CreepCast - Dreams Beneath The Witch Tree | CreepCast

Episode Date: December 7, 2025

Fear which lies beneath the Witch tree. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm recording this from my house because I wanted to talk about something. The Creepcast fan submitted stories are so frequent and there's so much content happening that it feels odd having it be all on a Creepcast fan server. I feel like it should exist on its own storytelling server where even people who don't know the show could stumble upon it and be like this is fucking sick and start writing stuff. Therefore, we have made a new subreddit called Tales from the Creep where you can go upload your stuff there and then we will still be picking from those stories and reading them on the channel. But that way, people on the Creepcast server, it can be memes, stuff about the fandom, all that kind of stuff, people complaining about the fandom. Just kidding, that doesn't happen.

And we can have an area where you have stories here and you have memes and jokey fun stuff here. and you know all the other conversation that happens on the creepcast server i think it's just going to help clean stuff up because i feel like uh the stories they're awesome but i miss all the fan art seeing fan art i miss seeing all the memes and that kind of stuff so i think separating them will uh will be good for everybody and that way if you're really into reading the storytelling now there's no other memes and stuff getting in your way if you're really in the memes now it's not being drowned out by a bunch of stories that's what's happening that's what it is uh if you don't like it don't know i'm supposed to tell you just kidding that's i'm just messing around we like to joke

here am i right have fun writing we'll see you there welcome back to crepecast Today we are reading another wonderful story by our good friend Nick Lowe, who is the author of Dagon's Mirror, and it's a story called The Dreams Beneath the Witch Tree. Yes, he did Dagon's Mere, which was really cool. I don't think he had a ton of attention before then, but thanks to you all, being so supportive, he has since made an Instagram account called Lowecraft, which like the name, Lowe. Craft. and of course he has his creepy pasta account which is just under his name Nick Lowe he's got a bunch of other cool stories we already read Dagon's mirror but there's Dagon's beacon and Dagon's daughter so he did a series out of that

there's the Shambler in the attic the House of Dead Gods and we really loved it the first time we checked it out so why not check him out again so of course as always thank you to Nick for writing such a cool story yes yes yeah no I really enjoyed his last one all the lovecraftian goodies and stuff like that and I think one thing I really like though was the dialogue the characters I thought were extremely well written and I think especially the world that he set up in that like dilapidated wet moldy house so I'm curious to see how this story fares as well and to see if it doesn't go in that similar direction again or does it kind of like take a new approach somehow yeah I think I like the Lovecraft stuff it's hard to pull off, right? A lot of people

try to pull it off and it comes off as dumb. But Daygon's mirrors want the only like true lovecraftian things that I've seen other people try to emulate and do a good job at. Obviously, there's good examples of it in other media, but I'm specifically talking about like creepy pasta

online horror stories. Nick is one of the few to pull it off well. Yeah. And I just want to take time to thank people who are listening on Spotify or Apple Podcast right now. If you are listening over there, be sure to give us a nice rating or consider going over there and listening and also to all of our beautiful patrons who help up just keep this thing going

and help get all the extra little goodies that come with it. So thank you so much. Isaiah, are you ready? I'm ready to begin. Let's dive in. With that, let's get into it. I was sarcastically coughing. It made me really cough. Okay. Nick Lowe, the Dreams Beneath the Witch Tree.

Written below. is the last known statement of Benjamin Harper, a former parish priest serving the village of Barton Cheshire. Mr. Harper was relieved of his position by Bishop Gerald Ellison of the Chester Diocese taken here to Byron House, a home for the mentally disturbed, shortly after suffering an acute episode of hysterical anxiety. There, he came under the direct care of one Dr. George Monroe, the head psychiatrist. Mr. Harper's growing insanity is believed to have been triggered by his inability to accept the loss of his close friend and predecessor, Stephen Adams. Following the death of his mentor, Mr. Harper suffered a rapid decline in both his sanity and his

faith that ultimately led to his confinement. Mr. Harper's stay in Byron House was, however, brief, as he vanished from his cell not long after this statement was recorded. Through unknown means, he is thought to have overcome the security staff, brutally murdering one of the junior physicians, Dr. Howard Fleming, for making good his escape. The weeks prior to his flight marked some of the most drastic alterations in his demeanor. The house staff would often report that Mr. Harper's mood would shift dramatically and without provocation, particularly during the nighttime hours. Some of the orderlies even refused to work with him, citing a disturbing smirk that would creep across his face,

most often as a precursor to his fluctuating moods. In the months that have passed since his disappearance, I've been able to directly confirm several of the less outlandish claims made in his statement. Some of the events described within, however, are simply too fantastical for me to officially stake my reputation on acknowledging. Others are woefully and worryingly repugnant in their authenticity. So his mentor died, and that led to like a mental breakdown that then led him to killing the staff to break out. Is Byron House a thing? I feel like that's a lovecraft reference. I was going to say it's already skewing so hard. This also has little remnants and hints of like this short story that Lovecrafted called From Beyond.

