Day 4 - Poppies and Daffodils & More

This week's episode is brought to you by Wellgo 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 hand-picked 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 Corbyn Bursing, don't miss it. The Yeti. Only in AMC theaters April 4th and 8th and on digital April 10th. No. 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. Hey Michelle, Heather, where are you two going? We were just going off on a hike. Maybe pick some flowers. Sounds nice. Bring me back some Louisiana flocks. Sure. What's it look like? I don't know. Is that actually a real flower? I totally just guess. Do you guys hear that? Sounds like it's coming from over there. Do you see the branches moving? John, please tell me you have your tranquilizer gun? No, I give it to Owen. Why would you do that? Come on, he can't shoot himself in the neck every time. Owen, aim for the rustling. Don't worry John, I got this. You're trusting me won't go... And he missed. I think we could have called that one, right? Oh look, it bounced off a tree. And another. You don't think it's going to? No, that's impossible. Ah, dude, right in the neck. Again. We really need to start videotaping us. What the hell is going on? Did someone just shoot at darned at me? Joe? Joe Stofco? Is that you? Of course it's me. Who else would it be? I mean, I would have bet on literally anyone at this point. Joe, what are you doing here? What are you doing in my backyard? Your backyard? You live in Louisiana? No. Joe, are you doing okay? I'm fine. What are you doing? We were going to pick some flowers before you showed up and Owen shot himself in the neck. Again. Want to come with us to get some flowers? I never picked flowers. Never. Oh, not since, uh, pompies and daffodils. Howard clutched the newspaper between his wrinkled fingers, squinting at a small section of the opinion page. Plantoids, the dark side of the phenomenon. April 14th, 1981. Exactly one year ago today. The tiny town of Trovego, just off the coast of Italy, wakes up to an incredible sight. Beside the forgotten church in the center of town, the local graveyard has sprouted an enormous mass of native flora. The official measurements coming in at four stories tall and 50 meters wide. Those who were first to witness the growth wasted no time in calling it a gift from God. Even before the international presses rolled in and the entire town was sealed off for government investigation. The coast driver swerved over a particularly troublesome pothole, the impact jostling the paper from Harold's grasp. It landed on the seat next to him with a small poof of dust, adding to the already stale air and making him feel like he needed to sneeze. The driver flashed an apologetic look, Harold meeting it with a strange smile, before scooping the paper back into his hands. Within days the world's best and brightest scientists were pouring in. They all had their minds on the same conundrum. How could such a large growth of healthy, thriving plant life spring up seemingly overnight? Early analysis of the soil surrounding the growth was inconclusive. It seemed to hold no special qualities compared to samples of nearby unaffected soil. The answer didn't take too long to emerge, yet rather than bring a logical explanation, it only served to raise more confusion. He flicked his thumb across his tongue and turned the page. He knew they had to be close. The road was getting more and more uneven, the engine wheezing with each turn and the sweat on the brow of the driver growing ever more apparent. Silently he turned and scanned his eyes over the empty seats. The end of the line had been quite some time ago. The roots of the mass weren't coming from the soil, the article continued. They were coming from the coffins. The roots were infused with the very bones of the graveyard skeletons. You reading the papers? The driver spoke with a slight country draw. His words tinned with nervous energy. My own article got it published a few days ago, though I'd appreciate it if you kept your focus on the road. Howard shot a stern glare into the rear view mirror, smoothing the paper out across his lap. Right, right, I got a focus. It took less than a week for similar instances of all different sizes to start popping up all over the world. Age and condition mattered not, as the scientists quickly discovered. For as long as they were real bones from a real dead human, they were sprouting flora. It seemed like ordinary life was put on standstill, as people raced to discover these planttoids, as they were promptly named. Even now it remains a prominent topic of interest. So a year since that fateful day in Italy, what do we know? Well, no official explanation has been released. As far as the average person knows, the residents of Cervego were spot on with their first assumption. Clean-up crews have been mobilized across the globe to take care of the most inconvenient growths, while newly founded organizations work for the preservation of others. There's even been a nature-based religious movement swept up from the chaos. With numbers growing by the day, experts are estimating there may still be millions of planttoids left to discover, and millions more lurking deep underground. Slowly but surely, people are adjusting to the sight of a towering stack of flowers in their neighborhood. But deep down, there's a few unsettling concepts that have been tugging at the back of our minds the entire time. Whatever the nature of this event may be, the spectacle of it all seems to have distracted us from the real, disturbing questions we need to ask ourselves. Why are planttoids popping up in locations never before inhabited by humans? Why are some becoming seemingly privatized, hushed away from public view? Why have some been found in the Antarctic, as certain rumors claim? It seems whatever the cause of these phenomena, the powers that be are reluctant to answer these questions. I implore you readers, next time you see a plantoid, stop and think about who could be underneath and how they met such a fate. We hear the coach came to a stop. Howard tossed the paper aside and eased himself into a standing position with the help of his cane. His ceramic hip clicking quietly with each step. He walked to the driver's booth, where a twitchy red-headed teen was awaiting his payment. I can't take you back, remember? He spoke, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. There was an awkward air to the boy's mannerisms, like he was never quite able to keep still. It was risky enough getting you out here in the first place, and I'm not waiting around for whatever it is that you want to do. I know, Harold said, taking a wad of cash from his back pocket. That was what we agreed on. The boy took the cash into his pocket, glancing at the grubby windows for any sign of trouble. The vast expanse of nature around them remained completely empty, save for a few birds and foxes. There wasn't another soul in sight. Thanks for keeping your side of the deal. I really need this money. Hey, you used to live here, right? Can you tell me why they had to close this place down before you go? Which is out of curiosity. There have been all sorts of rumors flying about for decades now, and I don't know what to believe. Oh, accident at a nearby random mine, Howard explained. Too much radiation. The long-term exposure would have been fatal. Everyone had to go. But not everyone went, right? I paid you to drive, not to ask questions. Sorry, the