Days Before & The Sun’s Not Coming Up

The game has only just begun. Radio Silence Directors Matt Betnelli Open and Tyler Gillette are back for Round 2 with their new horror comedy film, Ready or Not 2. Here I come. Samara Weaving returns as Grace, The Battle of Warren and Bulletin Bride, and is joined by stars, Catherine Newton, Sarah Michelle Geller, Sean Hadasey, Nestor Carbano, David Kronenberg, and Elijah Wood. After Grace marries into a mysterious family and is forced to play a life or death theme of hide and seek, she emerges victorious. But what she didn't know is that by winning, she triggered a whole new twisted battle. This time with her estranged sister-fade on her side. The duo faces a shadowy group of rival devil-worshipping families who control the world, and they must fight to the bloody death for the ultimate prize. Two times the kills, two times the Satanic rituals, and two times the human combustion. Don't miss the full tilt insanity. Ready or not to, here I come. When it hits theaters, March 20th. The Modern Game Beautiful, fast, clinical. So why almost betting up stuck in 2005? The miracle in Istanbul. Over, theory, no longer scary, unbelievable Jeff, no more. It's time for change. Bet ten pounds and get thirty pounds in free bets. We're not your granddad's bookie. Search Midnight Sports and make the move to Midnight. New customers only. Restrictions and TNC's apply. 18 plus, bigampleaware.org. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make maintained graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey everyone. I'm sorry about last episode. I had a step away to be. I mean, take care of some stuff. I'm really not sure where that voice comes from. The station manager told me he was going to take care of the intro, so I assumed he'd be the one doing the intro. Shame on me for making assumptions, but I'm back and ready to get back to work. A quick thank you to all the writers who've started following the show on Instagram and the resulting wave of submissions we've gotten. It is so, so, so appreciated. And please remember, if we pass on your story, it's not a mark against your writing. It's just that it didn't quite feel like the right fit for the show. Please still feel free to continue submitting. We appreciate you all so much. And, because I'll forget to mention this if I don't say it. Now, we are about to pass or have just passed a new milestone on the show. Ten years. I've been putting on this show for ten years. From those early days when it was just me and a rotating group of podcast creators helping me to weave the show together, to our long-time producer Steve Blizzin joining the crew, to building a full team of narrators, to welcoming Pacific to the crew as Steve stepped away, and the fact that this podcast has grown like it has little loans survived for as long as it has, is a testament to you all, as much as me or anyone here. You all listen. You continue to listen. You continue to interact with us and support us through downloads and Patreon, sharing your end of the year wrap-ups on Spotify and using promo codes to our ads. I honestly have no idea how many stories we've done over the years. But our live feed currently has over 1150 episodes available, with an additional 1,600 plus episodes that only appear on a Patreon feed. We're talking thousands and thousands of stories, hundreds and hundreds of hours of production, probably over a thousand hours at this point. The world has changed a lot in the last ten years. I've changed a lot. Not just in how the show sounds, but in the fact that I get to do this for a living, getting to meet so many amazing people, getting to meet people in real life that listen to the show, which never stops feeling crazy to me. Just thanks. All I can really do in return is continue to do my best to keep bringing you the stories to mess with your sleep and waking hours. So, in summation, thank you, from the depths of the space where my heart used to be, thank you. Okay, enough sentimental stuff. Let's get back to some messed up stories. First up, from writer Olivia E. DeSosa, and narrated by Alicia Atkins, creepy presents, days before. I don't know why I clicked the link. Maybe it was the thumbnail. She was young, beautiful, with the kind of wide eyed innocence that makes the image discordant with the title. Days before, those first two words stood out to me. The video itself was nothing special. The camera walks as she made a face mask in the kitchen, something which managed to be beautiful, even in the plain glass bowl. I didn't know her. I'd never seen her before. But I had the sense that everything else she did was just as delicate, just as beautiful as the way her slender fingers wrapped around the miniature whisk. I could tell that everything she touched was treated with the same care, evident when she smoothed the mixture, now a deep purple, across her pale skin. But her final act, committed days after this video was filmed, was anything but delicate and far from beautiful. A brief internet search told me that there were no photographs from that date, no carefully crafted videos, at least none from links I was willing to click. Still, I knew it would have been ugly. I had needed to read far past the word self-imulation, to come to this conclusion. After closing the window, I made myself a cup of tea, lavender and peppermint, something soothing. When I sat back down, I reopened my laptop. I didn't know what I would look at next, but it would be nothing nearly as dark. Had she known what she would do? I think she had. I could see it in her eyes. When