That's, uh, I don't know if that's actually what the story was called, but it was adapted into like a Stuart Gordon movie in the 80s. It's my favorite Stuart Gordon film. Uh, it's like a really, really short story that he turns into a full-fledged film, but it kind of reminds me of that of like two scientists doing something. One of them dies. One of them goes crazy and kind of like goes on not necessarily killing. spree but like you know it has drastically changed him he has seen unknown forces uh just very yeah very big fun actions yeah okay so looking up byron house it seems i was wrong there's a guitarist named byron house but i don't think that's the one i was they're probably just thinking of

arkham house which was the publishing which was the publishing company that was lovecraft's thing yeah arkham arkham for sure but uh i thought i was on to something i was making it up I lied. There's little doubt that Barton is a strange place. Stranger still is the unsettling grip that it has upon some of the village's residents. There's a tangible miasma of superstition and fear that lurks over the village like a blanket of fog. Outsiders may very well scoff at those who put stock in old tales of witches and werewolves, but to many residents of the village, there is little distinction between reality and folklore.

I cannot deny that I, despite being a man of science, find the strange history of Barton's seductive and even nourishing, as it is for all those who harbor a secret and inescapable appetite for the weird. One need only walk down certain decaying streets in the south end of the village and take note of the odd symbols and signs that the common folk keep over their doors to see that a great many in Barton refused to let the old ways die. During my time at Byron House, I too have seen things that I cannot fully comprehend or provide reason for. I have treated many long-time Barton residents who firmly believe, with a level of conviction not seen in many conventional religions,

that the devil makes his grotto in the shadowed woods that crown the edges of the village. I have decided to share Mr. Harper's account of his growing madness in his own words, in the hopes that many in the scientific community will be able to gain an insight into how and why such episodes of insanity come to fruition and how they can be successfully treated. it is also my hope that should any of the stranger occurrences written below ring true for you the reader then this statement will also serve as a dire warning and lesson in meddling within the affairs of certain circles who clearly do not take kindly to outside interference these then are the last known words of benjamin harper that's a fun intro i was like i was like stories that start off with uh like hooks of stories where a man of science or like a very like obvious

non-believer in supernatural superstition has his uh has his own uh sanity tested or his own like belief system shaken i think is uh always a really fun i always make you know like sleepy hollow ikabod crane kind of meme or something like that's always uh it's always just a fun way to start a story it's also cool to have like the old town or like they don't let the old ways die and they keep vigils over their doors and say the devil works his way through the tree line and stuff like that. It's already such an older, like, you know, coming from the scientist standpoint,

it's already such like an outdated, like just completely different world that's like archaic, you know? It has like just like such a weird alien vibe to it. Hey, you think it was based on a gravity falls? I would probably assume so. I think that's what it is.

Yeah. This is just gravity falls fan picture. Yeah. Got his idea from Gravity Falls. Yes. Lovecraft in the 30s did say, that he loved Gravity Falls, it was one of his best his favorite meme. That's right. I do

remember that. It was, if I recall correctly, he hated anyone that wasn't white, but loved Gravity Falls. Absolutely. I think that was in his manifesto. That's why famously he named his cat, Gravity Falls. Yeah, of course, the very infamous

HP Lovecraft Cat, Gravity Falls. He would yell at it. He would scream at Gravity Falls and he would play Fortnite and listen to Breaking Benjamin. That's the average HV.P. Lovecraft experience. Well, I don't, I don't think he,

I don't think he had those in the 30s. Oh. Like those are the 1930s. I don't think he had, Branky, Benjamin, or Fortnite. I don't even think they had video games back then. But they did have Gravity Falls.

They had Gravity Falls. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, it's where a lot of this stuff gets, it's inspiration from. So, yeah, it's cool to see, you know, artists like Lovecraft,

getting their inspirations from the greats. Yeah. Like Gravity Falls, like the creepy town. I bet. I bet gravity. They didn't have video games, but I think they did have Alan Wake somewhat. So I bet he also got his idea from Alan Wake. And then later Twin Peaks got their ideas from Lovecraft. So, you know, some people think that Alan Wake came off at Twin Peaks, but it's actually the other way around going through the whole, you know, 1930s Lovecraft around. We should probably read the story. Okay. I don't understand. What more do you want me to say?

I've told my story to the police, to the doctors here, and to anyone else who will listen. You have no right to keep me locked up in this place. I've committed no crime and caused no harm to anyone. I would still have my freedom and the village its safety had it not been for a lone passerby spotting me in the darkness of the cemetery on that awful night and alerting the police. This whole affair would have been covered up and be done with and you would have remained blissfully ignorant to my involvement in the matter

had those blundering bobbies not interfered. That was the most British. Those blundering. Hope he's not in field. That caught me like a side swipe. I did not. We definitely just got T-bound right there. I'm not going to try to a British accent.

I've tried it before on the show, never again. You say I'm mad. You may well be right. But if you had come to the same conclusion as I did regarding the fate of my poor friend, I am sure you too would have taken some form of desperate action. No doubt the police report will detail the simple facts of the matter, without bothering to add the nuances that hold the whole affair together.

