The Holly Tree & I Finally Have an Imagination

From the executive producers of Stranger Things, comes a series that asks the question, are you sure he's the one? Something very bad is going to happen, is an atmospheric psychological horror set in the five days leading up to an intimate wedding. Starring Camilla Morone and Adam DeMarco, this isn't just a story about cold feet, it's about the visceral anxiety and mounting terror of realizing you might be marrying the wrong person. As Rachel questions whether Nikki is truly the one, her doubts spiral into something darker. And the show explores the ultimate horror. How can you ever be certain you've made the right choice? It's edgy and it's not a spoiler if it's in the title. Something very bad is going to happen. The only question is, what is it? Something very bad is going to happen on March 26th, only on Netflix. 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 our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Happy almost New Year everyone. At least that's what I'm broadcasting this out. Not sure when or if you'll hear this, if you're at all weirded out about that job posting like I am. I figure worst case scenario I'll be recording back at home in the new year. Best case scenario? I don't know. I guess that might have a new job? Maybe? I'm not entirely sure that I'd take a full time gig working here. The initial shine of it all is dulled a little bit after a whole lot of late nights and weird sounds around here. Maybe listening to those old recordings of eddy graves is messing with my head. I'm getting me to think that there are people out there in the parking lot. Or on the roof. Which there aren't. There's a fresh layer of snow out there and no strange footprints or anything like that. At least not when I got here. Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone for listening this year. I can't remember if I thanked people for posting their Spotify wrap ups, but just in case I didn't, thank you all for that too. We really do try our hardest to make a lot of entertaining content for you all throughout the year without break. And those who have stuck with us as well as those who recently found us really mean a lot. Someday I'll come up with the words to explain exactly how much. But for now, I hope that a simple thank you will suffice. I hope that you can carry all the joys you've felt this year into 2026 and leave any pain you've felt behind. For our part, we'll do our best to keep entertaining you for as long as we can manage. Okay, let's dig into the stories this week so I can get back home and off the roads before people start to enjoy their festivities too much. But the tech in here has been moving real slow today, so I'll be lucky if I can get out of here by midnight. Which I'm sure won't have any impact on anything. It's just a silly job posting. Right? Anyway, first up, from writer Lori Doyle, a narrator by Danielle Hewitt, Creepy Presents, The Holly Tree. One Christmas morning, Susan Young buried her mother beneath the Holly Tree in the back garden. She did it in the dead of night, long after the lights in her neighbor's windows had gone out, and the rhythmic thud of music ceased blaring from the students' apartments across the road. She tugged on her heavy Wellington boots, a relic from her days volunteering at the local park. Dawned her deep blue anorak, and dragged the terracotta blanket shrouding her mother's body down the two stone steps to the snow-covered lawn. A tangle of broken stems was all that remained of the rose bush that grew beside the wooden fence. It's damp, blackened leaves, a decaying memory of dahlias, peonies and asters blooming in their beds. Only the Holly Tree thrived. It rose, a wild growth of green speckled with red berries, tall as the upper windows of a house. It had grown despite Susan's mother, who muttered that it was an eyesore as she sipped her sugary black tea, that she ought to chop it down, dig it up. She never did. Susan had prepared her mother's grave earlier that day. Under the guise of clearing snow, she set about digging a hole, one large enough to take the body, the small travel bag, and the thick winter coat, all bundled together like a sack of Christmas gifts. She played music as she worked, just loud enough to muffle the scrape of the shovel against the frozen ground. Her neighbors on one side worked long hours, and it was rare to see their peppermint Volvo back before evening. The squat bungalow on the other side housed an elderly couple who spent most of their time watching reruns of murder mystery shows, loud enough that Susan had memorized every gruesome killing, every triumphant reveal. It was one of those shows, which gave her the idea. Susan tugged aside the camping tarp she'd laid across the hole. Corners weighted with bricks collected one by one from a nearby construction site. The deep pit gaped