I opened the page, I glanced across the banner ad. I don't think I would have paid any attention to it, were it not for two things. The first was that the woman advertising the violet cashmere sweater reminded me of the girl in the video. The same dark hair, cut to just shoulder length, with those easy curls, which seemed so carefully tended yet so effortless. The second reason I noticed the ad was the fact that she was facing away from me. Though the advertisement was for a sweater, the model was resolutely turned away from the camera, presenting an unremarkable profile, and showing only the flattened, uninteresting back of the sweater. I scrolled through the thumbnails of videos beneath, but found that each shared the same peculiarity. Any people pictured were turned away from the camera. I began to search for a single face. The way a lost child might search for the comfort of their parents' arms. I hovered the mouse over a video, and the preview began. But the little square showed only a black screen, despite the fact that the symbolic scrubber moved in my new progression across the bottom of the thumbnail. I hovered my mouse over the next, and, again, the little square showed only black. I slammed my laptop shut, and pressed the heels of my palms hard against my clothes' eyes. Of course, there was a reason. It was too late to trust myself to pick through those strands which tightened themselves around my sense of ease. If I had to force myself to go to bed, just to get a moment's distance from the video and the strange experience which it followed, I would. When I went to sleep, it was with a fear which would not lift. Still, I told myself that everything would be different, better, in the morning. Daylight has a way of doing that. When I woke up that morning, I had the sense that something was not right. I moved quietly through the kitchen, making my coffee, and straightening up what had been left the night before. But always with the awareness of something trailing close behind me. I could sense its warm breath on my skin. Feel the oily touch of its delicate palm on the nape of my neck. I tried to ignore it. I played music over the kitchen speakers. It must have been a pop station. But it felt more like white noise, no sooner played than drowned out by my own constant worries. I had my hands in the sink wrapped around a soapy pan when I noticed her. There was a woman sitting on my front lawn. Her back was to me, and her legs were cross beneath her and opposed that bled serenity. I rinsed my hands beneath too cold water and stepped outside. There was never a moment of debate of whether I should lock the doors or stay inside. The ghostly touch to my back stirred a sense of immediacy within me. I said hello and walked to her left side. But as I drew near, she turned. Her body remained still, and its quiet pose. And it was as though the ground itself had moved. I tried to circle her, but again, her body subtly shifted to block my view. I could feel my heart beating faster, and I swallowed whatever trace of trepidation remained. I reached out and seized her shoulder, feeling her dry flesh and hollow bones beneath the black shawl in which she had wrapped herself. At my touch, she fell forward. Her body toppling to the ground like the tumbling of stacked blocks. She lay by my feet, her face pressed squarely to the grass. I watched paralyzed as she took in three large breaths, inhalations which seemed to stretch her body beneath the shawl, tearing against the desecration and fragility of her skin. Then she became very still. It was as though all sound was drained from the world. Birdsong in the rustle of wind vanished into the black hole of anticipation was rested in her newly quiet body. But the silence was shattered with a cry, as she dragged forward three feet by some unseen force. I wrapped my arms around myself and shut my eyes. When I opened them again, a few seconds later, she was gone. However, the grass was black and smoldering where her face had been pressed into the earth. Crimson stained ashes flaked from the synched grass, and were lifted up from this desolation by a light breeze. I walked the steps back to the house, somehow both numbed and staggered by what I had witnessed. I was so caught up in the relived image of the woman's body dragged and reduced, that I barely picked up the loud music leaching from the house. Maybe it was the distance, the distortion of the sound, but it seemed as though the same three notes were repeating. I've never heard a stream song skip like a CD. But, as I drew nearer to the glass door, I could hear the singer's voice breaking on the same three notes, straining to be heard as though a fist was wrapped tight around her throat. My own fingers reached for the door handle, and it glanced up, still nervous, still sensing a presence close behind me. The front yard was reflected in the pain of glass. I was reflected in the pain of glass. I could see the warranty shirt which had seen me through the last decade or so, and the pajama bottoms I hadn't managed to change out of that morning. I could even see the thin sliver of the bracelet on my outstretched arm, but I couldn't see my face. It's not like it wasn't there. It was. It must have been. But it was impossible to discern a single detail. Even as my eyes roved my body, they were themselves unseen within the beveled sheet of glass. I looked down at my feet and kept my eyes fixed there as I moved through the door, down the hallway into the bathroom. I was aware that the song was still repeating those same three notes, but did not know or care