boy spoke, sinking a little in his chair. He puffed a short sigh. I, uh, I gotta get back home. Town I picked you up from is a good few miles away, and I'm running low on gas, so I don't have much to waste. See ya. Goodbye. Howard turned and stepped out into the dusty soil. The coach door is closing behind him. For the final nod, the driver revved the engine back to life and drove off back down the country road. He sighed and gazed out across the town before him. After all these years, it felt good to be back. Don't go talking to creepy Fred, was a well-known saying around the locals of St. Anthony. It was one of the first things Howard noticed towards the beginning of his visit to the town, and it proved to be a sentiment that was difficult to forget. Fred Hazelton was St. Anthony's blemish. It's imperfection. His presence was known universally among the town's occupants, but most seemed reluctant to even acknowledge him. It was as if a silent mutual agreement had been made to avoid the man at all costs, to pretend he didn't exist. And for all Howard knew, he might as well not have, for he apparently spent almost all his time cooped up in a dilapidated mansion next to the local cemetery on the outskirts of town. Howard pondered this thought as he plunged a mouthful of juicy chicken past his lips. The dinner invitation he had received from a local mother and her husband had been tempting enough to accept. We hope you're enjoying the town so far. The mother spoke, smiling warmly, as she tucked into a spoon full of rice. Oh, absolutely, said Howard. It's so much nicer here than in the city. All that pollution and concrete numbness can get to you sometimes. Small, cozy places like St. Anthony fit me much better. The husband nodded in agreement. Are you planning on staying much longer? Only a few more days at most. I'm waiting on a call from this writing agency. They're considering my application. I'll be gone the day I hear back from them. Well, we wish you the best of luck. The thought of Fred remained embedded in Howard's mind as he conversed about such mundane matters. Fred Hazelton, strange how it was, with some hesitant to so much as mention the man's name and him still being the subject of countless rumors. What's up with the reclusive guy? Fred, I think his name was, he spoke unable to keep the thought from occupying a space on his tongue. Instantly the family's demeanors turned colder as if simply speaking the man's name had invited some dark shadow upon the house. Neither the woman nor her husband wished to speak first. Yet the latter took it upon himself to answer the question. Black and white graveyard. Don't tell anyone we told you this, but Fred's a bit of an odd case. He whispered leaning in towards the table. There's reports of him in the cemetery almost every night. Out he shambles at some ungodly hour, creeping through the tall grass and the leafless trees. It's a little strange to say the least. Reports, Howard queried. Why? What's he doing out so late at night? His mama's buried there. The wife spoke in the cemetery. She lived in the mansion right up until she passed away last year. Nice woman, only slightly less of a shot in than Fred, but still she used to bake little snowy cupcakes for us all at Christmas. Fred moved in a couple days after her funeral. Apparently she left him everything in the well. The house, her money, her possessions, you name it. She came from a very wealthy family. She let out a sigh, allowing herself to drift away for a moment. It's a shame Fred never put any of that money into the mansion's upkeep. It used to be a very pretty building. Look, between you and us, we think he's a weirdo. Her husband spoke in a restrained tone. He stays in that dusty old hole all day. It only comes out in the dead of night like a vampire. It looks like a vampire too. He's probably still living off whatever supplies that old hag stashed underground before she wasted away. Honey, do you think he cares about what everyone says about him? About his reputation, I mean. Ha! The husband replied, smirking slightly. His knife scraped against the plate as he tore off another piece of meat from the bone. Of course not. I can't remember the last time he spoke to any one of us. Mikey at school says he spoke to Mr. Hazelton once. The couple's kids spoke up, at last, playing with the greens on his plate. When he saw him sitting by the upstairs window, Mikey says he asked Mr. Hazelton if he was a ghost. Did he say anything back? The mother replied, nah, he just looked at him all funny and went back inside the house. Creep! The husband muttered under his breath. Fred's antics meant the cemetery was seldom visited by the locals, and yet, when Howard faded a visit, it seemed well kept. The vegetation had been cleared, the tombstones were clean, and a fresh pile of flowers was sitting on Mrs. Hazelton's grave, not in a bouquet or vase or any sort of container, just scattered lightly across the soil. A mess of poppies and a scattering of daffodils. Howard was intrigued. The fact that Fred's behavior could very well have been of a grieving man mourning the death of his much-loved mother and nothing more never seemed to occur to anybody. Either they didn't know or they didn't care, and it felt unfair to Howard that no one was even attempting to reach out to the man to establish any sort of connection. Needless to say, it came as a huge shock when he received a dinner invitation from Fred early one morning, written in his very own handwriting. Dear newcomer, it read, in a tall, slanted font, with exaggerated curves like that from a person attempting to write formally but not used to such a way of shaping their letters. I have noted your arrival in the town and would like to properly introduce myself. I understand you may have heard certain things about me from the other residents here, and as unflattering as they may be, I can assure you a good portion of these claims are entirely untrue. I would deem it most satisfactory if you were to come to dinner tonight at my establishment at 6 p.m., where I am sure we can have a polite chat about said rumors in a sensible manner. Yours, endearingly, Frederick Hazelston. Howard was flabbergasted to say the least. A few horrible thoughts came upon him, of being stalked and spied upon, but he soon reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. He was living relatively close to Fred. It was perfectly reasonable for him to have simply observed his visitation of the town, just like everyone else. He couldn't form a definitive judgment of the man until he met him in person, and this was the perfect opportunity to do so. It seemed likely the locals would do nothing but discourage him if he dared tell them about the invitation, so he kept the information to himself. The hour is passed by in no time at all, and quickly he found the sun dipping below the edge of the horizon. Slipping into some formal attire, he readied himself for the occasion, taking his teeth and taking one last good look into the mirror before he ventured outside. He had never been up close to the house before, it now revealing itself to be in an even greater state of disrepair than he had initially observed. It was somewhat isolated from the rest of the town, obscured on all sides by its front of a cluster of thick willow trees. The remnants of what had once been a well-kept building had all but faded away. The windows were cracked and foggy, a film of dirt and grime