at her. A mouth. Hungry. Waiting. Susan hauled her mother's body the last few feet and let it drop. It landed with the dull wet sound of flesh striking stone. A smile twitched at Susan's lips. Her mother would have choked at the thought she might one day lie beneath this tree. But none suited her better. The sharpness of those green leaves brought to mind over long nails and pinching fingers. The berries crimson as lips puckered into disapproval. A prickly thing that thrived in ice and snow. That lured creatures close only to leave them cut and poisoned. Yes. This was the place for her mother. Finishing the task wasn't so satisfying. Along with the bricks, Susan had taken a handful of pebbles each day from the driveways of surrounding houses. She kept the tiny stones of cream and gray in plastic bags. She hid, first beneath her bed, then behind the holly tree. Now she tore those bags open, pouring their rattling contents out over and over, until mother and blanket were lost in a sea of gravel. All that remained then was to fill the hole. Susan spread the excess soil along the border of the fence, where it would blend more easily with the empty flower beds. Sweating now, she hung her anorak from the holly tree and shoveled snow into a large pile atop her mother's grave. With numb hands, she shaped the icy mound to form a broad body and round head. Not quite as tall as she would have liked, it barely reached her waist. But snow hadn't fallen thick since the days of her childhood. It would have to do. She pulled the final touches from her pocket, coal for buttons, eyes and mouth, a carrot for the nose. She placed each with care until a snowman smiled back at her. Perfect. If there was one thing her mother hated more than the holly tree, it was Christmas. Now she had a wonderfully festive grave. Susan plucked a sprig from the holly tree and pinned it to the snowman's collar, two vicious leaves sprouting like a bowtie. She gave the snowman one final pat, collected the now empty bags and returned to the quiet warmth of her home. Susan didn't report her mother's disappearance for two days. Two blissful days where she slouched in a cushioned armchair she'd never been allowed to use. Eyes glued to the television were a Christmas carol and all those other forbidden films played day and night. She drank the brandy her mother hid beneath the sink, eight mince pies and crackers that left crumbs on the foe for a rug. She could almost hear her mother's voice. Tidy that up at once. How did I raise such a slovenly child? Each time Susan would lift her gaze to where the holly tree stood outside, the snowman grinning beneath its branches. Each time she would breathe a sigh and settle deeper into the chair. Her mother was gone. As long as Susan kept her plan, she would live the rest of her days free of the sharp words, the jibes, the snide remarks that had plagued her. She would be free. She rang the police the morning after Boxing Day. Still in her fleece pajamas, she perched at the kitchen table, mirror in one hand, phone in the other. She dialed the non-emergency number, which rang twice before it connected with a click. The woman's voice on the other end of the line said that this was the police speaking, starting with a calm, practice phrase, an offer of help. Susan didn't give her a chance to finish. In the mirror, she checked her brows were drawn together, lips downturned and said, My mother hasn't come home. A pause. Words gathered restlessly on the back of Susan's tongue, ready to spew from her lips in a rush of explanations and excuses. They would sound suspicious, prepared, as if she was trying too hard. So, Susan said nothing. The woman on the line pressed gently, asking when she'd last seen her. Christmas Eve. She was going on a trip. She asked if she was visiting friends or family. No. Susan checked her face in the mirror, pinched, worried. She told me she was going to Dartmoor. She was supposed to be back yesterday. She might have decided to stay longer, but sometimes she gets confused. Another pause. Longer this time. Beyond the window, the holly tree danced in the chill breeze. The snowman smiled. Susan waited. Finally, the woman replied, saying someone would come by to search and ask questions. Of course, Susan said. It wasn't like a murder mystery show. The officers who came by were a cheerful middle-aged man and a woman with a hard-drawn face. They asked questions about when Susan's mother had departed, what she had taken with her, what she'd last been wearing. Susan answered while preparing a tray of tea and cookies left over from her Christmas celebrations. She made sure to smile in a slightly strained way, as she had practiced in the mirror, and made off-hand comments about how her mother struggled to remember the route to the nearby supermarket. How she recently got lost on the way home. As she refilled their drinks, she caught