Savage Mountain & Christmas Decorations

Today's episode is presented by A24's Undertone. In theaters on March 13th, this is the scariest movie you'll ever hear. It follows the host of a popular paranormal podcast who becomes haunted by terrifying recordings mysteriously sent her way. The feature debut of writer-director Ian Tawassen has left critics raving. Every disgusting Joe Lipset wrote in his 4.5-scull review, I can't remember the last time a movie made every hair on my body stand up, but Undertone got me good. Here for yourself, an experience Undertone in theaters Friday the 13th. Get Tickets Now. 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 were simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey everyone, I'm a little worn out over here, so I hope you don't mind if we just dive right into this week's stories. I'll do my best to get back to form for the Sunday's episode. Next up, from writer Nikki Durbin and narrator Byelie Shackens, Creepy presents Savage Mountain. March 8th. I'm not stupid, far from it. In fact I would be hard pressed to find someone smarter than me. That's why I'm writing this diary. When I get out of this fucking crevice, I'm going to take it and publish it. A tale of survival told in real time and I am going to get out of here too. One misstep. One. God damn rocks. To give way right as I was about to set up my anchor. I guess that's what I get for going for a dyno. As soon as my foot touched the outcropping, I knew I was fucked. I didn't know how badly until I came too. I guess my belae came out too, because it's just hanging there like it's mocking me. Not attached to anything substantial enough to haul me out of here, that's for sure. Not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon. My backpack is right next to it too. If I can't get to it soon. Eh, that's so worry for another day. I hit my head at least a few times on my way down. Not the first one for about half a second for everything went black. The movies get it right. All I heard was a lot of ringing. Everything started swirling and then...nothing. I've probably got a concussion or two. Maybe a lasting TBI. Still able to write though, so that's good, I suppose. I got some shreds of my handkerchief tied around my head and I think the bleeding has stopped. The cold is probably helping. Blood vessels shrink in the cold, right? Of everything though, my head is probably the least of my worries. Funny thought that. A few dings and bonks here and there on the old noggin are no laughing matter typically, but I should probably be more worried about my foot. The break is bad enough, sure, but the fact that it's trapped in a fucking crevice is worse. I don't even know how it got wedged in there, but God damn it, it is stuck in there good. I couldn't have gotten it in there like that if I had tried. But here we are. I might be able to get it out if it wasn't so painful to move. Even wiggling my toes is agonizing. It's a compound fracture. Yeah, fuck me. Does it hurt like a bitch though? Maybe the cold will help with the swelling. Right now it's turned into a purple balloon, and I'm 90% positive my exposed parts of my foot are already frostbitten. I should conserve energy. It's hard riding with these damn gloves on, anyway, and the sun is setting. I'd better get the rations package open before I can't see a damn thing. At least a few of them landed down here around me within reach. I hope my ankle goes down enough by tomorrow to get my foot out. I hope somebody will come looking for me. And I hope there's no bears who like to call this place home. March 9th. Apparently nobody received my distress signal. Nope, that's not true. It takes three days to get here on foot. But they wouldn't be coming by foot. That's what helicopters are for. Don't think about it. Someone will come. I'm sure of it. I was smart enough to use the last of my battery on my phone to send a text, smash screen and all. If my mother doesn't understand the cryptic message I sent, then I'll get out of here on my own. I'm not one to ask for help. I don't need it. Some might think that's stupid, but I'll tell you what's more stupid. Not having weather resistant battery packs. A little cold and all of them drained overnight. I've never felt such a cold fucking night either. That shit was colder than a witch's tit, believe you me. I was terrified to fall asleep. Afraid I may not wake up. But awake and I did. Part of me it seriously hoped, through the hazy veil of heavy-lit eyes, that my foot would have miraculously worked its way free in my slumber. Unfortunately that didn't happen. In fact, I think it's gotten somehow more wedged in there. This is going to make great material when it's published. A New York Times bestseller. I'm sure of it. I've got enough rations for another day. The cold is getting to me, but no bears, thankfully. Not that I think there would be any this high up, but you never know. God must be smiling on his best free climber. He always has. I'm more than deserving, after all. From as far back as I can remember, before the fucking cold distracts me, I've been excellent at everything I've done. There's not one thing on this planet I can't do. That's why I picked up