I'm confident that the report will dryly state that I, in the early morning of December 5th, I, Benjamin Harper, was found in the darkest corner of Barton Parish Cemetery. I was discovered, the report will say, disturbing, a suspected burial site, digging up the cold winter earths below an ancient and twisted witch elm tree, beneath which once laid the remains of a wicked and vile occupant. It will also state that, in a fit of unrestrainable rage, I attacked two policemen with a shovel, rendering them unconscious so that my grim labor could be completed without interruption. It is not my sanity that I fear now, rather the possession of my

feeble mind and the body it is currently master over. For I am now hoardly aware that the mind, soul, and body are not as tightly entwined as the so-called experts of medical and spiritual matters believe them to be, but are instead three separate spheres of mastery. I can only hope that the truth of my tale is fully appreciated before an all too familiar terror is forced upon my mind, where I now wonder if wickedness and insanity are truly mental conditions or some form of spiritual sickness. Can either be inherited, carried in the blood and passed on to our descendants? Can they transfuse from parents to their children? If so, what other darkness can be inherited, carried along the roots of our family history? Is it possible that sin itself can plunge endlessly in

crimson rapids of our ancestors' veins, biting its time, patiently waiting for the chance to emerge within the next generation. I confess to you, gentlemen, that I am uncertain as to the authenticity of what I am about to tell you. The terrible truth is that, ever since I came to Byron House, I cannot recall if what happened was but a dream. Even now, I cannot say with any certainty that I am awake or simply dreaming that I am awake. Boundary between reality and hallucination is a frail shroud indeed, and who can say from which side of the curtain any of us is truly peaking. Hark, gentlemen, harken unto me, I beseech you to take heed of my words. There is something wicked out there in the backwoods and borders of our village. Though its

earthly fetters have been laid to waste, the potency of its spirit lingers. In time, it will find a new home and set its powers against us. For the sake of my soul, as well as the soul of my dear friend, I will now try to recount for you in detail that blasphemous chain of events that led me to the grave of Francis Ellis Pendle, the occupant of that hidden burial chamber, and immerse his body in acid until nothing but bubbling black sludge remained. Stephen Adams had been a family friend for as long as I could remember. A devout man of God, he had been the local Vicar since I was a young boy and was very much loved by the community he served. He never married or had much in the way of a family of his own, and as such, I think he had always looked at me and my mother as his own flesh and blood. In the twilight of my teenage years, my father sadly passed away from a heart attack.

My relationship with Stephen grew stronger, forming a bond that nurtured me into manhood and shaped me into the person I am today. For this, I owe Stephen a debt of gratitude. One I hope I came close to repaying when I finally destroyed the horror that had inflicted itself upon his life. life in that lonely December 9. Stephen was a true paragon, godly, honorable, and wise. He was devoid of vice and all the other flaws inherent in most of us. I never once saw him grow angry or fearful or disappoint at any point, save towards the very end. Despite his almost saintly behavior, the man was also incredibly human and very much interested in matters of science as well as faith.

He had, on occasion, said that Darwin's theories made a lot of sense and that he enjoyed reading books covering topics such as biology as well as chemistry, physics, and history.

He was a remarkably well-rounded and well-adjusted man. Not once did his belief in God falter. He was just able to see the sense of how the world worked and blended it

into his love of his fellow man and in the Almighty. That's how you know character's getting ready to we're getting ready to see a character really slip the fuck up when it's like this is like the very like he's a reasonable man yes he has faith but he also

you know is a learned science man this is definitely a guy who's going to have his entire fucking reality smashed right in front of him 100% yeah yeah this they are they're they're setting this up to uh rug pull later with how yeah uh much he changes the counterbalance between the two much like um i haven't actually watched gravity falls but i was going to make I was going to make it. I imagine that he'll... Gravity Falls reference to diminish the story.

I imagine that he'll probably like abandoned God or something. I think like the trials and tribulations will have him like definitely... If it goes to the Lovecraftian realm, it's going to be that like his understanding of what faith is, is manipulated to where he's horrified by it or it's like a new entity comes in and he like dives even deeper into a new faith or something. Is the trajectory I think is going to go? He finds something supernatural that isn't God. Yeah. When I came of age, I decided to follow in his footsteps and join the church myself.

I can't say my mother was particularly pleased with my choice, but Stephen was very proud of me, and it was disapproval that fueled my desire to serve my God and community just as he did. My mother had never been warm with Stephen, despite how closely he associated with us both. I suspected that they had once harbored feelings for each other and that these had turned sour around the time of my birth. How much holder is Stephen than him? I don't know.

Are you trying to, do you think Stephen fucked his mom? Well, in less drastic words, yes. My mother had never been. Yeah, well, I was thinking that Stephen might be his dad, where it says they had once harbored feelings that sat around the time of my birth. I have a feeling that what I think is, is I think that he probably wanted to get some pussy,

but then the dad, but then his actual dad came in, had a child and then like them basically having a kid together soured any chances of their relationship maybe uh potentially yeah um could be that well the reason i think it might be his dad is because at the beginning of this entry our author now said is it possible that craziness like madness can be through generations yeah i mean i mean i think you're probably right too i mean also especially if he knows that it's his kid but she won't like let him see it or if like this person she's with

now is just like fuck off it's not your kid even though it is maybe that's probably what's happening my father had never allowed this matter to interfere with their own friendship and they had been like brothers right up until my father's last breath it was Stephen who had been at my

father's deathbed who had spoken kind words into his ear as he gasped for breath and who had given a moving eulogy as his casket was lowered into the ground I don't recall my mother ever mentioning my father's death after the funeral, nor had I once seen her cry or lament his passing. She simply grew colder and more distant with the people around her, including both me and Stephen.