covering the outer layer of glass, and the brickwork was shrouded by ivy. A light scattering of collapsed roof tiles were displayed across the roof of the building like little specks of darkness sucking up the moonlight. Nonetheless, the inside lights were on, and the great rusty knocker on the front door felt cold and rough in Howard's hand as he dropped it against the wood. Slow, irregular footsteps came down the hallway. Howard swallowed and put on a warm smile, forcing his hands away from retreating inside his trouser pockets. The door caught on the chain lock as it opened, and he heard soft breathing coming from inside as the footsteps came to an end. This is the oldest building in St. Anthony, you know. Fred's head had slipped into the gap so unnoticeably he hadn't seen him for a good few seconds. His face was shrouded by the night, eyes wide like a cat's as he stared from the crevice. His voice was delicate and precise as he spoke with a hint of an English accent. It cut through the cricket's chirps like a knife as Howard stood there nervously, unsure of how to respond. It predates the town itself. It was built by my great-great-grandfather, and the rest of St. Anthony was formed outward from it. The wind whistled along the street as a few more awkward seconds passed by. Howard took a step forward, ready to say something, but finding the words caught on his tongue. So I do hope you will excuse its current condition. It is not that I do not care about the well-being of the house or its history. I am not a very handyman myself, and I would have hired someone to come work on it for me, but I have been busy as of late, and I am not exactly a very social person either, if you could not tell already. May I come in? Howard finally forced out. Yes, please make yourself at home. The chain came off the latch with a metallic click. He waited for Fred to pull the door open the rest of the way, but instead heard his footsteps leading back into the house. Grasping the knob, he pushed it fully open and was mildly startled by its sudden slamming behind his back as he entered the mansion. The first thing he noticed was the air. It held the instantly recognizable qualities of a fresh mist of febrize, almost overpoweringly so. He swallowed and wrinkled his nose, hoping that wherever Fred had disappeared to, he hadn't noticed his recoiling. I am afraid you must forgive me for the aroma, Howard heard his voice echo from one of the next rooms over. A nasty settlement of rats recently invaded the mansion, and although I was capable of driving them off, their pungent odor remained. Better breaths of mild chemicals than a breath of rat dropping. Fred's voice had an edge of humor, even as Howard cringed at the thought. He sniffed a little harder and indeed could detect some other scent overshadowed by the smell of what he presumed to be some exotic flower. The food is all set out and ready to eat. Please come and join me in the dining room. The image of Fred hiding around the corner brandishing a meat cleaver popped into Howard's head, as well as one of him leaning over his plate with a devilish grin sprinkling cyanide on his food. Again, he was forced to reassure himself it was going to be a perfectly normal night. They would eat, share a conversation, and he would leave. Nothing more, nothing less. Whereily he started walking down the hallway. The rug puffed dust around his ankles with every step. Despite its extravagant, if significantly faded exterior, the internal structure of the house seemed quite simple. There was a central hallway which led from the front door to the base of the stairs and four doors along the way, two on each side. Three were shut and presumably locked and the one on the further right hand side was slightly ajar, casting a crack of light against the opposite wall. Howard let his eyes wander from corner to corner of the hallway, observing the chipped, yellowed surfaces of the walls and ceiling. It reminded him fairly of what a hoarder's house looks like when all the clutter is removed. With an outstretched arm, he pushed open the far right door. Fred stood upright at the side of a polished wooden table, hands behind his back, and a sort of half-smile spread across his face. A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room and giving Howard his first proper look at the man he had heard so much about. He looked around somewhere in his mid-thirties, a slither of blonde hair sitting atop his head neatly combed above his ears. His face was narrow and elongated, and his eyes were full of caffeine, the dark bags beneath them being the most noticeable symptom of his nocturnal habits. A black bow tie was wrapped somewhat shoddily around his collar, and the rest of his outfit gave off the impression of an early 1900s gentleman with a pinstripe jacket and a white dress shirt along with jet-black suit pants. Howard took another deep breath, still the smell of the breeze lingered. Please take a seat. Howard stepped to the table and dragged a cushioned chair from out underneath it, making himself comfortable. The floorboards were ragged and ever so slightly uneven, creaking as he shifted and leaned in towards his plate. Our dish tonight comes from mother's old rationing supplies. They are much more flavorful than the processed slop they sell at the local market. I assure you, I trust you will find them quite enjoyable. I certainly do. Again that tiny hint of a smile pierced through Fred's expression. He sat and cleared his throat, scratching the bridge of his nose before taking a napkin from his pocket and laying it on his lap. Howard looked down at his food. Two veiny sausages nestled themselves beside a heap of mashed potatoes, drizzled with a brown gravy-like substance. A small pile of various vegetables was scattered off to the side, soft and wet, dispersing at the touch of his fork. Have you been enjoying the town? Fred was already tucking in, slicing open the sausage meat and dragging it through the thin river of gravy before putting it to his lips. It suddenly occurred to Howard he had barely said a word to the man and he fumbled internally, trying to pick a sentence out of the whirlwind of thoughts blowing through his brain. Yeah, it's very quaint. I could see myself coming back here one day when I'm old and retired. Fred stopped eating for a moment and looked at him with a kind of knowing air. You like traveling, yes? Howard raised an eyebrow, twirling a loose sausage scran around his fork. How do you know? he said, popping the strand into his mouth. He jostled it back and forth with his tongue, trying to detect any unusual flavors, even as he kicked himself for being so presumptuous. People like you come and go occasionally, but now I am used to seeing them. I see, Howard replied, swallowing his mouthful. It was spit-suckingly dry, but he pretended otherwise. Do you always invite them over for dinner? You're the first person to respond to my letters, he said, almost sadly. Oh, well, I am Howard trailed off, mumbling something vaguely sympathetic. There was silence for a while. He tried his fill at the mashed potatoes, unable to keep himself from stabbing at them until they were distributed across his plate, like a damp layer of toilet paper. A tall, looming grandfather clock, tickrismically as they ate, stood near the head of the table next to the blackened fireplace. Allow me to cut to the chase, if you please. Fred suddenly spoke, setting down his knife and fork, and bridging