climbing. One of the hardest and most labor-intensive sports out there. If anybody can do it, it's me. And what better way to start out than Savage Mountain? Even the name is meant to be daunting, but that didn't stop me. Here did the cries of my mother, begging me not to go, or my friends calling me insane. I'm going to prove them all wrong as soon as I get out of here. They're not just going to have their foot in their mouths. They're going to have to eat it. March 10th. Still swollen. Still stuck. Still no sign of help. I'm starting to get worried now. The rations are running low and my fingers are turning blue. I can still throw a mean fastball, though. I've been throwing rocks and chunks of ice at my backpack all day. Man is to hit it a few times, too. I'll get it down from there. Eventually, I will. Last time I hit it straight on in a swung. I almost had it. But I can't stand looking at that ice again right now. The comes a point that your skin gets so cold. The numbness wears off and it starts burning. It's funny, looking at my fingers now, knowing how adept they've always been. Drawing blueprints, writing scientific equations, dissecting frogs. I've always had steady hands and nimble fingers. My dad told me I should be a surgeon before he left. Not now, though. The joints are starting to fail on me. Can't feel much in the tips of them, either. I hope I don't lose them, even though that would probably add another couple thousand book sales to the profit margins. The climber who lost their fingers and still saved themselves. Imagine that. The sun has come out, at least. Just a little. Not much reaches me down here, but it did melt enough ice for me to get some water in my canteen. That should last me a little while longer, even if it is fucking cold to drink. God, I want to swallow these hand-warmers. They're my last ones. Anya, my fingers are important, but I'm so cold internally. I stop shivering sometime overnight, and if I'm this cold now, I can't imagine how much worse it's going to be tonight. I guess it's best not to think about that. I used to love nighttime. When I was a teenager, it was the cover by which I could get away with the most unruly of shit. I'll never forget the time I spent four hours setting up the most elaborate practical joke on Mr. Jeffries down the street. And like I said, I never wanted to ask for help. Did it all myself? No one ever even knew about it, though. Once he offed himself, it wasn't such a fun thing to brag about anymore. I just thought the guy might like to think is missing daughter at come back. At least for a few minutes. I'll have to edit this bit out once I get out of here. That's to remain the hero instead of letting the skeletons out of the closet play. Thinking back to losing my fingers, I should probably be more worried about losing my foot. I can't feel my toes any longer. I can't see them either. I'm sure they're black with frostbite. Hopefully I can keep my foot, at least. Diabetics lose a few toes every day, right? And I've also heard you're more likely to be able to keep it if the fracture is compound instead of open. I'm thankful for that, at least. Time to get back to throwing rocks. March 11th. It's no longer a compound fracture. And it wasn't even worth it. I decided to harken back to my days at the top picture and softball and put my whole weight into the last rock I had. Hit the packed dead center and knocked it down. It bounced like a fucking pinball machine, hitting every rock and crater until it landed and skittered toward me across the ice. That's when I went for it. I threw myself towards the damn thing, not realizing what I would do to myself and still missed. My fucking missed. The ends of my fingertips barely brushed the nylon and on it went, just out of reach. But by then, the damage was already done. I didn't realize skin could tear so easily. I guess the cold and immobility combined with the fracture changed the way things work. I don't know. All I know is, as soon as I lunge for that backpack, my leg decided to split open like a Bible on Sunday morning. That is, if people in church actually read the Bible, and the pain holy shit. For as numb as it was before, fucks sake, I can feel everything now. I can see it too, now that I'm able to do anything but scream with my eyes clenched shut. I can see where the bones are broken apart from one another. It's a pretty bad break. All the way through the tibia and part of the fibula too. If I twisted myself hard enough, I could probably rip it right off. Still can't get it out of the crevice. What a fucking joke. The skins turned black too, below where it split open. I got the bleeding stopped by tying my handkerchief around it tightly, but it's still fucking hurting. I wish I hadn't even bothered with the backpack. I may have been able to reach out and grab it even for a bit afterwards if I hadn't been so busy screaming and agony, but that window was closed. It's about three feet out of reach. I might be able to get it if I take off a few layers of clothing and sling them for it. Hopefully snagging one of the zippers or something enough to pull it my way. The thought of taking off my clothes right now is just too much though. Maybe