As such, I didn't feel burdened by my decision to leave her and Barton behind. My heart wasn't heavy at the thought, but rather the opposite. Stephen assisted my decision to join the ministry, and as I spoke to several authorities from the Diocese of Chester and attended an interview with my bishop, my resolve to become ordained only grew stronger. By the time I had secured my place at the theological college in Warchester, my mother had slowly come to terms with my choice,

but I never received her blessing or encouragement for treading the path I was determined to embark upon. Worcester Shire wasn't close to Cheshire. A five-hour train journey was required whenever I wish to visit my family home. I remained in contact with Stephen Weekly via letter, and regularly a handwritten note in a tale-tale stiff card envelope would arrive for me in the post. Our correspondence wasn't particularly thrilling, but it was welcomed as his letters of encouragement helped to guide me through the more difficult parts of my study and fire up in

me a conviction that only he could coax. months of grueling study passed me by and I am not too proud to admit that I occasionally regretted my choice during these bouts of demoralization I would call my mother who would delight in such talk and beg me to return home a gesture I found bemusing considering her absent feelings for me were part of the reason that I chose to leave

Barton with Stephen's letters however that held me back and kept me upon the path I had chosen for myself on rare breaks I would return to Barton for brief stays, and I would check in on my friend, and we would chat about the various topics we had discussed in our exchange of letters. Stephen's main areas of interest had changed drastically in the months I had been gone, and he was now ferociously researching local Cheshire history, in particular our folklore

and other esoteric matters, details of which were lost on me. I would make a token effort of visiting mother, with the blanket of cold repression that fell across the kitchen as we sat there in silence over a pot of tea, was becoming more and more unbearable. Once or twice, I felt as if she wanted to tell me something. She would stop herself before anything significant left her lips, and she would instead inquire sarcastically as to Stephen's well-being before reaffirming her objection towards my study. This time passed, these sojourns to Barton ceased altogether as I threw myself deeper and deeper into theological pursuits, relying solely upon Stephen's letters to keep me informed about how my mother was

fearing. It had been some weeks before I noticed a gradual change to my routine that piqued my interest in matters beyond my own affairs. So engrossed had I been in my studies that I neglected to notice that Stephen's letters had abruptly stopped. I waited a week before sending him a note of my own in hopes of her response, but nothing came. I could only assume that he had become engrossed and study himself, as he had a habit of picking up a new topic and devouring as much information on it as he could before finding a new sphere of knowledge to move on to. To be quite honest, I was focused on my own study and so welcomed the break in my weekly task of finding something interesting to fill my letters with. This absence of communication lasted just

under five weeks, when eventually one of Stephen's letters arrived for me on a Friday morning. I was already on my way out, and so opened the letter and read its contents whilst walking to the local parish I was helping to curate out. Dodging traffic and pedestrians alike, I read the note and folded it into my pocket, determined to pin my reply as soon as time permitted. As best as my memory serves me, much delayed letter read as follows. Benjamin, firstly, let me apologize for my lack of communication with you over the past few weeks. I have, as you may have figured out yourself, stumbled upon a fascinating area of Cheshire history that our own parish was directly involved in some two centuries ago. Now, I understand that this is hardly an excuse for neglecting you, and I sincerely apologize

that my absence has caused you any worry. Please read on, and I shall attempt to explain. I have been investigating our parish's history, and in doing so, came across an obscure piece of information that points to a witch trial taking place within our community well after the Witchcraft Act of 1735 had forbidden all forms of necromancy and sorcery for being punishable crimes. How scandalous! To think that our dear community of Barton was involved in some sordid affair. Well, after such matters had ceased to be acknowledged by the crown, details are sketchy, but it seems much of the affair was conducted in secret and many later

recordings destroyed in order to prevent the facts surrounding it from ever resurfacing. Now, here comes the really intriguing part. The individual tried and executed for practicing witchcraft is none other. Distant relative of mine on my mother's side, Juan Francis Ellis Pendle. This is how I was able to unearth certain details as they have been sat in my family's records for over a century. The whole matter has me deeply excited, and I'm currently waiting on several sources to provide me with the information on various subjects, but I believe I am close to warming out the truth.

I have reason to believe that this ancestor is buried right here in the parish cemetery. Try as I might, I cannot find a grave. But from what I have read, which is where sometimes buried in unmarked plots, a curse upon their names and a final punishment for trucking with the devil. It was also a precaution, for if any of their coven could unearth the remains, they could restore them to life. Or so the folklore goes. But here I am.

getting ahead of myself again. How have you been, my boy? I look forward to hearing about the past few weeks I've missed out on. So please furnish me with all the details. I understand if we'll be finishing your first year soon. And once you have, I ask that you come stay with me and Barton for a while. For these, for there is much we must discuss about my findings. Take care of yourself, Benjamin.