his hands together. Howard straightened up, finishing a particularly chewy string bean. I understand that the other residents of this town may have been propagating some harmful information about me. Please, if you will, disclose some of the things they may have said. Do not hold back. Be as honest as possible. Fred stared, hands clasped together, body stiff and expectant, waiting for an answer. Howard rubbed his temple as he wondered how best to tell him that the entire town wanted him gone. He thought it to be strange, he was even asking such a question, surely. He would have picked upon the local's attitude by now. A lot of people seem a little, um, disturbed about your nightly walks through the graveyard. Yes, I have gotten that impression, though I am not sure why I find myself to be the only person responsible for its upkeep. Did you see the graves this morning? The cleanliness of those headstones? Not to toot my own horn, but I'd say they were spotless. The graves, they looked like they were freshly dug, didn't they? Who do you think's responsible for that? Howard peered past Fred and noticed the soil-coated shovel in the back corner of the room. A small pile of mud and grass played sat beneath it. Anything else? Anything a little more specific? Fred continued. Anything. I hate to use the word, but, uh, incriminating? No, no, nothing like that. Howard continued, waving his hand as if to dispel the notion. The worst of it is, uh, well, um, someone said you were like a vampire, uh, what with the lack of, uh, appearance during the day. Good, good! Fred nodded, taking a sip of water from his glass. His shoulders relaxed, and Howard could see a weight had lifted from them. Nothing out of the ordinary, then. He picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating, as did Howard. Once again the unnatural silence crept in, letting his eyes wander across the room. He spied a cupboard of antique dining-ware, displaying ornate plates and gleaming cutlery. I, uh, heard this used to be your mother's place, at some point, he said, feeling he should at least attempt to keep the conversation going. She always said she wanted a plot of land for herself. Fred spoke, in a jarringly monotone voice, somewhere private and empty. Uh, I, I'm sorry. Fred stared at his plate. Howard froze, overcome by the terrifying feeling he'd said something very wrong. For where she wanted to be buried, she kept telling me when she was sick. A nice open field just for her, where she could watch the bees dance across the flowers in peace, across the puppies and the daffodils. Those were her favorites. She told me they reminded her of her childhood. He was deathly still. Howard chewed on his bottom lip, wringing his hands. I never made the arrangements. She did not tell anyone other than me. Did not put it in her will, but it meant a lot to her. It really did. After sniff, he flicked his eyes up and said, Where are you going to be buried? Uh, I've never really thought about it too much. I, I, I might be cremated. Maybe I couldn't really say. Fred shrugged. To each their own, I suppose. Mother did not want to be cremated. She always hated fire. Fire is what took father away. He said it with such a nonchalance. It took Howard a moment to process what he truly meant. Oh, that's, I'm so, uh, mother used to say that was where father was now. Where the fire is. I was never too sure myself. Father was a mean man, but he didn't like the fire either. Howard's heart sunk as he noticed the family picture on the wall. It hung crookedly. The glass layered with dust and the frame chipped and stained. From the dim lighting, he could make out two smiling faces and one far less cheerful looking man. Arms crossed firmly at his chest as he glared into the camera. Well, what a lovely evening this has been. Fred scooped up his last fork full of mashed potatoes and swallowed it, his plate empty. Howard reached for his knife and fork, realizing he still had a good few bites to go before he was finished. No, no, please. Fred spoke, standing up and sweeping the plate into his hands. If you are full, you are full. I will not force you to eat more than you wish. He turned on his heel and walked through the kitchen door before Howard could say a word. Brushing a couple of gravy droplets off his trousers, he stood up, pushing the chair back under the table. I don't think I ever caught your name, Fred said as he entered the room again, wiping his hands with the cloth. It's, um, Howard. It was nice meeting you, Howard. Howard started for the door, expecting Fred to follow behind, only for him to vanish back into the kitchen from the corner of his eye. He halted, taking one last moment to fully absorb the room, knowing it would most likely be the last time he would ever see it. He opened the door into the hallway and made his way back to the front door. As he reached for the knob, he heard the pitter-patter of fast footsteps creaking through the dining room. He turned. Fred came around the corner, red-faced. He kept walking until he was uncomfortably close, fidgeting as he stared with bulging white eyes. Howard retracted as far back as he could, his head tilted upward as it lay against the scratchy wooden surface of the front door. I, uh, I wanted to ask you something. Fred's voice left no imprint of the cool, calm, collected man Howard had conversed with moments ago. You said you might come back here one day. Did you not? When you are old and retired. Uh, yes, yes, I did. If someone you love wanted something, Fred said, not missing a beat. Something more than anything else in the entire world, and you had the opportunity to give it to them. You would do it. Would you not? You would take that opportunity? Panicked forced Howard to blurt out the first thing he could think of. I would, I would, I would, I would, I would. He kept repeating it over and over, quieter each time, until it didn't even sound like a sentence anymore. Fred let out a deep sigh and backed away, running his hand across his scalp. Then you would understand. He whispered grinning. He chuckled a squeaky, rhythmic chuckle, sitting down as he reached the base of the stairs. Goodbye, Howard. I wish you well. Good things are coming your way. Howard peeled open the front door. Fred waved as he closed it behind him, still grinning. His heart was pounding. He stood outside the door for what felt like hours, until he heard Fred's footsteps recede upstairs. Cautiously, he backed away from the house, half expecting to catch a glimpse of Fred's ghostly figure through one of the second-story windows. No such apparition could be seen, however, and Howard's racing mind calmed as he began to walk home. Opening his front door, he almost jumped out of his skin as the phone rang. It was the writing agency he'd applied to. He'd got the job, and they wanted him to start as soon as possible. They apologized for calling so late, but Howard didn't care. He thanked the woman at the other end and hung up, promptly falling asleep on the sofa. When he awoke, he started packing his things, too excited to reflect much on the previous night's dinner. And he made so soon, a local called out from across the street as Howard left the house. I hope the antics of you know who haven't put you off our town. Howard reassured the man and went on his way, informing him of his new profession. Nobody knew of his visitation to the mansion, and he was intent on keeping it that way. The last he saw of the town was