tomorrow. I'm cold, and I'm hungry. I wish I would have called for help. March 12th. The sun came out again today. If I didn't have the summertime in the Bahamas to compare it to, I might have actually said it was warm. Taking off my coat and thermal wear taught me the error in that thinking though. I did what I said I was going to do. I used them to try to get my pack. Seven hours worth of trying before I finally snagged the zipper. I nearly screamed, but my voice is still hoarse from yesterday. I probably should have just gone slower pulling it to me. I got excited. Fuck me for getting excited. I yanked at a little too overzealously and unzipped the whole thing, spilling all the contents out into the ice and sending them sprawling every direction they could go. Any direction but towards me. I got to watch as all my ration packages, all of my food, everything, went sliding out of reach. Some even dropped down into the sides of the crevasse. I hope whatever animal finds it fucking chokes on it. So I got my pack. An empty sack of folds of fabric insipers. Great. Fucking great. Oh, wait. I almost forgot to mention. There was one thing still in there. My hunting knife. A fat lot of good that's gonna do me. There's nothing to hunt down here. There's only one thing I could use that knife for. I'd rather not think about it. The skin has turned even blacker now. Spreading up my leg past the fracture where the skin is still attached. I can see some of the snapped muscles and tendons have started turning a sickly yellow too. Even if I were to get my foot out of this wedge, there's no way I'll be able to keep it, anyway. My other appendages are okay for the time being. The warmth today seems to have helped. My toes on my right foot are a little frostbitten, but I think they're okay. Moving them and keeping myself active has kept the blood flowing. I think tomorrow is my birthday. If it comes down to it, at least the knife is sharp. March 13th. Today is my birthday. It feels like only yesterday that I was a little kid running around the playground at school. I was always the fastest runner. I loved showing the other kids how much better I was than them. Nobody ever came to my birthday parties. Not once I got past the age where mommy and daddy would invite the whole class. And that was fine. I didn't want them there anyway. Though it would have been nice to have someone sing me happy birthday every now and then. I wish I could have stayed little forever. Having people make over how special you are for anything you do that raises above mundanity. That fades with every passing year until you're stuck striving for someone, anyone to notice you. To notice that you're still that special little kid. You just grow in a little longer in the legs. Well, now I might be back to being shorter in the legs. At least on one side. I think Mr. Jeffries came to me overnight. Might have been a fever dream. I don't know. Can you have a fever when you're this cold? Was it really that warm yesterday or was it just some kind of delusion? Oh, right. Mr. Jeffries, he was telling me how disappointed he was in me. That he thought I was better than what I did. I tried to explain to him that I was just trying to help him have a little hope for a short period of time again. But I think he knew that was just bullshit. Or rather, I knew it was. Maybe I was projecting. He wanted me to recount everything. I told him I would today. So I guess that's what I'll do. It was a cold night in January when I executed my plan. Nothing like the cold here, mind you. I was 13, I think. Maybe 14? Dressed myself up in an outfit I had found at the thrift shop. Matched it to one of those missing posters around town. She was a cute kid. Last scene trying to board a greyhound at three o'clock in the morning. They denied her entry and then she up and vanished. A few people thought one of the vagrants at the station had taken her. We all know the truth of what happened now. It took her old man taking a bath with a toaster to get her to find the come out of hiding and admit that she'd run away. That's her guilt to shoulder now. Anyway, I got the closest coat I could find. Pink with a little frill on the ends. It wasn't exact, but it didn't need to be. He was only going to be seeing me from a distance anyway. I called him up, muttered out a few words to sound it garbled, then made sure. Daddy, help me. I'm at the station then. Came through clearly before I hung up. Then I waited. I waited so long I didn't think he was going to show. Right when I was about to leave, his silver Cadillac pulled into the lot. Showtime. Behind the station there was this thickly wooded area. I knew I could outmaneuver him in the trees. I was the fastest runner, remember? I said there in the desolation, waiting for him to spot me. Then we locked eyes. As soon as I saw him start coming for me, I took off. He called out to me. Well, not me. Haley. He was fast. I'll give him that. But I was faster. I kept him chasing me for a while before I reached the other side of the woods. I came out exactly where I had planned it, too. I hurried up and ditched the code into the open drain and then gathered my composure, acting like I'd just been walking down the street. Mr. Jeffries came running out just on time. Nearly plowed into me. He looked herred and wild eyed as he grabbed me and started asking me if I'd seen her. Of course, I denied it. I called him crazy. I was laughing the whole time. He wasn't. But he didn't get upset, either. He got this... Paleness about him. I thought it was like he'd seen a ghost, but... Looking back on him now, I realized that that was the moment he died. Not three hours later. He'd given up. And my stomach has, too. I started puking up the water I'm drinking. I know that's a symptom of starvation. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to die. I would say that I hope someone finds this notebook and publishes it. But I doubt if anyone even knows this place exists. No. Fuck that. I've already said in the beginning that I wasn't going to die here. I will do whatever it takes to get out of here. It is my birthday today. And I guess there's no better gift to give myself than freedom. I think I know why I was given this knife instead of food. God knows I'm his strongest warrior, and I can do this. I don't need help. I can do it on my own. This will be my last diary entry. I don't need to write anything further. I'll be too busy climbing my way out of here and sliding down the mountain side. I freed myself of my guilt. Now it's time for the rest. I might come back to write an afterward once I'm healed up. Yes. Yes, I will do that. But right now I've got to start fashioning my tourniquet. March 14th. This is some kind of cruel joke. Monsters like me deserve this shit, I guess. I'm sorry, Mr. Jeffries. I'm sorry for what I did. I've always said I wanted to give you hope for a few minutes, but that's just not true. It's not. No. I did it because I'm a sick fuck, and I wanted to see your face. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have done that to you. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I cut my foot off at the ankle last night. I passed out once early on and then came back and finished the job before I passed out again. There wasn't much feeling in the black parts, but it still hurt in a way I can't really describe. It was like a weird sort of burning combined with screaming nerves and absolute misery. The last part may have been worst, because I just reached down, grabbed my foot and ripped it off. But I got through it. I said I would only come back for the afterward. But that's the funniest part of all. This is the afterward. While I passed out, the boulders shifted, and now my right foot is pinned. I guess the only thing holding it in place was my ankle. The bleeding has tapered off from my stump. I've still got my little foot too. I've been staring at it all day, trying to make sense of why all this had happened. Remembering how I used to run on it for so long, that foot climbed me up this mountain and got me into this mess too. My head feels light as a feather. I'm going to meet food, and I've got a perfectly good hunk of meat right here. Might as well make use of it. Now I'm going to do me any good now. I remember wiggling and wriggling those little toes. As a baby, I used to put them in my mouth. Now I'm going to be doing that again. I guess we'll find out if it really does taste like chicken. Once I get my strength back, I'm going to shove this rock over and get the fuck out of here. I just need to eat. Watch 15th. Fuck you, Mr. Jeffries. Fuck you, Haley. Fuck you, mom. Fuck you, dad. Fuck all of you. Fuck everyone I've ever met. Fuck you. This rock isn't moving neither is my foot, neither am I. I'm turning it to a frostbitten skeleton and nobody gets a fuck. No one is coming to save me. Pride comes before the fall? No. It's stuck around after it too. I'm better than this. I'm the best there is. I've still got my knife. I did it once and I can do it again. And if all else fails, I'll have more to eat. Even though it definitely does not taste like chicken. I'll come back for that afterward. I will. I'll come back and write about what it's like being a double amputee and how the healing of the stump itches and tingles. I'll come back. I will. Next, from writer Daniel Parrish and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer, creepy presents Christmas decorations. I knew something was off when Rudolph was missing in here. That's not to say I wasn't already a little suspicious. My next door neighbors are always a bit too much into the Christmas spirit. Excessive lights on greenery. The giant wreath on the door. Life-size creation on the lawn. Worse. These were large inflatables. At least seven or eight feet tall. Of various Christmas characters. There were usually over 30 of them by the time St. Nick was due. Maybe their display began the way many collections started. Accidentally. You know, you express a passing interest in something. You gifted that something. You say you like it before long. Get a living room full of ceramic frogs. That have cemented your identity as the frog guy. They bought one inflatable that looked fun. And one somehow led to a whole battalion. They weren't making an ironic comment on Christmas Keesh. It was just an earnest desire to celebrate the season that got out of hand. Or at least that's how I hoped