Yours truly. Stephen. So yeah, I think 100%, uh, Stephen is, what? that's just such a funny letter to get out of the blue it's like I found a witch in the cemetery yeah anyways how are you doing okay cool see you soon uh I do think that Stephen is his dad and I think that like what is it going to be because it already started with at the beginning uh Benjamin was digging up a grave of some kind that's what that's how the cops caught him so now I'm wondering the one underneath the elm tree yeah which help yeah so it's either

It's probably the witch that's there, but I'm wondering if Stephen somehow curses himself reveals that. Like, I'm wondering if he thinks that like the curse itself is hereditary to Benjamin, you know? Well, not to put our author in a box to say the stuff he does, but what was interesting about Dagon's mirror,

which is based off of, you know, Shadow over Insmith and stuff. That is the Lovecraft story with Degon, right? Shadow over Insmith. Yeah, yep. Um, in that story, the whole thing was the family we were reading about was always doomed to this reality. They were always going to go back and be servants of day gone. It's just a matter of when they mature to that phase.

So here, especially because of what Benjamin talked about in the beginning with like, is this curse in the veins of ancestors as it carried through generations? Maybe the witch was a member of their family and they're always meant to come back to it. like both stephen and himself are compelled to like take up the body maybe resurrect or something like that perhaps that's also just really fun to not hear from your boy for a while and he goes i'm going to get the body out of the cemetery okay you do you all right i want to take a quick moment to thank today's sponsor flexi spot deep down you know when it's over i had my gaming chair for years and spent half of that in denial. And as I moved, I made some tough decisions,

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to find and instantly book a top-rated doctor today. That's Zoc-D-O-C-com slash creepcast. Zocdoc.com slash creepcast. Thank you so much for Zop-D-D-G for sponsoring this episode, to back the episode don't get too scared the letter did not unnerved me in the least it was just like him to find some new topics to obsess over and i thought little about the matter utter if i sent you a text randomly i'm like i'm going to find the body once again i'd be in the same boat as benjamin i would i mean it would be the exact same

you'd be like yeah i don't know i went i went out to georgia and i found it i'm i've been you know I made friends with paranormal investigators and we're doing, I mean, I would, it would mean nothing to me. If my wife said that, it would be a different story. Right. Okay. So now I don't like that you phrased it that way because now it's like you just don't care about me. No, it's not that. It's just that I would not be surprised because I'd be like, what?

And you're just like, oh, it's going to be really cool. And I see it as a video. All right. All right. I see. The YouTube thing does cover up a lot of the like weird. It does. You need to become a serial killer is what I'm trying to tell you.

It's really. Yeah. Yeah, there's a lot of situations I'll be in them. I'm like, this is kind of odd. But then you say you're a YouTuber. They're like, oh, well, I was making a YouTube video. They're like, oh, how fun. I was, I was breaking and entering this abandoned property for a video.

It's like, oh, it's not a felony then. You're fine. Yeah. Oh, what's that? You found this cool thing in there that someone definitely owns this property and you stole it. It's for a video. It's a video.

Of course not. Come on. It's a video. Yeah. money laundering, drug possession, it's a video. Guys, Stephen had always been this way. No doubt in his next letter, he would be talking just as enthusiastically about a completely different topic, with witchcraft far from his mind.

I wrote a meager reply that night, nothing terribly fancy, just a passive interest in what he had mentioned and also a little update on how my own studies were progressing. I responded to his invitation to join him at Barton Parish and said that, it would be a pleasure to spend some time with him. After my first year was finished, I was able to come home for Christmas. My delight, my mother invited Stephen to our home for lunch. Christmas itself is a busy time for the ordained,

but I was grateful for the snatches of conversation we managed to have. To my surprise, Stephen had not dropped his inquiries into his ancestor and the various Cheshire witch trials, both legal and illegal, that it occurred in the county. In fact, he would speak of little else during my short stay with him. He was particularly excited because he believed he had finally located

where Francis Ellis Pendle had been laid to rest. He described to me in great detail over Brandy that at the very back of the cemetery, close to where the Gunner's Clough Woodland starts to encroach upon the hollowed ground, there can be found a small copse of witch-elm trees, so-called because witches were once hanged from them.

He was his belief that Francis had been interred in the ground beneath one of these trees. A precaution levied against him, as the old folk believed that the roots of a tree would pin the witch's body and soul in place, denying either the power to rise from their grave and avenge themselves upon the living. The next morning, he took me out to see the cops where he suspected the final resting place of his witch ancestor lay. Even in the daytime, it was a dark and blasted place. The trees looked more dead than alive, with twisting dry branches that groaned like the creaking of a floorboard as the wind

lightly danced around them. Here, somewhere beneath the dark ground, Stephen was convinced that the body of Francis Lay. I cannot say with conviction that even then I was worried about him. I had convinced myself that his interest was purely historical. He was nothing more than an enthusiastic amateur. In hindsight, however, the warning signs were undoubtedly present. I would come and visit Barton sporadically during my second and third years at college.

I think I was subconsciously outgrowing the place, but in the best possible way. I was shaping into the man I always wanted to be, and I felt renewed by my growing independence from both Stephen and my mother. It was during the last part of my ordination, my final year, that I first heard the growing rumors regarding Stephen and his radical change in behavior. The source of such gossip came from none other than my mother. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in her tone upon informing me of the very distasteful exploits that Stephen was being accused of.