the well-kept graveyard in his rearview mirror as he pulled out onto the country roads. For a mere moment, he thought he could see Fred, leaning over a gravestone, watching him, waving him goodbye, with that maddening grin still spread across his face. Howard clutched the walking stick in his hand tightly as he stood at the entrance to St. Anthony. From a simple glance down the main road, he could tell that any remainder of human life had vanished years ago. The houses were faded and empty, some half collapsed, others with caved-in roofs and missing walls. The grass and the trees were sullen and gray, wilted and dying. The house he'd rented for his stay had brittle plywood nailed into the window frames, the front door sealed off. It was a far different atmosphere to the one he remembered from all those years ago. As he walked through the forgotten town, he remembered the last piece of news he'd heard relating to its existence, the evacuation. All had chosen to leave apart from one stubborn individual who had barricaded themselves inside their mansion. Fred was never heard from again after the town was abandoned. Some said he never left. And then, as he turned the corner past the rotten willow trees to face the front of the mansion, Howard saw why. The building itself had crumbled inward and sunk into the ground. It looked a mere few years away from being swallowed completely. Far more noticeable, of course, was the enormous mass of flora engulfing the house intertwined with the brickwork, erupting from the floors and walls. Several stories high, it swayed peacefully with the wind, like the chest of an animal rising and falling with each breath. A rainbow of flowers was cast across the heap of green, like a kaleidoscope shimmering and twinkling in the sunlight. Howard swallowed, unsure of how to feel. He glanced around, wondering if Fred was still lurking somewhere in the distance, but saw nothing. Slowly he carried on towards the graveyard, expecting to find a similar arrangement of flora. Instead, he found that each and every headstone had been ripped from its place and cast aside into the street. The places in which they had previously lay had been smoothed over with grass, as if they never existed. And so the field was bare, saved for the existence of a single, isolated grave right in its center. Howard recognized its worn texture, kneeling by its inscription and wiping away the dirt. Hazelton grave. Here lies Jessica Hazelton, loving wife, mother of one, and dearly missed by all who knew her. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see. A healthy covering of poppies and daffodils had emerged around the headstone, and a piece of paper was tucked into the soil beside them. Howard picked up the paper and unfolded it, slipping on his reading glasses. I knew you'd understand, it read, written in Fred's handwriting. Okay, so Joe is out, and maybe we skip flower picking today. Agreed. Hey Joe, let me show your own camp a little. Are you going to kill me? What? No, why would I? Oh, I thought that was a saying. All the other narrators talk about it, all the... Joe, you should go check out the places that aren't over here. Maybe stop by the medical tent and get some aspirin for Owen. He always gets a headache when he shoots himself with a trinket dart. To be fair, this time it was a ricochet. Knowing Owen, I'm not so sure. Results were still the same. Come on Joe, let's take a stroll and we can figure out exactly how you got here. You know, I always thought you'd look different in real life. We've met several times before. No, that wasn't you. That guy was better looking with more hair, less gray. I'm starting to think Joe is a ghost or something. Wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've seen at this job. Think we should tell another story while they're gone? Yeah, sure. He knows how long John will be gone this time. John would be so happy we're all actually talking this time. Who's got a story? Oh, I do. It's about a fridge in the woods. Despite all the no dumping signs at the perimeter of the woods behind my house, people took no issue leaving all kinds of trash out there. On some weekends, I would use my free time to pick up anything of value and dispose of anything else I was able to lift. Not very exciting, but it was something to occupy my time. There were no roads leading directly to any portion of the woods in my neighborhood. How people managed to move so much junk there has always been a mystery. Old lawnmowers, air conditioners, a golf cart, file cabinets, and even a couch appeared back there. Despite the annoyance and environmental concerns, I never had any reason to feel unsafe in the woods. Everything changed when I found a refrigerator half buried in the dirt. After a relatively sleepless night, I took an early morning walk among the fog and trees. My footfalls cracked on fallen branches and echoed from the canopy above me. Huge plumes of steam rolled from my mouth with each exhale. About half a mile from my house, I came upon the hulking metallic mass sinking into the forest floor. The refrigerator had materialized seemingly overnight, but had a blend of rust and dirt covering the outside of it. Nonetheless, a shiny chrome handle glinted in the first hints of the morning's sunrise. I approached the thing slowly, a certain anxiety tightened in my chest, but I wasn't sure why. It seemed like just another piece of junk left to rot. All the same, I rose to my tiptoes as I crept forward and found that I was unwittingly holding in my exhales. You're being ridiculous. I shook my head to know it in particular. Just head back home and leave this junk alone. But the moment I turned towards my house, the motor on the fridge hummed to life. Slowly, I craned my neck to look at it again. The thing's massive frame rattled and shook, causing loose dirt to crumble to the ground. Despite the impossibility of the appliance functioning in the middle of the woods, I found a bit of my anxiety floating from my body like water vapor. At least I wasn't crazy. This fridge was weird as hell. A high-pitched wine echoed against the trees. I took slow, tentative steps towards the fridge. As I got closer, a pungent and metallic smell hit my nostrils and made me gag a bit. I tended my sweatshirt over my nose and continued forward. My hand had a slight tremor as I reached for the fridge handle. The moment my fingers wrapped around the chrome handle, the engine shuddered to a stop. Without the metanical hum, the forest lay quiet. Distressingly so. I could hear only my heartbeat and realized I had been holding my breath again. I exhaled and pulled the door open. A dark and wet set of stairs descended into the earth. In the low morning light, I could count eight polished stone steps before the darkness obscured my view. I paused and listened for signs of life or anything at all. Nothing. Unprepared for any kind of splunking, I closed the door and headed home. On my way through the woods, I felt an odd sense of excitement. Finally, something to break up the monotony of sleep, work, sleep. Back home, I equipped myself with several flashlights, a 100 foot rope, packaged food, a kitchen knife from my kitchen block, and I made sure my cell phone had a full charge. Everything fit nicely into a duffel bag, which I shouldered, then proceeded outside. The fog had already dissipated and the bright sun made the fridge seem a bit less menacing. I tied the rope around a nearby tree and looped to the other end around my waist. If the stairs collapsed under my weight, I wanted to have something to slow my fall and possibly climb out of any pits. Could have been wishful thinking, but it was better than nothing. After waiting a moment to see if the refrigerator's motor returned to life, I decided it was probably safe to explore inside. The door yawned open and I flipped on the flashlight whose beam exposed an identical half dozen additional stairs leading to inky black. I rolled a broken TV to the fridge and wedged it under the door to hold it open. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement. I took a deep breath and descended into the dark. Along the sides of the stairs, loose dirt and stones and roots caught the flashlight's beam. My footsteps made almost no noise against the steps as I headed down one by one. The air drew colder and thicker like the humidity increased or the composition of gases in the air had changed. Among the smells of dirt, a faint stench of rot clung to the air. Suddenly, my body jerked to a halt. The rope clung tightly against my abdomen and I couldn't move any further. Behind me, the open door was barely visible, a tiny box of light at the tunnel's end. Weighing my options, I slipped the rope under my feet and took a deep inhale before continuing my descent. In the darkness ahead, a light stittering sound echoed. I crouched and shined my flashlight forward, but I found nothing but more steps. The kitchen knife felt cold and heavy in my hands as I drew it from my bag. The flashlight's plastic casing crunched in my other hand, an involuntary reaction to the stress and fear. Every part of me said to turn back. Yet, I took another step downward. I'm not sure how long it took me to reach the bottom. In five, maybe ten minutes, the steps terminated into a warren of caves. My feet patted softly in the dirt and clouds kicked up with each step. Overhead, the cave's ceiling vaulted out of reach of my flashlight. To my left and right, burrowed openings large enough for an elephant and small enough for a rodent. I hadn't noticed on my way down, but the temperatures had plummeted below freezing. The echoes of my teeth chattering bounced into and out of the dozens of roots leading out of the confluence I found myself in. The same creeping dread I experienced when I first noticed the fridge above ground returned to my stomach. A flood of nausea nearly doubled me over. I dropped my duffel bag and rummaged until I found my water bottle. Its contents tasted stale and I barely choked them down. I braved a sniff at the bottle's opening and it smelled stagnant. Gagging, I dumped the water and listened to it patter in the dirt. But after I finished pouring, the rhythmic patter continued ringing throughout the rest of the tunnels. Initially, I dismissed it as an echo, but the sound rang out for nearly a minute. At the edge of my flashlight's beam, the unlit portions of my surroundings seemed to close in, a pulsing encroachment of darkness as if the shadows were some living, breathing thing. I swapped flashlights, presuming a dying battery, but the new one seemed even worse. Darkness was closing in and I could feel my entire body tightening under its weight. Deciding it was time to head back to the surface, I turned to the staircase that brought me in. Each step glistened in the flashlight's beam. When I heard the first growl behind me, I dismissed it as my own imagination playing tritches on me. The second growl was undeniable. It also happened to be a few feet away from me. I whipped around and my flashlight beam landed squarely on the face of a creature that was unlike anything I'd seen in nature or a zoo, a broad mouth crowded with crooked teeth wrapped around a thin snout that terminated in a nose like a bat's. What little skin stretched over its angular bone structure was charcoal gray. The creature's hind legs were curved like a deer but had filthy, humanoid feet gripping the dirt. What made me fear for my life were the front legs, impossibly thin rails sharpened to points like spears. Mud or blood stained the appendages from their points up to what I assumed were elbows. The creature took one halting step toward me, its head lulled loosely as if its neck were broken. Black eyes like tiny coins tracked my every move. I dropped my bag and sprinted towards the stairs. My feet slipped on the polished steps as I scrambled towards the surface. Behind me the creature let out a bellow before I heard its horrible pointed limbs make contact on the hard surface of the steps. Its bones stretched and squeaked like nails on a chalkboard. Blood pounded in my ears as I bounded three steps at a time, occasionally having to steady myself with shaking hands on the cold granite under me, after nearly falling on my face. Tears stunned my eyes. This is it, I thought. Wet footfalls blended with the horrible scraping sounds, seeming closer with each second as the thing lopped behind me. This is where it all ends. Something like hope sparked in my chest as I stepped over the loop of rope I had dropped from my waist. But whatever light had entered through the open door at the top of the staircase was gone. The door is shut. My mind raced. My breath turned ragged as I neared the entrance. Someone trapped me in here with this thing. While I couldn't bring myself to even crane my neck to see, the footfalls of that creature sounded even nearer. So much so that I could hear its own exhales, raspy, relentless. The fridge door was close enough that I saw the door was actually still open, but night had fallen outside. In what had felt like twenty or thirty minutes, hours had passed. I put my head down and surged forward. Cold night air burned my lungs as my body catapulted outside. I stooped over and flipped the TV holding the door. In one motion I turned to the cavernous opening and made eye contact with that thing just as the final stairs met its horrible gallop. And a whisper, strapped from its distended mouth, echoed against the fridge door while it slammed shut. I pressed my body weight against the door, expecting a pounding, pushing resistance at my back. I felt nothing and heard only silence. That is, until a triplet of scratches sounded politely from the other side of the door. Still breathless, I clenched my teeth and pushed harder on the cold metal surface. More scratches. I can hear you out there still. A muffled voice said behind me. Its words were slurred and poorly formed. I hate to see you go, but come back and visit any time. Despite the freezing temperatures and my body's shivering, I wouldn't let myself stop holding the door closed. Only when my legs lost circulation and I could feel my feet going numb was I able to release my weight from the door. I piled as much nearby junk in front of the door as I could and ran home. I got my car keys and drove to the nearest motel to attempt to sleep through the night. When the morning sun poured in between the musty curtains of my room, I stretched and felt sore from my toes to my jawline. I washed my face and climbed into my car. After I arrived home, I let the engine idle and watched my windows for any signs of movement. Any evidence that the thing escaped its underground chamber and tried to track me down. I don't know how long I waited. One hour, maybe two. Finally convinced the house was empty, I crept inside and walked from room to room. Empty. I felt the tension leave my body for the first time in nearly 24 hours. But as the