it began. In previous years that neighbors display was more of a binary for me. It was either up or wasn't. I wouldn't really pay attention until it passed the tipping point. And their lawn had become more ornament than grass. Even then I'd really never clock the details. This year, however, I was spending a lot more time at home during the holiday season. Now, my choice mind you. The good people at Marley Financial chose the last week in November to downsize the accounting department. More of a massacre than a downsizing really. Most of our functions were to be off-short. Done by people one-third is competent. And at a fraction of the salary. And none of the benefits. I had the distinct honor. So my boss Carol explained. Of being the final accountant who didn't make the cut. Thus it was with great reluctance. That after 17 years of service they let me go. The numbers just didn't add up. She sighed while handing me a used cardboard box for my personal effects. I expected that with my experience in background I'd secure a new position quickly. I hadn't been unemployed and… well, however. Turns out the end of the year has a poor time to job hunt. I sent out 20 resumes and received 20 quick rejections. I suspect being on the mature side of 50 didn't help. Not that any other response has ever admitted as much. For the time being, however, unless I wanted to pick up temp work delivering packages or stalking shells, I was out of luck. At least for my ex-wife, Mayshi wrote painfully wherever she'd be. Was on a round to criticize and belittle me. So I mostly sat in my living room. Sometimes watching television, sometimes reading. Sometimes scrolling through my phone, sometimes drinking. Probably did the drinking part a bit too much. Although to pace myself, I promised I would take my dog Leo out every time I took a nap. Nonetheless I assure you I was always in control of my wits. On the first Sunday in December I was walking Leo. He'd stopped upon to a small patch of withered grass in the strip in front of the neighbor's yard. Neighbors had strung their lights and lined their walkway with candy canes the day before. And now, demand of the house was putting out and inflating a weird-looking snowman while his young daughter danced around it joyfully singing some tune I didn't know. He waved, I waved back. I let Leo piss on their lawn and continued home. Next day another inflatable went up. This time I decked out Christmas tree. The next day it was one of those capsule-shaped yellow minions. I recognized it because a former coworker's kids was obsessed with them. Seasonally clad in a Santa cap. Next day it was frosty the snowman. While I pondered these garish balloons on my walks, it seemed unusual that the neighbor put them up one by one. Why not just do all the work at once? That would have been much less effort, wouldn't it? Lack of efficiency troubled me. Next evening at twilight I happened to catch the neighbor as he and his son were blowing up the day's contribution. Rudolph. I approached him to ask him why he was filling up his lawn sequentially, rather than completing the display in one go. After a long hum, he paused in contemplation before finally saying, I guess that's just how we do it. Why not move to a more efficient system and be done with it I asked? He gave a rambling reply about how setting up one each day let each of the kids help without the other. This fighting he claimed. Besides, he pointed out, Christmas isn't really about efficiency, is it? I looked up at Rudolph, now gently swaying in the wind along with the other companions. Rudolph's nose shone bright. He was missing an ear. A spot where it should have been sticking up heavily patched with grey duct tape. Looks like Rudolph seemed better days, I said. What happened? He stuttered before recalling that the reindeer got snagged as they got him out of storage. So why not just retire him? Get enough others, I said. He claimed that he couldn't do that because his kids liked Rudolph and besides the display wouldn't be right without him. I guess Santa would still need him to guide his sleigh no matter how many years he had. I quit. Neighbor cocked an eye back at me, almost as if he didn't understand the reference. Before the discussion could continue his wife called out from the front door. Dinner's ready? He wished me a happy Christmas and then disappeared inside, leaving Leo and me alone with the menagerie of the hum of the blowers that kept them aloft. The interaction bothered me. I hesitated over a simple question about decorations. The explanation seemed made up on the spot. But why invent any explanation unless he was trying to hide something? Which beg the question? What was he hiding? These are just Christmas decorations, right? What kind of person puts up Christmas decorations but doesn't know who Rudolph is? The more I thought about it, the more it didn't sit right with me. I'd never managed to learn the neighbor's names when they moved in. They'd introduce themselves of course but the names never stuck with me. Not John, Naremma or Nick or Susan. No, they were something atypical. Rather foreign sounding I recalled. They didn't have distinctly foreign accents although they were