the look the officers shared. That seed she'd planted, unfurling to form the most obvious conclusion. They thanked Susan for the drinks and the cookies and left her with a promise that they would do everything they could to find her mother. Once they were gone, Susan returned to the kitchen. Where beyond the window, the holly tree shone in the late morning sun. Those officers would search for an elderly woman in a pink wool coat, carrying a tartan travel bag. They would ask at the local train station, check CCTV, perhaps even dredge the nearby river in an effort to discover where she might have gone. They would never find her, deep beneath the earth. They would never find the empty bottle of medication. Each taken was shaking hands and swallowed, under the thread of the knife Susan held. Susan turned on the tap and let the water run hot. That had been the first time her mother ever said please to her. The first time she looked at her daughter without anything other than a scowl. It had been a window into what Susan's life might have been. It came, far too late. That night Susan woke to a gentle tapping against the window pane. She still slept in her own room, though it was half the size of the master. After the burial, she had gone to take the larger space for herself. But the pillows held an indent of her mother's head, the memory of an old woman fighting her own death. During that battle, Susan had feared her mother might sit up, peer at her with those cold hard eyes, and tell her that as with everything else, she'd made a dreadful job of murder. But she slipped away softly, like a whisper. And now all Susan could see was that slack, empty face staring back at her from the bed. The tapping came again. Susan groaned and pushed herself upright. The curtains which draped her window were pale, threadbare things, allowing the glow of a nearby streetlight to cast long shadows across the floorboards of the wooden frame that split the window. The squat candle holder, which rested on the sill, and something else. Something tall. Something slender. Something with long, curved nails that tap, tap, tapped against the glass. Susan scrambled to her feet, banging her hip against the bedside table. Her alarm clock fell with a clatter, and she inadvertently pulled her gaze from that figure at the window. When she looked back, there was only the holly tree. Tap, tap, tap, when its vicious leaves as the breeze nudged it back and forth. Tap, tap, tap. The police hadn't found her mother's body. Susan sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cooling mug of tea. They called her that morning to say that the CCTV footage at the train station showed no sign of an elderly woman in a pink wool coat. And that the attendants hadn't seen anyone fitting her description. They asked if Susan had heard anything. Tap, tap, tap. No, Susan said she hadn't, but she would be sure to tell them if she did. Once they rang off, Susan sat herself in the cushioned armchair and switched the television on. But the images were too bright, a cacophony of voices and music battering her ears. She muted it, then turned it off. Outside the snowman had begun to melt. Its head was no longer quite so round, its face no longer so perfectly arranged. A piece of coal slipped down its cheek like an ebony tear. The holly tree stood beside it, berries glinting red as her mother's bulging bloodshot eyes. Leaves curled sharp as nails clutching the sheets. She'd rubbed her fingers into the smooth fabric of the armchair. Her mother was gone. She'd watch the woman die, slowly, painfully, eyes wide, mouth gaping until a final breath shuttered from her wretched throat, and she lay still. The holly tree rustled, a muffled sound, as if somewhere deep beneath the earth, something shifted. The wind was blowing against across the garden, long and thin, reaching for the windows, the door. Susan gripped the arms of her chair. One shadow hung back from the rest. It lurked at the center of the holly tree, half hidden by those bright green leaves. It was too still to come from the tree itself, too dark, as if something stood there, just out of sight. Cold fingers brushed Susan's spine. The shadow seemed to grow thicker the longer she looked at it. More solid, more real. Blood thrummed loudly in her ears. Something was there. She only needed to lean a little forward, and she would see it. Susan threw herself from the chair and wretched the white lace curtains closed. But they were thin, wispy, the sort that allowed her mother to see how Susan tended to the garden, so guidance could be given from between pinched lips. Behind those curtains, the holly tree fell still. The shadow seized their erratic dance. The garden became a picture postcard, all white, green and red, marred only by that single dark smudge. Clutching the curtains, Susan watched. Susan waited. But not a thing stirred beyond the