what was being said or rather choked out. Not yet. I stared at myself in the mirror, or rather where I should have been. There was a form there. There was the sense of a head of a face, and the pressing knowledge of eyes and lips of a nose and a chin. But nothing that could be observed directly. I went to the computer, passing through the kitchen with my hands clamped over my ears. The music was louder now than it had been, and it seemed as though the volume was taking up with each passing second. Show you how, the female voice saying, the notes broken against the crushing grip I could not so much see as feel. I sat down at the computer, tucking myself beneath the desk and reaching back to throw the door shut, trying to block out the sound, however inefficiently. I pulled up the video page and scrolled through the thumbnails. Nothing had changed from the night before. I could see the backs of late-night comedians' heads, the neatly brushed hair of a personality, and the high ponytail of an actress in a recording of her most recent publicity stunt. My hand was shaking as I clicked the first video, something I'd been too afraid to do the night before. The video buffered. Egland set the bottom corner of the screen, thinking I might have a low signal. Praying I had a low signal. Five perfect bars. I turned back to the black screen of the video to the gray circle which just kept turning. I held my breath. Finally, it loaded enough to play the first few seconds. On the screen, against a dark background, was a hand, small and beautiful. The fingers were gripping a paintbrush, dripping the bristles into a clear liquid. I couldn't see the label on the container, but I could smell kerosene. She wrote her name out on her arm in perfect lettering which neither ran nor smudged. The video paused, and the gray circle centered itself over her hand. The scent of kerosene faded, and I could feel my heartbeat and my mouth. When the video resumed, it seemed that something had been skipped over. The screen was black, but it was the incomplete darkness of a cloth background. There was a sound, like the bubbling of meat exposed the flame, a kind of gentle hiss. I could smell smoke in the scent of burning flesh. Understanding what to do was easy enough. It was as though the message had been transmitted subliminally during those moments of buffering, wordless and soundless. The thoughts had crept their way into my mind. I was not used to filming myself, but I would do my best with what I had. I went into the garage to see if there was something the old owner might have left behind. I found a red can of gasoline which was nearly empty, but I was able to pour little into a jar. The smell was strong, but I breathed it in deep. Trying to remember every moment of this. I didn't know how much might be lost to me if I succeeded. I didn't know how much would be lost to me if I failed. I carried the jar along with a paintbrush from my art trunk and my cell phone to the bathroom. I put the phone on selfie mode and began filming myself. I wasn't sure if I was in frame completely, but it would have to do. I dipped the brush tip into the gasoline and stared at my face in the mirror. It was hard to do this thing which I knew was inevitable. I could do it now, under my own cognizance, or later, under the influence of another. So I decided to maintain what little control that I could, anticipating like a chill the ghostly hand which would gladly take over. I wrote her name shakily on my forehead. I could feel the gasoline dripping down, whincing as it neared the corner of my eye. Soon, her name had dissolved into an irresolute smear on my forehead, which reflected the light in little else. I dipped the brush again. This time, I stuck my tongue out and painted the gasoline across the back of my throat, drawing it forward over my tongue and small strokes, redipping when the taste merely offended rather than overwhelmed. For good measure, I drew the freshly soaked brush tip down my chin and over my sternum. I stared at myself in the mirror, offering something of an unspoken goodbye before lighting the match and touching it to the tip of my tongue. The flames flared in front of my eyes and the pain erupted white hot across my face, spreading down my throat where the gasoline had apparently trickled. My face, mouth and chest were blaze and I wanted to collapse to the floor or to throw myself into the shower, allowing the ice cold water to extinguish or spread the flames. I didn't care which, only that some change was affected, but I forced myself to stay upright to keep the searing of my own flesh and frame for the camera. I gripped the edge of the sink, my untouched hands using every ounce of their strength to keep me from collapsing. I was pulled between competing actions towards self-preservation and thought to maintain the destruction of my body to prevent the discrecation of my soul. After what felt like an eternity, the flames died down of their own accord, leaving me to examine my face in the mirror. The skin was burned and the exposed flesh was singed and raw, weeping with a fluid that wasn't blood, not quite. I took in a shuddering breath. My heartbeat felt strange, too fast. It was a miracle that I could register the sensation over the agony of my physical being. I ended the recording, praying that this would be enough. The Modern Game Beautiful, Fast, Clinical So why almost betting apps stuck in 2005? The miracle in Istanbul, over, theory, no longer scary, unbelievable Jeff, no more. It's time for change. Bet £10 and get £30 in free bets. We're not your granddad's