day wore on, I would find my jaw was clenched or I was holding my breath. Whatever that thing was under the woods, it was still there, still literally in my backyard. Back in my car, my grip tightened on the wheel and turned my knuckles pale. I double parked at the hardware store and bought the heaviest, longest chains I could find and a handful of padlocks. The girl working the counter was too busy on her cellphone to be as suspicious as she should have been. Metal clanged behind me as I dragged the chains through the woods. The sun began to sink behind the treetops and that same gnawing anxiety gripped my throat. A low fad or possibly smoke hovered around the fridge. In the low light, I couldn't tell if something was moving in the vapor. Jagged shadows, real or imagined, seemed to pulse and fade. A twisted puppet show. Dull pain radiated through my hands as they wrapped tighter around the metal chain lengths. Eventually, the mist parted around the fridge, revealing that either the creature had departed or that there had been nothing at all. I took the opportunity to rush the fridge. Harsh breaths pushed from my lungs as I sped forward. My body weight crashed into the heavy metal door. With frenzied movements, I draped the chain against the door handle and walked around the body of the hulking metal box. Around and around, I pulled the lengths of metal taut and locked them against each other. I didn't feel any kind of relief until the final padlock clicked shut. I surveyed my work and mustered as much hope and positive feeling as I could. But as I turned away from the fridge, the motor shrieked to life again. The shrill sounds echoed in the woods like taunting laughter and followed me until I reached my house. Days and weeks passed. I would never claim that I forgot what happened in the woods behind my house. Seeing the grotesque form of that creature barely escaping its pursuit and hearing it speak to me supplied enough fuel for a lifetime of nightmares. But I did grow more at ease. Every weekend, when I would walk through the woods, I would check from as great a distance as possible that the chain and the padlocks were still secure. They still held. The fridge itself seemed to grow lifeless. Its stained off-white surface turned a malted gray, almost as if it were some living thing that was leaking its life force. But something happened a week ago that I can barely bring up the courage to mention. I was driving to work, winding my way through the roads that carved through the forest. Out of the corner of my eye, an object nestled among the trees stood out in the morning sunlight. Not even wanting to acknowledge the possibility of what it appeared to be, I kept my eyes forward and continued to work. Nevertheless, my heart raced and waves of nausea took hold. I managed to ignore the object in the woods on my way home, too. After a few days of driving past the object, I decided to take another route to work. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, I found the same thing on my alternate route. Another refrigerator standing like a gravestone from the forest floor. I pulled over to the side of the road and watched it rattle and shake as its engine ran. Another trip to the hardware store. I bought the last of their chains and locks and hurled everything into my trunk in a breathless frenzy. By the time I got back to the section of the woods with the new fridge, I had barely caught my breath, only to have it sucker punched from my body. The morning sun seemed to dim as the fridge door swayed open. Dark, bloody, scratches starred the inside. A trail of gouges in the earth led to the road, and from there, into the unknown. Ah, shoot, did I miss the story? Where's Joe? Who? Oh, Joe. Yeah, he's gone. John, what did you do? What? Oh, come on. You all still think there's a chance that I'd kill one of you? Give me a little more credit than that. Then where's Joe? I sent him home. What does that mean? I mean, I sent him home. We ran into a couple of locals with a fan boat and they agreed to get him to the airport. What's going on? Fuck! Oh, my God. What was happening? What's happened? Did I miss the school bus, Mom? Aw, you guys woke up Owen. How are you feeling, buddy? What? What happened? Oh, did I kill the monster? You sure did, buddy. How about someone takes you over to the medical tent to lay down for a little while? You've had a big day. Okay, but someone make sure to call the school office and let them know I'll be late. Here, Owen, come with me. God, I love that guy. Hey, John, Photos, what did you do with Joe? Did you seriously just hand him off to strangers on a fan boat? Not initially. I did ask Joe if he was sure he felt safe and then he punched me so hard in the stomach that stuff came out of me. That's why I was a little late getting back. I had to change. So we're all just good with Joe disappearing into the swamp? Yep. I guess not my sessions, not my monkeys. Just checking. If it helps, I can tell you a story to take your mind off of it. Y'all ever hear the one about the empty sleeping bag? I've heard this story a few times. The first time I was camping up in the Boundary Waters in Minnesota. But I heard a version of this out in Moab, Utah and Red Rock, Nevada too. But there's more places than that. It's all about a campsite. Nothing special. A clearing, a fire pit. One version had one of those crappy charcoal campsite grills. Another mentioned a picnic table. Mostly the description of the site is all the same. Including the fact that, if the night is quiet enough, there's one sleeping bag too many. To my knowledge, there's no notice of anything like this happening at any ranger station. It's simply something people noticed over time. If you camped in the clearing and stayed more than one night, you kept your gear close to the fire and got into the habit of counting how many people were with you. The story, the way I heard it, usually centers on a group of five. Friends on a late season trip. The kind where the air is already cool. Maybe a little frost on the grass in the mornings. They'd gone cowboy camping. That's camping without a tent sleeping under the stars. Probably a self-administered test of their manhood. These days it would probably be from watching one too many episodes of Yellowstone. They chose the clearing because it was quiet. And far enough from the main campground that the nights felt properly dark. The kind people who lived in big cities talked about, complaining about light pollution. The fire pit was old but intact. Ringing with blackened stones that it hosted more fires than anyone could count. On the first night, nothing unusual happened. They built a modest fire, cooked, talked, and eventually turned in for the night. The sleeping bags were laid out in a loose semicircular on the fire pit because the ground there was flatter. Five people, five bags. Simple enough. Sometime after midnight, one of them woke briefly and thought someone had shifted positions near the fire. The bags rustled sometimes when people rolled over. Not that much of it. But sometimes camping outdoors came with initial jitters. Irrational fear is about wild animals or strangers wandering in the woods. But there was nothing there. They were alone. In the morning, all five campers were accounted for. The only odd thing was the extra sleeping bag, which admittedly was pretty odd. Not that anyone wanted that concern. It laid just beyond the edge of the fire pit, half in shadow, zipped