definitely not from around here. He did something with computers and so did she. I'm pretty sure. The kind of thing foreigners do, right? Just before they put folks like me out of jobs. Quick check of county records did not have their name associated with their property taxes. So they had to be renters. They also weren't registered to vote. It's probably not citizens. At least not good ones. As I was drifting off to sleep, still troubled by our conversation, it struck me that he'd wish me a happy Christmas. Nobody I know says happy Christmas. It's Merry Christmas or happy holidays. Something was off. Next morning still feeling that same sense of unease. I resolved to solve the puzzle. I'd never done friends at the county. But anyone worth his salt in my line of work probably has a bit of the sleuth in them. The ability to find what's wrong in the ledgers when the numbers don't add up. Or what might have been fabricated when they add up all too well. Glass of whiskey and a no pad is my assistance. I plunked down my worn leather living room chair to think. If you weren't putting up Christmas decorations for the sake of Christmas, what might be the alternative? Well, I reasoned. It's all being done in public. What necessary means they're trying to signal something. For the normal person, it would just be signaling a love of Christmas. But my neighbor had made enough mistakes that true Christmas spirit could not be the answer. No. The displays had a meaning beyond the holiday. They contained a code. A code I needed to crack. With that epiphany I devoted my waking moments to unlocking the secret message of the display. What was the pattern? And what did that pattern mean? Day after Rudolph, a Christmasy Mickey Mouse appeared. Was there an order of animal and vegetable? Or perhaps traditional decorations than newer decorations? Neither fit. Maybe something in the length of the names. But which names? Maybe it was the order of the dominant color. So far, white, green, yellow, white, brown, black. So the next color, if I was right, would be white. Alas, the day after Mickey, Donald Duck appeared. I had to regroup. I was going about this wrong. And I needed to determine who was being signaled before I could figure out the signal. Was it terrorists? Terrorists wouldn't need to connect to their superiors like that. Would they? Just use burner phones and whatnot, right? Quite frankly, why would terrorists care about our small, unimportant suburb outside of a small, unimportant city? Maybe it was some kind of espionage. And the neighbors were leaving messages for their handlers. But again, in this quiet neighborhood, maybe they were signaling a robbery ring, as to which house should be burgled next. But the last home invasion in our neighborhood was three years ago. Maybe they were drug dealers. And I was living next door to Mr. and Mrs. Walter White. There wasn't that kind of traffic here. So what else did that leave? I'll tell you what it left. Aliens. And not the kind that sneak into the country and work construction under the table. It seemed outlandish. Still does. But remember, what Holmes said about what happens when you eliminate the impossible. Her remains, however improbable, must be true. I am not one of those nut job conspiracy theorists. I don't think Aliens built the pyramids or conduct periodic anal probes on the unsuspecting. But what must follow where the evidence leads? And this is the ineluctable conclusion to which it pointed. That was my breakthrough. It was a bit of a lucky guess. Before chin favors the prepared. Operating from this premise. If it was Aliens, I reason there would probably be some mathematical pattern to the inflatables. What are universal mathematical patterns? All the most common one. Short of simple order is the golden ratio. Mathematical pattern that generates the ratio that is the Fibonacci sequence. For each new number is the sum of the previous two. Zero. One. One. Two. Three. Five. Eight. Thirteen. And so on. How might these Christmas characters fit that progression? Couldn't be their size. Couldn't be the length of their names. Could it be the first letter in each name? No because the first inflatable was a snowman and SS the 19th letter. Looking Leo that day for the third or fourth time, it occurred to me that I wasn't being specific enough. The first snowman looked unusual, but I'd ignored that. Chalked it up to randomness. Now I wondered. Did he have a name? A quick search when I got home showed me his name. Olaf. Apparently from another Disney movie. Yurika. Olaf and one both start with O. The second inflatable was a tree. And two. Tree and two both tees. The third was a minion, as I said. But do you want to guess the name of that minion? That's the one with the Mohawk. Tim. Tim and three. Both tees again. The fourth inflatable was Frosty the snowman. Frosty and five. And then Rudolph. My heart sank as I thought about him. I needed an E. He's all ours. The runt almost broke me, thinking I was back to square one. I opened a new bottle of gin. I didn't even bother pouring a glass but took a swig like some skid row bum. Damn that reindeer. I thought is the alcohol burned my throat. Why'd they have to put him out? Hell, he was even broken. He was missing. An ear. The Rudolph impass was solved. The next three including that days were Mickey, Donald and Goofy. 