bookie. Search Midnight Sports and make the move to Midnight. New customers only, restrictions and TNC's apply, 18 plus, BeGambleAware.org. January 3rd, the sun's not coming up. The sun's not coming up. I can't deal with this. School starting Monday, how am I supposed to get to class when it's so dark you can't see your hand three inches in front of your face? When I got up, I figured it was just because it was winter, you know? Sun goes down and stays down longer when it's cold. But I knew something was up by noon. The sun should have been up by now. It's starting to freak me out. Neighbours have come by asking for some things they don't want to enter the store for, ignoring the elephant in the room that there's no fucking sun. Apparently the darkness gets even worse when you try to get out of the neighborhood. It's best to just stay here until this all blows over while pretending it's not happening at all. Dad was sleeping on the couch this morning. I think he and mom got into another fight. They're not talking and mom's been crying, even though she does her best to hide it. God, it's bad enough that the world might be ending. I don't have time to worry about my parents failing marriage. January 4th. The street lights went out and haven't come back on. Outside now looks like Satan's winter wonderland with all the snow and it being so dark. I can see other houses across the street. The light shining through the window like beacons in the night. The only reason I can make out anything in my yard is from the light shining from my living room window. Mom and dad still aren't talking. Jesus Christ, you could cut the tension with a knife. I really wish I could go outside to smoke but I swear dad had a stroke when he saw me open the back door. I don't know how he expects me to go to school if I can't even go out on the back porch to get some air but whatever. For now, I'm just cracking the window in my bedroom and doing what I kind of waft the smoke out there. I'm 16. I can make my own decisions. January 7th. Okay, I guess I'm not going to school. Sun's still not up. Weekends just been boring a shit with just watching the outdoors get darker if that's even possible. I even started getting ready before I realized what the hell am I doing and went downstairs to ask if I could stay home. My dad gave me his approval and said I can stay home for as long as it stays dark. First time we've really acknowledged how absolutely bizarre that is and it's the only acknowledgement. I tried turning on the TV to see if there's anything on the news about this but all I got was static. Couldn't even connect to any local channels it's all snow. Phones dead too. I tried calling Isla and Lydia and got nothing. Not even a busy signal. It worked last night when I talked with Lydia. She lives just a few blocks away and it's dark there too. Isla lives in the city though not Bartonville and apparently the sun's fine there. She said she'd come over today to see if I'm still making up bullshit. It's not bullshit. Sun's gone and it's showing no sign of coming back. January 8th. It's not just the sun disappearing lights are going out. It started with the kitchen. I went down and tried flicking the light but got nothing. A yelled for dad and said the kitchen bulb burned out and he went pale. He switched it and I heard him swear for the first time in my life when it still didn't work. I tried to tell him to check the breaker but he was clearly losing his shit. By the time mom came in he was babbling nonsense about the lights being taken away and mom had to help him lie down. I wonder if this has anything to do with why he was at work late for the last few weeks. I don't know what he works on but I'm starting to go a little stir crazy and it's making me paranoid. Isla never showed up yesterday. Stayed up until midnight and she never showed. Maybe she just got turned around her and maybe she forgot. She's like that. I bet she just forgot. January 9th. Half the house is stuck in the dark now including my bedroom but that's not the worst of it. Watching the street is the only form of entertainment I have other than reading and I'm getting too antsy to focus on that. I cracked the window while I street watched and then I heard it. For the last few days all I heard while I've cracked the window is wind. Today I heard whispers. Yes I thought maybe I'd finally cracked and was hearing things but I pressed my head against the screen to listen better. It was then that I heard the crack of something like claws climbing up the side of the house. I yanked my head back just in time to see those claws land on the cell. I was frozen when that that thing hauled itself up to my eye level. It was probably my height maybe a bit bigger, pure black with toughs of hair or fur coming from the top of its head and its shoulders. It didn't have any facial features other than these large pointed ears and bright red eyes. Eyes bigger than my bald up fist. It blinked a few times like he was just a surprise to see me as well. His claws sliced through the screen as I stared at it. I had to be going crazy right? It's enormous hand groped around my desk before landing on my last pack of cigarettes. It yanked them back, waved them in my face and then dropped out of sight with a shittering madman sound. I screamed as loud as I could before slamming the window down. My dad came in and when I told him what I saw he began to cry. Just crumpled into a ball on the floor and began sobbing. I had to tuck him into bed. I asked mom what was wrong with him but she couldn't answer me. All she knew for sure was