glass. Slowly she relaxed her grip. Her heart still slammed against her ribs, but the chill that clung to her was already thawing. Jumping at shadows, her mother would say, a foolish thing to do. For once Susan agreed. She let her hands drop to her sides and shook them out, as if shaking off a spider's web. No more of this. Tonight she would change the sheets which bound her mother's bed. She would replace the pillows with her own, and there she would sleep, peacefully, while worms feasted deep beneath the earth. Her mother was gone, and Susan would never see her again. Night came quickly in that time between Christmas and New Year. Susan moved from room to room, switching on lights until the house glowed bright as a candle. To find the box of yarn, she told herself, so she could continue the scarf she'd been knitting. To check the windows were shut and the curtains drawn to keep the cold out. To uncover the bottle of brandy for a quick nightcap. She'd worked so hard. She deserved it. But soon the scarf was done, and the brandy bottle stood empty beside her chair. Despite the bright light in the chatter of the television, Susan's eyelids grew heavy. Warmth from the alcohol pulsed softly through her, and each breath came slower, deeper than the last. The thick cushions melted away, and down Susan sank into the peaceful nothing of slumber. Tap, tap, tap. Susan jerked awake in the cold, unlit room. The television watched her. A single black eye, the overhead bulb dark where it's nestled in its round cream shade. A chill sliced the air, carrying with it the sharp scent of night. It came from the window, the one Susan had closed and locked. Now it stood open, white lace curtain twisting, weaving, quivering in the breeze. And beyond it stood the holly tree. Susan pushed herself to her feet, her muscles ached, joint stiff from how she'd just slept in that chair. A dull heavy ache drummed behind her eyes, setting her stumbling as she rushed for the window. In the glow of the streetlight, the garden lace shattered in fragments of black and white. Shadows tore the crisp blanket of snow, some long and thin, other deep as graves. The snowman's head, now at his feet, smiled up at Susan with small black eyes. The holly tree whispered, reaching for the glass. It stood taller in the darkness, larger, as if it had grown in the time Susan slept. Something moved at its pitch black core, something neither bark nor branches nor leaves. Susan wrenched at the window, but it refused to move. She threw herself against it, tearing with her fingers. Hot pain sliced her skin and she drew back with a gasp. Blood dribbled from a thin wound, the kind which came from a splinter of wood, a shard of glass. There were no splinters, there were no shards, but protruding from the window frame, there was a long, curved fingernail. The holly tree shifted, the shadow at its core writhing between the branches. Susan took a step back and her foot sank into something crisp and cold. Snow. She no longer stood in her living room, with its thick carpet and cushioned chair, but outside. Black sky loomed above, stars lost in the endless darkness. The fence rose up, all around, penning Susan in. The world had shrunk to a square of white, the cruel leaves of the holly tree reaching, spreading, filling the space. There was nowhere to go. Susan hugged herself, the frigid air sending goosebumps across her skin. The holly tree stretched towards her, and as it did, fingers crept from between its leaves, long and sharp blades hidden inside sheaths of skin. They grasped at her with yellowed nails, bones creaking as the tree swayed. Susan knew those hands. She had seen them every day of her life, pointing, jabbing, scolding. No. Her mother was dead. Susan had watched the life leave her old crumpled body, dragged her corpse to the garden and buried it deep. The old woman lay beneath snow and soil, pebble and brick, where no one would ever find her. A hand snaked out and caught Susan's wrist, cold and hard, chilling her to the bone. She pulled away but another hand grasped her, then another, and another. Their curved nails caught at her clothes, bit into her skin. Susan twisted and writhed but they clutched her, dragged her close. The pinching fingers, cutting nails, grasping palms wrenched her towards the awful darkness. Closer, closer, until the scent of bark and dirt smothered her senses. And there, in the pitch black shadow, shown two wet eyes. A scream tore up Susan's throat, muffled by the hands that gripped her jaw, her neck, her hair. They dragged her down deep beneath the snow and earth, pebbles and brick to where her mother waited. The police never found the bodies of Susan Young and her mother. The two disappearances sent a ripple through the neighborhood. People whispered about the sounds they'd heard from that neat little house in the days before. The shouting, the sobs. Posters clung