1321 and 34. How were all these tees? What a conundrum might have stumped me at first, but having figured out the red nose bastard how was on to the pattern. These three were a Disney trio. T T T. I had it. As final proof my theory needed to be predictive, not just descriptive. The next appearance would need to produce an F for 55. I waited anxiously all day to find out what would show up on my neighbor's lawn. I couldn't see the inflatables for my living room, so I had to go check each time. Of course the fact that there was a pattern meant something untoward was a foot. So I also just needed to remain inconspicuous and just seemed to be walking Leo as I passed by. Leo got eight walks that day. And on the eighth, a snowman went up. Another frosty. The pieces were all falling into place. They weren't signaling anyone in the neighborhood. No. They were signaling someone or something that was orbiting the earth. They couldn't risk radio or satellite communication with the aliens. Since the authorities might see that, but they could send messages visible from space. See how good those images are on Google Earth. Aliens capable of interstellar travel must be capable of reading as much as they secretly circled our planet. My neighbors weren't just weird Christmas aficionados. They were a fifth column. A spear tip of an invasion force. What did they do when I realized this? Exactly what they tell you to do. If you see something, say something. I called the police. I patiently explained to the officer on duty what I had seen, what I knew. Squad cars stopped by an hour later. But the two officers only talked to me. Asking questions that indicated they didn't believe me. And that they thought I might be ill. That I might be the problem. Useless cops. I needed to take this to a higher authority. I looked up the number for the nearest FBI field office and contacted them. The woman who took my information, an agent starly, told me they would look into it and thank me for the tip. The feds were on it, I thought. And a good thing too. This is way above the competence of local law enforcement. In the meantime, the next inflatable went up. A rain deer. My mind have become so attuned to the patterns that what once might have caused me consternation. I deciphered within minutes. My theory required an E for 89, not an R. But how many rain deer to Santa have? Exactly. And who is the eighth rain deer? Blitzen. Which means light me. After enough on the head of this new rain deer, I could see a yellow mark. One clearly intended to be a lightning bolt. I called the FBI back to let them know my new findings and to learn what progress they were making. Since time was no doubt of the essence. A different agent took my statement. But then informed me that the FBI took national security very seriously. And they were fairly certain that there was no alien invasion imminent. Furthermore, while she appreciated my call, I did not need to keep updating them on this manner. Although this agent's lack of a daisicle attitude got my blood boiling, I calmly thanked her before hanging up. Either the FBI was incompetent or worse. They weren't in on it. Whether the infiltration already go that far? Whatever the answer, I couldn't trust the authorities at this point. I needed to take matters into my own hands. The fate of our nation. Of the world. Dependent on it. The next day, as the man and his daughter were arranging the days inflatable, another old love. For 144, naturally. I invited the family to come over to my house for some Christmas cookies that evening. The man seemed hesitant at first. No doubt surprised by my sudden laborliness. But I insisted on their joining me in the spirit of the season, which they no doubt loved, I said, as I gestured to their Christmas paraphernalia. I wouldn't take no for an answer. And he finally agreed they would stop by my house after dinner. Around 730, my doorbell rang. Only three of them were there, the man and his two children. I asked why his wife hadn't come. That I'd met the invitation to be for all of them. He explained that she was away on a business trip and wouldn't return for another few days. Too bad I thought. But if that were true, it would still be okay. I welcomed them in, serving up a plate of sugar cookies and glasses of milk. The kids gorge themselves like kids do. The man no doubt took a cookie only to be courteous, to be a polite guest. I didn't join them. Anything as I patted my belly that I've already eaten too many while baking. But they could feel free to have all they wanted. As the aid I asked the man about the history of his display. This time he was ready with a long explanation about family traditions. I listened as he spoke, but by now I knew it was all a charade. After he finished I asked him to join me in singing some Christmas songs. The kids joined in with Rudolph the Red Nose reindeer. But the man didn't. I asked him why not. And he said he was tone deaf and embarrassed to sing in public. Mm-hmm, I thought to myself. I'm sure that's the reason. Outwardly I smiled and nodded