He was now, apparently, drinking heavily and had been spotted meeting with certain unsavory types after dark. Strange visitors had been seen in the cemetery, always at night. He was, she said. He was, she said, keeping company with odd strangers who spoke in foreign tongues and who wore bizarre clothing. Loud, violent behaviors in the middle of the night was becoming a regular occurrence for his neighbors, as voices were heard emanating from the church house at all hours.

That's really funny to imagine that it's like, yeah, he's talking to some weird foreigners, I think, and it's like a demon and a cloak that's like, Uki Baca, ducca, ducca. They're like, I think that guy is from Italy. Yeah. I'm pretty sure. No one gets scared, but I'm pretty sure it's a Chinese guy. I think that guy over there might be, I'm not sure.

that he could be Portuguese. I don't want to freak anybody out, but I think that's a Chinese guy over there. I never met someone from Portugal, but I'm almost positive. Father Stephen? That would be what that would look like. Father Stephen,

would you come over here, please? Actually, never mind. We don't, we don't go down this road. No, no. We don't, we don't go down this road. I think you keep going the road.

No, no, no. I think you're set up a really good classic, wholesome, creepcast, If you noticed, I tried to keep the nationality vague and keep switching it up, like, oh, Italian, Portugal. These are fun. You really logged it on that Chinese thing there for a second. So why don't you go ahead and let that one play out? No, no, no, no. We're having fun. We're having fun. No reason to get anyone in trouble now.

Not have a good time. But also, like, there was noise coming all hours of the diet. Like, there's loud incantations, and it's like those, you know, Stephen's always been a real wild one. He was having his parties. Having his party, getting drunk on brandy and having gay sex with the Chinese guys. It sounds like. I don't see. There you go. You brought him back into it. It's going to be hard to take about. I'm going to do it right now.

He's there. We tried to ask him to leave. He won't. Yeah, exactly. Well, now, not I'll tell you, I think Stephen's shot me. He's got himself in a literal Chinese finger trap now. So he's got to watch out. he's got a push and twist you know what I'm saying he's in a Chinese finger trap with the Chinese guy yeah well no okay no no no no no don't fit it down I heard the way you giggled when you said well I know I open the door on that one I'm shutting the door back I didn't walk into the room the door is shut

we're done I don't need to see what's going on there we're good we're just going to keep moving there was even talk that several pets had gone missing in the village in particular missus no There ain't no way. That is a Polish name or something, and that is, that is messed up. Zabot Zoboics? Zadibboix. Zedibowicz. Zedibowicz.

In particular, Mrs. Zadibowicz Tabicat, Cleo, and old man Slater's Greyhound, Basel. The latter was known to roam freely around the village and was almost always in constant trouble, tipping over rubbish bins and chasing Jack Duncaf's chickens. Some people assumed that the dog had either run off or been hit by a car, but a fair number attributed a more ominous reason behind the dog's sudden vanishing. The cat, however, was rarely seen outside of the Zadibibawik's home. Many assumed that the eldest son, Ian, was the culprit. The boy had always had a cruel streak and was disliked by almost everyone in the village,

including his own mother. But when the decayed headless body of a cat, severed head of a greyhound were found casually discarded in the gunner's cloth by some local children the day after Walpurgis, many began to suspect that Stephen's sinister new acquaintances were responsible. The most disturbing revelation, however, was that Stephen's face appeared to have taken on a rather unusual countenance, kind of sardonic smirk that greatly unnerved those who saw it. By all rights, the expression was wholly alien to the man, and when seen, it appeared to to twist his face to such an extent that he looked like a stranger.

The bishop of the Chester Dioces had issued him with a formal warning about his behavior, the outcome of which I would soon learn of. At the time, I found all of this impossible to believe. The evils being attributed to my friend were nothing more than village gossip, I believed, and the usual Barton superstitions, something for the old codgers to grumble over while steep in their cups, and I refused to accept the rumor or take the matter seriously. Soon enough, however, I too became embroiled in the abnormal changes in Stephen's life. Again, there was a period of time where I didn't receive regular correspondence from

Stephen. In fact, these periods had grown more frequent, but I admit that I was beginning to grow worried, as the rumors regarding his behavior churned over in my mind and the large gulf between his letters was growing even wider as time passed. I hadn't received a letter back from him for a very long time, perhaps four months. But when I finally did, it was far more disturbing that anything I had ever read from him, and it filled me with an urgent need to see my friend and assist him however I could. It arrived for me unexpected, much like the previous one I have described, and despite looking like a letter from Stephen, it was so hastily scrawled that for a few seconds I thought it was written by a stranger. Benjamin, I'm afraid to tell you this, but I fear I have

I've led myself down a dark and winding path. So far have I descended into darkness, and so deeply have I gazed at the blackness that I wonder if I will ever be able to find my way back to the Lord's Light. By meddling in the past affairs of the parish and my own family history have brought me nothing but misery, I am doomed. It's the dreams, Ben. The hideous dreams. I dream constantly, so much that I no longer tell would.

is real and what is fantasy. I dream often of a cold, godless place, devoid of warmth and comfort. Above me, I see twisting black roots warming their way slowly towards me like serpents. Try as I might. I cannot move my arms and legs, where my body is confined to a casket. A buried, rotting maggot-infested casket. When I finally awake, the clock by my bedside always displays the same time. 3am, the witching hour. By the time you read this, I may not be at the parish. I must leave this place.