to streetlights and telephone poles. A pair of smiling faces staring at the world with flat, dead eyes. The police searched the house. They checked the CCTV footage. They dredged the river. There was no sign of either woman. In the back garden, cordoned off with bright yellow tape. The holly tree swayed in the cool night air. Its leaves were vicious and green. Its berries read as blood. It kept a secret tucked between its long roots, where flesh would rot and bone would crumble, where no one would ever think to look. There, a mother and her daughter would lie together for all of eternity. And next, from writer A. Hawke and narrated by Michelle Kane, Creepy presents, I finally have an imagination. When people said, picture this, I thought it was a figure of speech. No one actually pictured anything. And everyone had the same empty brain that I did. Turns out, they meant it literally. And what I have is called a fantasia. It's a condition where people can't voluntarily generate mental images. Basically, I don't visualize objects, scenes, or faces in my mind. When I found out most people can actually see things in their heads, like a movie playing inside their skull, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was obsessed with the idea, asking my coworkers, my friends, even my dad, peppering them with questions. How detailed could they be? Did they do it with anything? Was it just objects or entire scenes? They all described it differently. Colors, light, textures, even varying degrees of realism. But it all boiled down to the same thing. They could imagine things. They were rendering a scene in their mind in real time. Meanwhile, when I close my eyes, it's just black. Flat, empty, silent black. No depth, no movement. It's like staring at a wall, painted with the world's blackest paint. Have you seen those videos? How the paint turns whatever it touches into a void of darkness? That's my mind. At first, I thought it was kind of funny. Another weird brain quirk, you know? But then I started to feel this quiet, gnawing envy. I wanted to see what everyone else saw. I wanted to know what it felt like to have a mind that showed you things, instead of just abstract feelings and static. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing out on something so magical. My envy quickly turned to anger and frustration. Was there something wrong with me? Was my brain not fully developed in the womb? The thoughts and questions just ate at me, making me want to crawl out of my skin. My therapist tried to talk me down. She said, my mind was more like the deepest part of the ocean, without any external light source. Sure, it looked like pure blackness, but there was a world of color, movement, and entire ecosystems teeming with life down there. I'll admit, I liked that metaphor. It kept me from completely spinning out, though it still felt unfair. It was my dad who finally suggested to me that, perhaps using my imagination was more like working a muscle, and with the right exercises, maybe I too could one day learn to see a mental picture. That gave me hope. So when I saw the flyer taped to the community board at my coffee shop, guided visualization, awaken your inner sight. I took it as a sign, literally. The class met every Thursday in a rented yoga studio that smelled like eucalyptus and old carpet. Everyone was handed a mat as they walked in. There were about a dozen of us, mostly younger but a few older folks sprinkled in. That comforted me for some reason. Like if this turned out to be a cult? At least there'd be some level-headed retirees around to spot it first. The instructor, a scraggly bearded man named Mars, had the kind of calm that radiated through the room. It was disarming, intoxicating even. It made me feel good being there and reinforced my belief that I was making the right choice. I expected the first class to be more of an introduction, but as soon as we were settled, he asked us all to lie down and close our eyes. He dimmed the lights and said, picture a soft, warm light. His voice was serp's low, rhythmic, like something designed to bypass your brain and settle straight into your bones. He continued this easy, methodical guided meditation. Every word had my muscles relaxing further into the ground. I could hear him walking around the room, which I thought was going to make it hard for everyone to concentrate. But around me, people murmured, shifting and sighing. Someone whispered, I can see it. I took a peek when I heard that. It was one of the older ladies next to me. Mars was crouched beside her, his hand hovering over her head like a priest giving a blessing. He noticed me looking, smiled and put a finger to his lips. I went back to concentrating as the rest of the noise faded. Back in the catacombs of my mind, I sighed. I saw nothing. Plackness, like always. I lay there the entire 45 minutes, straining so hard I