that he came back late January 2nd, looking paranoid as all fuck and smelling like someone else's perfume. I don't know it's worse. The fact that my dad apparently is having an affair or how calmly my mom said that. Apparently she'd been on to him for months and it had been likely going on for years. Years. It was only that night she caught him. God I wish I could just go back in my tree house and hide for a bit but I can't imagine leaving this house right now. Not with those things out there and that laugh and whisper. Even though they don't have mouths. January 10th. The darkness took an entire house last night. The shittering from those freaks was so loud it woke me up. We crowded in front of the living room window and watched as dozens maybe even a hundred of those monsters surrounded the house across the street. Windows were busted in, the door was ripped off the hinges and they flooded inside. The kines started screaming seconds after they got in. They screamed for what felt like ages and all we could do was stand there and watch. Dad bolted around the house after that, extinguishing every candle, turning off any lights we still had that worked. He sure they were attracted to the light. I don't get it but honestly I'm not going to argue with the guy who's clearly two steps away from a mental breakdown. The kines did have the most lights on still. My thighs are going to be covered in bruises with how I keep bumping into everything every few steps. I can only use my flashlight to write in my diary. I have to leave it dark the rest of the time. All I can do is just watch the darkness outside the window. January 11th. Two more houses were ripped to pieces during the night. Maybe at night, I can't tell anymore. I count days by sleep now and now there's not much else to do but sleep. I am getting better at seeing in the dark though. Although all there is to see isn't great, the monsters just took the kines house down. There's nothing left but a pile of wood. The lots in Jarvis' house is also destroyed. In the wreckage I can sometimes see dark shapes moving around them, where monsters probably. I wish I could fucking see Lydia's house but it's too far away. I hope she's okay. It's clear my dad prepped for being here for a long time though. We have enough canned food to last until the end of the century. Something on that last normal night spooked him. And although he and my mom are clearly going to split the moment they can, he still cares about us. Even if he did betray us. I'm too tired to be angry and too scared. Maybe turning the lights off was the right choice but who fucking knows? January 12th. Risk Gil. That's the name of dad's other woman. Or in this case, man. Boy, this just couldn't be easy, could it? I was in the living room watching the snow when I saw a dark-shaped dart across the lawn. I almost screamed for my dad when I heard someone run into the door but then I heard a voice. God, please let me in. I don't know what made me turn the knob but the guy nearly flattened me in his panic to get inside. The side of his face is all raked up from something's claws and right after I closed the door I heard something else slam against it, followed by an angered scream. That thing was right on his heels and I didn't even see it. My dad admitted it all to my mom in the other room when risk practically fell in my dad's arms sobbing about how they weren't just seeing things. Mom came out after a few minutes alone, dry-eyed and holding a first aid kit. She patched up Ryss's face while Ryss explained what had been happening all over the block. The monsters or shadows as he called them are in fact attracted to the light. Dad was right but they also like heat. Ryss saw a few of them curled up around a burning house like a bunch of dogs in front of a fireplace. They didn't bring the dark though. The other thing dead. Dad and Ryss refused to explain further but apparently that night they saw something, something unknown. I'm praying for the sun's return soon. Dad turned the heat off and we're all bundling up. January 13th. I like Ryss. That sounds so bad I know he's the guy that's ruining everything for my parents. But he's super nice. He's helping board up the windows so his little light and heat escapes but leaves peep holes for me to keep an eye out. He's trying to keep the mood up by bringing up his travel stories. Apparently he went all over Europe for some vacation after he graduated. If I'm ever interested he can recommend the best spots apparently. I'll take going anywhere to get out of this damn darkness. I think even mom likes Ryss or at least is playing nice. There's no room to be a dick while the world's potentially ending. And dad, he looks happy when he's with Ryss. Happier than he ever looked with mom. Fuck if I keep crying all over my diary it's gonna make the ink bleed. I can practically see in the dark like a cat now. Although Ryss gave me plenty of new batteries for my flashlight so my handwriting is actually readable. January 14th. The monster that stole my cigarettes came back. I know it was him because he made the butts into a creepy necklace. Dickhole, I could use a smoke. He was just peering in through the slats of my windows barricade, tapping on the glass with his claws and making more weird warbling sounds. Ryss showed me his gun. He says if the monster tries busting through he'll make sure to put it down. I've never felt so relieved. In the meantime I'm calling it Nick. Short for nicotine and I'm sleeping in my parents room. Well, mom's room. Dad and Ryss are now occupying a room in the basement. I wish they'd