Leave Barton and never return. I have some dire matters to attend to. Most importantly, I must return to that which I've called. He has his own black designs, and I must ensure that they never come to fruition. In my more lucid moments, I am formulating a plan, but I must be prudent, lest he speckers. me of acting. I must be decisive and deliberate in my actions and conceal all evidence from

him before the sun sets and my, and his time begins. He has his means. That is beyond doubt, but I also have mine. I know of certain antique formulas and signs that can ward off his spirit, potent as it may be. Once I am sure that this evil is returned to the cold ground, his remains must be destroyed. The fire is no good. It will leave too much. much attacked. It must be something stronger, something that will obliterate him until that there is nothing left. I will then take my leave. I have already spoken with the bishop, and we both agree that you are ready to take my place, Ben. May you be a better guide to the people of this parish than I. Ben, if I fail in my endeavors, I can offer you only this warning. Fear that

which lurks beneath the witch tree. Do not invite it in, for it will make itself a home within you and through your work it's black magic it will invoke those who lurk at the threshold those unnamed blasphemies from the great outside and then my friend we're all ruined god bless you that is the average text from hunter at three in the morning that is just by what i do Isaiah i think i'm having a heart attack the pizza rose and whiskey i finally got finally caught up with me and the Grim Reaper is by my by my nightstand

he chuckles and does fortnight dances at me the last rolls in whiskey such a depressing he keeps telling me of you he keeps telling me of a Chinese man that's haunting my dreams

I I mean this in the best way uh and not you and Allison are a lovely couple and I think you guys are never going to break up but I mean this was full sincerity you have all

the makings of a divorced father thank you and the best I like the humor the jokes the whiskey and pizza rolls dinner it's like built into you also

does that mean was that too far no that's fine I think it's true it is built into me I consume it And then it builds itself, like little Legos. So in this letter, he's having visions now that he's the body beneath the witch elm, which is his ancestor. And he is determined to destroy it somehow. It says that it's now time for Benjamin to take his place.

Is it the witch or do you think it's the man he was looking for? Well, he, Francis Peddle was a witch. Oh, okay, okay. Yeah. To say that this letter disturbed me greatly would be a gross understatement. I had never known my friend to be so worried or panicked over anything in his life, and yet here he was, telling me that his very soul was in jeopardy. I spoke with my superiors at the college, but I did not show them the note Stephen had sent me.

I feared that should anyone else read the note, they would question his sanity, and that might put into motion a whole course of events regrettable to the man's already afraid reputation. No, best I speak to him first and get to the root of the issue. Ha, ha, root. I get it, because he's under a tree. A few days later, I was on a train and bound home for Barton. I disembarked at the nearby East Witch of Station and caught a rickety old bus into the village, arriving around midday and hastily made my way in the direction of the parish church.

Several locals recognized me, and I had to pause momentarily for a few quick expectations. changes before resuming my journey. I did my best not to look panicked and to keep my gate to an acceptable stride as I gave each passerby my time. But deep inside, I was overcome with a crippling dread that only increased as I neared my destination. When at last I arrived at the church gates, I found them closed but not barred. Pushing their heavy iron frame inwards, I walked past a small stone fountain, which was bone dry and not flowing with the gentle, trickling sound that usually welcomed visitors. The surrounding benches that crowned the fountain were empty, as was the entire churchyard and cemetery. I couldn't help but notice the serene, yet disturbing

quiet of the places I headed straight for the church doors, which were worryingly locked. I looked around puzzled. Stephen should have been inside and getting ready for the evening service. I picked up my bags and made my way around the church and towards the small residents at the back where Stephen lived. The front door, like that of the church, was locked. Curtains were open, and I peeked inside but could see no signs of life. I then did a quick tour of the perimeter, knocking and calling on every door and window before returning to the front. I assured myself that there must be a perfectly mundane excuse for him not being present at the church and mused that maybe he was out picking up provisions from Littler's store on Townfield Lane.

The relief of such a normal explanation was abruptly shattered, however, by the gruff and familiar voice of a man barking out to me in the direction of the cemetery. Viker's gone, Ben, and I don't suppose he's killing back anytime soon. I cocked my head in the direction of the voice and called out, my words feebly battling the expanding gust of wind that were coalescing piles of brown autumn leaves, causing them to dance around the dry gray fountain behind me.

Is that you, Ted? I called out, already knowing the answer to my question. To meet my reply, the tall and wiry frame of old Ted quilt slowly emerged from behind a large headstone. He had a small shovel in one hand and was no doubt tending to the earth around the cemetery, just as he had for as long as I could recall.

Despite the autumn chill, he wiped sweat from his brow and waved at me before picking up his tools. As he made his way towards me, his long white hair and beard billowing in the wind, I cannot banish the thoughts of the old pagan gods from my mind. With his towering hide and wizened, but friendly old face, he reminded me of Woden, chieftain of the gods and the leader of the dreaded wild hunt from the old Saxon legends.

