, a short pause, three more wraps. Exactly three feet further along. I reached the wall with a broken window. I held my breath, waiting for something to appear in the opening. But the knocking continued past it, unfazed by the gap. Back to the wall behind where my sleeping bag lay. Then it stopped. I stood frozen in the center of the room, my headlamp sweeping across the walls, my breathing harsh in the silence. Outside the storm continued its assault, but inside there was nothing. Just me in the dust and the rotting remnants of Eugene Marsh's life. My phone said 1229 am. Maybe whatever it was had moved on. Maybe it was just an animal after all. Some confused creature seeking shelter from the storm, bumping against the cabin as it went. Raccoons could be persistent, or maybe... I saw a footprint. It was right in front of me, encrusted in the thick dust on the floor. A bare human footprint. The toe was clearly defined, the heel slightly smudged, and it looked fresh. I could see where the dust had been displaced, revealing the darker wood beneath. My legs went numb. I hadn't made that print. I was wearing hiking boots, and I'd barely moved away from my spot near the sleeping bag. I forced myself to look around, to really examine the floor. There was more. A trail of them, leading from the wall behind my sleeping bag, moving in a circle around the room that matched exactly the path the knocking had taken. Bare feet pacing around the interior of the cabin. They overlapped my boot prints in places, which meant they'd been made after I arrived. But I was alone. There was no one else in this room. My headlamp flickered, and in that moment of dimness, I heard it. Breathing. Not my breathing. I was holding my breath in terror. This was coming from somewhere else. Slow, raspy breaths, like someone who had been walking a long time. Like someone who was tired, but still moving, still pacing. I cocked my head and listened more closely. The sound was coming from inside the walls. I backed toward the broken window, never taking my light off the room. The breathing continued, moving around the cabin just beyond the thin wall boards. I could hear the soft pad of footsteps now too. Muffled but distinct. Bare feet on earth. Circling. Pacing. Waiting. Right behind me, so close I could feel the vibration through the wall. I screamed and lunged for the window, hauling myself up and over the sill. Glass shards still imbedded in the frame tore at my jacket, but I didn't care. I fell onto the porch with a thud, scrambled to my feet and ran into the storm. The rain hit me like a wall, instantly soaking me to the bone. Lightning flashed, illuminating the forest in stark white snapshots, followed by the deafening claps of thunder. I didn't look back. I just ran, crashing through underbrush, slipping in mud, following the barely visible path back towards the flooded campground. Behind me, barely audible over the thunder, wind and driving rain, I heard it. The sound was following me through the trees. I ran faster, my lungs burning, my legs shaking. Then knocking, keeping pace. Always the same distance behind. Always the same measured rhythm. Three knocks. Pause. Three knocks. I burst into the campground clearing. There was no one there. Even the rancher station was deserted. I turned to look back at the tree line. My headlamp struggling to cut through the sheets of rain. Nothing. Just darkness and trees and the endless roar of the storm. The knocking had stopped. Then I saw him, standing at the edge of the forest, barely visible in the shadows between lightning flashes. A thin figure, naked and pale, his skin hanging loose on his frame. He stood perfectly still, watching me with hollow eyes that reflected my headlamp like an animal's. The lightning flashed again, and he was gone. The rangers found me hypothermic and at the edge of unconsciousness that morning, babbling about Eugene Marsh and footprints and knocking and something that pasted inside walls. They wrapped me in an emergency blanket and asked if I had hit my head, if I had taken anything, if I needed medical attention. I told them I had gotten lost in the storm, that I had panicked, that I was fine. Three nights later I settled into my bed in my apartment back home, two hundred miles from Pinewood Campground. Finally I was feeling relaxed, recovering from the trauma of the camp out. I attributed it all to the violence of the storm. I checked my phone and it read 1157 p.m., turned off the light, slid under the blankets, closing my eyes. They shot wide open again, heavy breathing coming from the darkness around me. Done.

Speaker 1:
[42:41] Wow, it's really coming down out there, isn't it?

Speaker 7:
[42:44] At least we have cabins to stay in this time. Didn't we have cabins last year? Who remembers trauma from a full year ago?

Speaker 4:
[42:52] There's so much new trauma out there now.

Speaker 1:
[42:57] Wait, did you all see that? What?

Speaker 2:
[43:02] Out there, in the rain.

Speaker 1:
[43:05] I thought I saw something when the lightning flashed. Wait, I saw it too.

Speaker 7:
[43:14] Hey, anyone seen Jon?

Speaker 2:
[43:17] I assume he's in his cabin.

Speaker 4:
[43:20] No, that's him. He's standing out in the rain, and he's staring at us.

Speaker 3:
[43:35] 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 7:
[44:24] 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:
[44:37] I think I done made a deal with the devil.

Speaker 7:
[44:41] What you call life.

Speaker 6:
[44:44] And what I called death.

Speaker 7:
[44:47] It's a mysterious crossroads where the denizens of this world. And others.

Speaker 5:
[44:52] He is a trickster. And I'm sure whatever he brought back from the world of the dead was a one-way trip.

Speaker 7:
[44:59] Clyde Daly. And for Detective Frank Dupreeh.

Speaker 6:
[45:03] I will see you in there.

Speaker 7:
[45:05] And Nicky Goodluck. This will be a dark ride. Welcome to New Orleans, babies.

Speaker 6:
[45:14] Listen to something wicked on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever you enjoy listening.