thought I'd give myself an aneurysm. By the end of class, everyone else was glowing with new age confidence about their breakthrough. People were crying, which, I don't know, maybe if I finally saw something, I might cry too. Being that I didn't, it all felt like a bit much. I was bummed but determined to keep coming back. Dropping my mat off, Mars gently grabbed my arm and said, Don't worry, you can't awaken what isn't to sleep. I nodded politely, pretending that made sense. The next week, more people showed up, probably lured in by last week's success stories. Mars greeted everyone with his usual calm. But this time he carried a small, cracked book. Its cover looked ancient, hand-stitched leather. The kind that belonged in a museum, or a horror movie. I caught him tracing faded symbols on it before class started. The lights dimmed. His voice filled the room the same way it had before. Picture a soft, warm light. He began. I closed my eyes and stared into the inky nothingness, willing my brain to move, to spark, to do something. After a few minutes, I sensed Mars near me. He leaned in and whispered, Don't try to force the image. If you have trouble seeing, let the dark take shape on its own. Try to relax. I took a deep breath and stared at the black wall in front of me and tried to relax. To see the blackness as a whole, I tried to see it as a thing, not an absence. And this time, something shifted. The darkness behind my eyes wasn't smooth anymore. It rippled, like someone had dropped a pebble from somewhere far away. I gassed and accidentally sat up, smacking right into Mars. I apologized, flustered. He only smiled, rubbing his head. I couldn't get the ripple to return for the rest of class, but I didn't care. Something had moved. That night, I fell asleep grinning. A few days later, I tried one of Mars' guided meditations from his video channel. It felt the same, his low voice, the ambient hum behind it, but without the calming presence you got in person. For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then the black dissolved into something else. My blank wall of nothingness rippled, and then shimmered into something that felt more like a dream. Nothing I recognized, just a single scene. A vast, endless ocean under a gray sky that wasn't night or day. Slow ripples moved across the surface. The clouds rolled like smoke. No sound, no wind, just stillness. I was standing in waist-deep water, moving my hands along the surface. I couldn't feel anything, but the water reacted to me anyway. It looked too real, like those TVs set to unnatural motion smoothing. Too many frames per second. It was unnerving, but in a cryptically peaceful way. Like I was the lone survivor after an apocalypse, losing everything but somehow managing to stay alive. Very dramatic. Would it be crueler to experience an imagination once and then have it taken away forever, or to never have it and live in ignorance of what you're missing? I wondered. I stayed in that image, worried that moving or breathing wrong would make it all vanish and I would be left with the blank nothingness again. When the meditation ended, I felt euphoric. I did it. Sure, this scene was a little bleak, but I wasn't picky. I couldn't wait for the next class. By week three, half the class was complaining. Visualizations were fading, colors dulling, nightmares creeping in. I watched Mars frown when he heard this, murmuring something about diverging progress and side effects. But I noticed his hands trembling as he opened that strange little book again. So far, I could only conjure images when I was meditating, but my own visions were sharper than ever. When he told us to imagine a candle flame, I saw it, orange and gold, flickering bright enough to leave after images when I blinked. I wanted to cry. I was so happy. But just beyond the edge of the light, I could make out a dark shape, standing motionless. The moment I noticed it, the candle flickered out and I was dropped back into the nothingness I was used to, though it felt strangely full when I kept my eyes closed now. I couldn't get any other images that day. After class, Mars caught me when I was leaving. He smiled, his usual calm. How's the darkness treating you? I forced a laugh. Uh, fine. I'm used to it by now. What a weird way to ask. He nodded like that meant something. Then softer, more to himself. Be careful what finds you there. When I asked what he meant, he waved it off and mentioned not wanting me to end up with nightmares like a few of the others. I told him I was sleeping like normal and that I'd see him next week, waved goodbye and dropped my mat off. I stood at his spot in the front of the room with that book in his hands, staring at nothing. The next night, curiosity got the better of me. I tried another of Mars's recordings. The thumbnail showed the same worn book from class sitting beside a lit candle. His voice