neatly to the top. No one claimed it. They assumed it belonged to someone who had camped there before them and simply forgotten it. It was worn but intact, dark fabric with no visible brand marking. But no one dared to say the most obvious thing. Then no one remembered it being there when they'd first set up camp. They didn't talk about it. They just got ready for the day and headed out hiking. That night, sitting around the fire after dinner, no one said they were uneasy. But the way they positioned their chairs suggested they were thinking about the same thing. The extra bag remained off to the side where they'd left it. Sometime deep in the night, one of them woke again. This time, the bag had moved. It was closer to the fire pit. Not dramatically. Not enough to scream. Just enough that someone who'd been paying attention might notice the difference. The ground between its old position and the new one showed no clear drag marks. Only faint disturbances in the top layer of dirt that could easily have been written off as wind or animals. And in the middle of the night, still on the edge of sleep, the mind gets confused and is easily distracted. Still, they looked around the campfire. Still five people, still one extra bag. In the morning, they talked about it. Not in any kind of serious way, at least. Trying not to sound as concerned as they're all starting to feel about it. Instead, they traded awkward jokes as scared men often do. On the third night, they decided to test it. Before turning in, they dragged the unclean sleeping bag to the far edge of the clearing, while outside at the ring of firelight. One of them even scuffed a visible line in the dirt in front of it with the heel of their hiking boot, the kind that would clearly show if anything heavy had been pulled across the ground. And sometime after midnight, someone woke to the sound of fabric shifting. Not loud, not urgent, just the soft, unmistakable slide of nylon against dirt. The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, casting the clearing in a dim red glow. Just enough to see that the extra sleeping bag was no longer at the tree line. It was back near the fire, closer than it had ever been. The scuffed line in the dirt remained unbroken. No drage marks, no footprints, just the bag. This time, they scanned the area immediately with their flashlights, one even calling out into the darkness, threatening something they didn't even know might or might not be there. None of them would admit it or even understand the impulse, but they each checked the headcount. Still five of them, still one extra sleeping bag. The light of morning brought no relief. When they woke up, they found the sleeping bag had shifted again during the final hours before dawn. It now lay almost touching the outer ring of stones, positioned so the zipper faced the fire pit. One of them finally approached it. The fabric inside was warm, as if something had been inside it very recently. Most versions of the story agree that they moved the bag again and continued their trip because the alternative was to pick up early and admit they were afraid of a piece of abandoned gear. Though some versions claim they threw it into the woods or tried to burn it only to discover it wouldn't burn. That's not this version. That night was their last in the clearing. They kept the bags closer to gather them before and made a point of checking the extra one several times before turning in. It stayed where they left it, until sometime after midnight. The person who woke first said the sound was wrong, not the soft slide from before, something heavier, something shifting inside fabric. The clearing was dim and red with low fire light. The extra sleeping bag now lay directly beside the pit, its surface uneven in a way that had not been there earlier. The top portion of the bag bulged slightly, rising and falling in slow, uneven intervals. The zipper was still fully closed. They looked at each other again, silently counting. Four. One of them was missing. No one agreed afterward who moved first. Someone crossed the clearing. Someone else grabbed a flashlight but hesitated to turn it on. The bag shifted again, the fabric pulling tight in places as though something inside was adjusting its position. When they finally opened it, the warmth inside rolled out in a thick wave, like exhaled breath. There was no body in the way they expected, no clean shape, just dense, compressed material that had once been something soft and structured, but was now folded into itself in tight, unnatural layers. The inside of the bag was smeared dark and tacky, the fabric stiff or dried. The mind tends to refuse to believe the horrors of truth. They couldn't accept that it was their friend, what was left of him. But reality has a way of coming to the surface. What they could identify was enough to end the trip immediately. In most tellings, the group left before dawn without properly extinguishing the fire. Rangers later noted the abandoned campsite and the scattered gear. But the extra sleeping bag was gone by the time anyone official arrived. Their friends remains were still there though, in the dirt. People still camp in that region, most never notice anything unusual. But sometimes, in the older clearings with long used fire pits, campers report the same small inconsistency. An extra piece of gear, a sleeping bag that doesn't belong to anyone. Something that always seems to be just a little closer to the warmth than it was the night before. The quiet advice passed between experienced campers is always the same. Count carefully. And if there are ever more sleeping bags in people, do not stay for the extra night. That didn't make me feel any better. Why not? Because there's literally an empty sleeping bag right there. So? We've all been sleeping in the cabins. You're reading too much into this. The story was just an allegory. An allegory for what? That if you fall asleep near an empty sleeping bag that you might die. John, do you know what you're talking about? I thought you were talking about the fact that you might die. John, do you know what an allegory is? What am I, a doctor? A physician. Heal thyself. Oh, you're one to talk. You've shot yourself in the neck with a tranquilizer dart twice already. Hey, hey, hey. It was three times. Let's try not to make it four. I really don't know the long term effects of... Of what? Nothing. I just felt like I was setting all one up again. In any case, I'm gonna go stand over there. Night. Anyone else starting to miss when we were divided into different groups trying to survive the month last year? Not really. At least last year we were pretty sure John was on our side. But now, I don't know how safe we are with him. 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-A-Lite 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 CreepyPodcast production team and the story's author. Imagine a city unlike any other simmering 300 years in a rock and scumbo of debauchery versus devotion. Catholicism. Confession is anonymous. Versus voodoo. I think I've done me a deal with the devil. What you call life. And what I call death. It's a mysterious crossroads where the denizens of this world and others. He is a trickster, and I'm sure whatever he brought back from the world of the dead was a one-way trip. Light Daily. And for Detective Frank Dupri... I will see you in there. And Nicky Goodluck. This will be a dark ride. Welcome to New Orleans, Babies.