just tell us what they saw that night. January 15th. Nicotine, nicotine, fuck, fuck, fuck. I don't even know how I just heard Ryss and dad scream and came down to the basement to find dad bleeding everywhere and Ryss trying to put a bullet in Nick's head. He missed twice and ended up pegging it into the arm once. It bolted back long enough for Ryss and I to drag dad to the main floor and shut the door. Nick is stuck in the basement and he can't get up here. But I do hear him pacing up and down the stairs. Dad's really fucked up. Mom started praying when she was patching up his neck. He looks super pale still and he's going in and out of consciousness. Ryss is holding onto his hand and bawling his eyes out. I think my dad's dying. January 16th. Dad's dead. He passed away some time. Well, I don't really know when. Clocks have all stopped and haven't been going for days. It's not like time's even real anymore. It's just an eternal night until we all die. I peered out the window to see the front yards got a few more bodies in it. All pretty badly shredded. But I would recognize Lydia's hot pink coat anywhere. I think the rest of the bodies are her family. But I can't tell. Won't be able to either probably, even if I could get up close to them. We're all going to die. Mom's just lying in bed and Ryss is counting his bullets in between his sniffles. All I need to know is that he has more than three. January 17th. After we stashed Dad's body in the office, Ryss sat both mom and I down and told us what happened. They'd met by the old state hospital, planning on going for a drive in Dad's car while leaving Ryss's stashed around there. Dad never once worked late in his life. Which for some reason, that of all things ticks me off. He always got him my case whenever I skipped a class or two and all this time he was practically gunning it from work to go meet his boyfriend. At sunset, they saw the monsters. Two of them, not counting the shadows that surrounded the one that almost looked human. Except he was too tall and too pale and had eyes black as night. The other one was hunched over and some sort of drooling creature with the mom not big enough for all its teeth. But it was clear these two creatures were not friends. The king, that's what Ryss is calling the one with the shadows, apparently attacked first. But the beast fought back. It was then the sky began to grow dark, despite the sun still sitting on the horizon. They watched the sky grow black while the creatures continued to fight. They got the hell out of there before it became too dark, both going home and telling each other they'd been drugged. That was the only explanation for what unexplainable shit they'd seen. But they both still found themselves preparing. Dad picking up all that canned food and Ryss digging that gun out of storage and making sure he had ammo. This has nothing to do with us. The king and the beast just put us in the middle of their shit fest and we're all going to die because of it. January 18th. Mom's going to kill herself. Ryss and I aren't going to step her. There's not going to be an end to this night. Mom knows this. The sun's never coming back. Nick is still in the basement pacing up and down those steps. It's waiting for its friends to show up so they can kill us all. Rip us limb from limb. Ryss is going to make a last stand when that happens. But Mom can't bring herself to wait for the sun anymore. She sat me down and told me how much I mean to her. That she still loves dad even if he really, really hurt her. That she won't think badly of me if I'm not ready to end it. I'm not. But I'm just glad she's going to take pills and peacefully go to sleep instead of taking Ryss's offer to use his gun. I'm not sure I could take it if I heard the gun go off. I'm such a coward. I should be joining her right now but I'm too scared to die. I'm only 16. I don't want to die. January 19th. This will be my last entry. Nick and the others broke through last night right through the basement door. Ryss took out a lot of them but I'm not sure if he's still alive since I'm not hearing any gunshots anymore. I'm barred up in my room. I keep getting whiffs of my parents rotting bodies and it makes me want a puke. Why, why, why didn't I go with Mommy yesterday? I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I can hear them in the hall. They're looking for me. They can feel my warmth even if my fingers feel numb and my teeth can't stop chattering. I can hear them whispering my name. I'm going to make a break for it at my window. I don't have a doubt that I'll freeze to death but I'll take that over being ripped to pieces. I hear it's quite nice. Freezing to death. You just sort of go to sleep. Goodbye. I found this in the attic of a home I'm restoring. There's a horrible blizzard a few decades back the destroyer of fuk ton of homes but nothing like this. Maybe it's a joke. Maybe it's some creative writing homework or the beginning of a novel. All I can say is that last night the sun went down but it hasn't come back up yet this morning. 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 comments, share a light 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. The modern game. Beautiful. Fast. Clinical. So why almost betting now stuck in 2005? The miracle in Istanbul. Over. Tiary. No longer scary. Unbelievable Jeff. No more. It's time for change. Bit 10 pounds and get 30 pounds in free bets. We're not your grandad's booking. Search midnight sports and make the move to midnight. New customers only. Restrictions and TNC's apply. 18 plus. Be gamble aware dot org.