came through my speakers. Visualize a door, however simple or intricate you like. When you're ready, open it. I did. And then I stepped through. The door opened into that same gray ocean. Only this time, instead of the vast and empty ocean I expected, something was there. Far away, just a blot of darker gray against the mist. But as I focused, I could see it begin to move closer. Or was that a trick of the light? I couldn't tell. I could make out its shape. Tall, stretched proportions. Its skin dull and wet like something dragged from a swamp. Antlers rose from its head, tangled with moss and strands of something that swayed as if it still submerged in water. I couldn't make out a face from so far away but somehow I knew it was looking at me. I could hear the gentle sloshing as it walked through the dark murky water. It was slow like it was moving in with the tide. I snapped my eyes open. My phone screen was black. The video had stopped playing halfway through. My heart was pounding. What was that? My first visual nightmare. I even laughed a little. Shaky but thrilled. This must be what everyone else had been talking about. Seeing something. It was definitely spooky. My nightmares are usually more about losing all my teeth or getting lost in a big house. Nothing like the creature feature I just witnessed. I was glad I heard everyone else talking about it last class. At least I knew it was nothing to worry about. Like Mars said, side effects. The studio felt different next class. Only about half the original group were there which made the room feel empty and awkward. The few people I had come to know casually wouldn't even make eye contact. Everyone just seemed a bit on edge, lost in their own thoughts I guess. Mars looked wrecked. He followed cheeks, dark crescents under his eyes. That calm energy was long gone. I wondered how there could be so much change in a person in just one week. The book sat open beside him. Pages stained if faded red. Strange symbols and markings. I started to feel a headache the more I stared. Mars snapped the book shut when he noticed me looking back at later and the headache disappeared. He didn't bother with breathing exercises this time. Tonight, he said, voice cracking will open our eyes inside our safe place. Something inside me whispered, Don't, don't go. But I had made too much progress so I brushed it off and followed his voice down into the dark. I was back at the ocean. The sky has shade darker now, still heavy with clouds. The surface no longer moved. It had gone completely still. The air pressed against my skin. I realized I could smell it this time. Damp, wrought, copper. It was on my tongue as I breathed in the salty air. I exhaled and there it was, the figure. Closer than ever, the antlers scraped the sky when it moved, tearing jagged cuts into the clouds like paper. Mars' voice trembled from somewhere outside. I heard him talking to me. Stay with it, breathe, describe what you see. I tried but my voice wouldn't come out. I could hear him whispering under his breath, words I didn't understand, guttural and broken. With each word, the creature moved forward. Then between the syllables, she can see you now. Like a chess piece, it slid closer and closer. It was right in front of me now. Its skin gray and slick, hair dripping like oil. Its antlers tangled with moss and something that looked too much like flesh. I wanted to scream to ask Mars to help me. I couldn't move. My entire body stood there, frozen in place. It was trying to speak through leather and skin where a mouth should be. It reached out one long hand, claws black and glistening. I felt a single fingertip touch my forehead. The world snapped. I opened my eyes. The studio was wrong. No mats, no students, just me. The air shimmered heavy, colors too vivid. Something, something stood in the corner. Tall, featureless, antlers brushing the ceiling. It stepped forward, the sound like wet cloth dragging on tile. And I knew it was smiling. I felt the grin in my skull more than I saw it. Now you can see me. It rest. The voice wasn't sound. It was pressure, curdled milk behind my ears, pushing outwards. My vision fractured. Dust motes burned like tiny suns. Cracks spread across the mirrored walls. And in that reflection, Mars stood behind the thing, chanting, leading from his eyes and nose, clutching that book. The creature turned toward him, moving faster than I could register. Then everything shattered. When I came to, the room was full again. Mars not beside me, shaking my shoulder. He weren't breathing. He said, voice sounding fragile. Everyone else looked dazed, blinking like they had been drugged. Looking around, everything seemed duller, darker. Darker, muted. I tried to ask what happened, but he just said, That's enough for tonight. And ushered us all out of the room. I don't remember how I got home or when I fell asleep that