politely. It was as I tried to lead a chorus of deck the halls that they are sending kicked in. I'd put enough in the milk and cookies to kill a herd of elephants. The kids started vomiting violently before doubling over and falling to the floor. As they lay, writhing, and pain, the man jumped up to help them. I'm sure he realized something was amiss. But he soon fell into a spasmotic seizure, convulsing and jerking for nearly a minute before he collapsed. It was all over within 10 minutes. It quite frankly took me much longer to drag each of the bodies into the cellar. There was a unfinished part where I thought I'd be able to bury them all together. Having gotten them down there, I found the man's cell phone. The O and I then went for a walk. And when I was sure no one was looking, I threw it on their lawn to land under one of the displays so it wouldn't be tracked to my house. I thought I'd feel worse about the killings, but I didn't. Not in the least. After all, I was fully justified. I'd done it to save the world. Next two days passed unaventfully, and I kept to my routine, tried to dig their graves in the basement. It was a lot more work than I expected honestly. I also ordered some lime to help dissolve the bodies and make sure the smell didn't get too bad. Or at least noticeable. And I watched to make sure that no more inflatables went up on the lawn. They didn't. I had broken the pattern. No matter what happened now, I was a hero. Third day the police came. Neighbor hadn't been at work for two days. Nor had the children been seen at school. Did I know anything about this? Not at all officers. I sure them. They noted that I made a report complaining about their lawn display before their disappearance. Yes, I had, but it was ignored. So I figured that was the end of it. Did I mind they ask if they looked around my house? Not at all, I said. I thought I'd cleaned up everything quite well. Now well enough, it seems. The officers spotted the six stains in my living room with the kids I've thrown up. That's just where Leo had an accident, I told them. Quite a lot for a small dog they remarked. When I refused their request to look at my basement, one of them stayed with me while the other obtained a search warrant. Didn't take them long to notice the fresh dirt in the basement. And it only took them five minutes of digging for them to find the first of the line stripped bodies. I knew enough to stay silent when they arrested me. I tried to explain everything to them previously. They treated me like a nutcase. Besides, once the truth came on, I would not be held as a criminal, but hailed for my genius. They flung me in the backseat of their cruiser and I made my first ever visit to a police station. I was, it turned out, the only person in custody. Neighborhood really is quiet. They booked me and threw me into a small holding cell. I would wait to explain my situation due to an attorney the next morning. Although jail was cold, my bedroom, heart, and uncomfortable, I fell into a sound sleep. The sleep of the just. I was woken by a policeman rattling his night stick on the bars. I asked him if my lawyer had arrived. No, he said. It was still only about five in the morning. However, a woman had shown up at the station. The wife and the mother of the people I was alleged to have killed. She wanted to talk to me. She wanted to talk with me. But your under no obligation to speak with her, the policeman explained. But she insisted I ask you. I can't say I understand her reasoning, but given what you've put her through, I wasn't going to deny the request. It's okay, I said. Later in. I wanted her to see the man who'd ruin her nefarious plans. Who'd saved the world. The policeman left, returning with a woman a minute later. He left her just outside myself before excusing himself, telling her to press the call button on the wall when she was done. She looked haggard. Her blue blouse wrinkled and long black hair disheveled. Her eyes were darkly rimmed as if she hadn't slapped. I couldn't see any tears. She looked more angry than sad. She must be angry, I thought. Furious. Because this unassuming, middle-aged accountant had thwarted her. The thought made me smile. She demanded to know why I was smiling, saying I must not have realized what I had just done. Yes, I told her. I stopped you. I stopped your kind from invading, from ruining our way of life. She flinched as if I just slapped her. And she took her head and smiled, almost laughing. You can't damn idiot. She said, her voice a harsh whisper. Idiot. I replied. Idiot. I'm a genius. I figured out your code. I stopped you. I saved the world. I'm a hero. She said, yes. You figured out what was going on. And yes, you stopped us. But do you know what you stopped? You stopped us from preventing an invasion. Her system was in place to keep the aliens from attacking. Once the sequence of inflatables was broken, you triggered their alarm. And their war machine was set in motion. Your reaction was to murder. But your murders didn't save the world. You pathetic little man. They just ended it. 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, common, share-alite licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.