night. Only that my dreams were some of the most terrifying that I've ever experienced. Feeling heavy and underwater, unable to breathe, claws tearing at my skin. When I woke up, it felt like the hangover after my 21st birthday. Times a hundred. My body felt beaten and broken, like it was pushed into water, thrown around by a riptide. Scraping against the coral and jagged rocks. I tried looking at myself in the mirror, expecting to see cuts and angry bruises, but between the migraine and the images flashing in every reflection, I could barely make it back to my bed without getting sick. I could barely move, drifting in and out of consciousness. A few times I thought about calling an ambulance, but by the time my hand fell my phone, I'd already blacked out again. The days bled together. When I finally woke for good, sunlight was slanting through the blinds and my body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. My phone was buried somewhere under the blankets, buzzing non-stop. Dozens of missed calls, texts from my parents, my boss, my friends, asking if I was okay, if I was alive, why I'd gone silent for so long. It took hours to convince my parents not to fly out and my boss not to fire me. I told them I must have come down with a nasty flu and I was dehydrated. Delirious, but fine now. It was easier than trying to explain the truth. I went back to class the next week to see if I could get some answers about what happened, but when I got there, the door was padlocked. The sign? Gone. Marza's channel had vanished too. No videos, no trace. Like it never existed. I tried searching online, but every trail led to occult forums and grimoires. My head starts pounding whenever I read too long. Even the coffee shop had no idea what flyer I was talking about. They didn't maintain the community board, so there was no telling who put it up or even if it was there to begin with. I never got anyone's number from class. It's like it all just evaporated. Well, not everything. When I close my eyes, I don't see black anymore. I see the ocean, the gray sky, and the figure dark and looming is always there. Coming closer with the tide. Sometimes when I blink too long, I see it in my apartment, at my office, in line getting groceries, standing there, watching. I finally have an imagination. It's not exactly what I thought it would be, but whatever that class was, it worked. I remember my therapist telling me that my mind was like the ocean, teeming with life in the darkness and finding comfort in that. She didn't mention what happens when you find something in those depths or that it might follow you back to the surface. I don't sleep much these days. When I do, I can tell when I've been called to it again. My apartment smells like wet leaves. All of the shadows have sprouted antlers. And the salt line creeps up the sheets like tide water from the shore. It drags me too. Because now, when I dream, it dreams of me too. And that's been worse than anything I could ever imagine. I know I normally don't say self-right before the outro, but we did it, everyone. Just a few seconds left until 2026. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New- I'm not a hero to a snuggler. Snack knots in common share a light licensing. Huh? That's nothing to say from the artist. No permission of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express... Snuggler snuck me. Snack knots in the messin' here. You should be here, though. You should be some mistake. Turn it off before it's too late. You know, I've been having a hard time trying to explain what Midnight Burger is. So how about I let them give it a shot? I just wanted to let you all know that I really, really appreciate Midnight Burger. I just wanted to let you know that you definitely have a huge fan here in the Middle East and the GCC. I just wanted to give you guys a shout out, tell you how much I love you guys. All of the weirdness is really my jam, really right up my alley. First, I love your podcast, it's been pure joy to listen to. Just here to say, keep up the great work. That season was amazing. I wanted to thank both of you for everything you've done. We really love this show. Your podcast is amazing. It's such an amazing show altogether. It's really nice knowing that there's another dimension that I can travel to and kind of escape. I've actively ruined all of their audio dramas for me. You can't get people to understand the human thing that happens in this damn show. Keep doing what you're doing because it's awesome. I love you guys. Can't wait for more. Thank you so much for everything you do. You are hope. You bring hope with you. And you might not think it, but you are far more important than you realize. Thank you. Take care. Love you. We open at six. At the nexus of all things, there is a diner. Look for midnight burger on your favorite podcasting app or just go to we open at six.com.