Sorry, Ben, didn't scare you, did I? I heard you come in, well, I heard the gate clang. I figured I'd let you look around before speaking up. No, it's quite alright, Ted. What did you mean just now? that stephen was gone and wouldn't be coming back best of you come inside boy the vicar left me some instructions for you in the keys to his eyes come on i'm on making some tea he rested one of his giant hands on my shoulder i won't lie to you been i've got some queer things to tell you

i'd keep having gay sex with uh i knew i said that word i knew you were going to say something i thought to myself, I'd better read the next line before he does something. I've got some queer things to tell you. You're horrible. I've got some queer things to tell you. I can make a man come in probably a minute and a half.

This is a good story. Quit. You ever see that? You ever see that Nicholas Cage movie gone in 60 seconds? That's about me. Oh, quit. No, this is miserable. I had my period last week.

I've trapped in his podcast. Ted, Ted, what are you talking about? That's such a good story. I had my period last week, Ben. Ted, I don't think that's, I don't think that makes much sense. I thought I was pregnant, but luckily I got my period. I got a lot of things I got to tell you. Some weird witchcraft going on in the cemetery, Ben.

I keep getting my period. It's not monthly, it's weekly. I keep sucking male ghost dick no no no no the ghost of men are very happy in the cemetery for me Ted you gotta quit the number of people I see get mad

they're like Isaiah is such a prude why won't Isaiah let Hunter tell jokes if I just let him tell these things the show would get wiped I suck their souls clean Ben see it's like that there's got to be some pushback to it somewhere I've got to

to be, I'll, I'll, I'll, I love people at church ask about this show. And I'm like, um, I don't real, what creed cast? What is that? The original ghost busters just 10, second ghost cock in the cemetery. No, no, it's not what it is. It's not what it is at all. It was funnier when it was the Chinese guy, but it was just less detailed. Hey, you're going to go to the afterlife with a smile on your face. The story is getting good. Sorry, go ahead.

Did you at least laugh with, I got my period? Because I thought that was fun. I'm not telling you. You're going to have to watch the recording back. To everyone who gets mad at me for quote unquote being approved, this is what I'm holding off. There's a,

I am the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam, keeping the entire village from being flooded, okay? Everyone's like, oh, why is the Dutch boy standing next to that damn? Because the Dutch boy knows what it takes to save the town. Ben.

Ben. You can stick a finger in it if you want. Put a finger in it, Ben. The classic Ted quote. Put a finger in a bin. you're so gross your pinky's a wine cork

okay all right just one pinky band please it's just you go you go there's not just like a joke you're just in all the

the nitty gritty just all the deep I can see everything you're describing it's way too deep right down to the knuckle God you got big knuckles no no no no

no no that was a good story big old knuckles on you it's like a half dollar right there on right there on your hand ted can he just take me back to stephen's house oh yeah sure ted didn't say any of this ted was the nice old man who works in the garden i love how i'll test like hey guys ted didn't say any of this okay all right so just this real quick ted didn't actually say that stuff so don't even wait my don't give me that voice this is not canon just to say don't give me that voice

Don't give me that voice. If it's not canon that Ted is his second ghost cock and getting fined in the graveyard, then I don't want any part of it. I'm going to keep reading. My asshole looks like a used catcher's glove, man. That's the last one. And that's actually the last one because that's disgusting. And for you and for you to honestly, for you to let that happen,

I think that's gross. For me to let that happen for me to let you talk. I did everything of my power to keep. you from talking and it was completely ineffective. You just wait for me to get tired out and then you say it anyway. Also him high. Everyone talks about me holding back and being a prude or whatever. What am I holding back?

He just says it. It doesn't do anything. Him. Him hiding behind the headstone now is a lot more devious, isn't it? What are you doing back there, Ted? I'm reading. No, I'm reading. You said that would be the last thing.

You don't want to see this back here, Ben. No, you said, you gave me your word. and it was over here in the darkness of the cemetery. Get out of here, Ben. You don't want to see this. All right, come take a look. Do you want me to see it or not? I don't care what you do.

Just make a move, honcho. All right, we're done. Go ahead. I got my period, Ben. Good. Good stuff. Ben, do you see a Tampax lying around here somewhere? Okay, that's actually that's, and that is it.

That's the last of the bits. Go ahead. Okay. Hey, this episode is sponsored by Tushy. Tushy's luxury bidet that your bathroom has been missing. Over two million butts love Tushy and yours will too. I, it wet's my asshole and it makes it clean. This holiday season, give the gift of clean with one of Tushy's premium bidet.

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Tushy. Remember A-Hole is only a naughty word if you wipe. For a limited time, our listeners get 10% off their first bidet order when you use code Creepcast at 10% off your first biday order at hello tushy.com with promo code Creepcast. Thank you to Tushy for sponsoring this episode. Now back to the episode. With that, he pulled the front. So defeated sounding how you're reading this. With that, he pulled the front door key from the back of his tattered trousers and unlocked the front door of Stephen's house. Causing the lock to make a heavy,

clunking sound as the door opened a jar. He entered and I followed behind, still confused as to what I could have missed in the time since I last heard from Stephen. Teddy immediately headed for the kitchen, where, true to his word, he put on a pot of tea and then sat down to roll himself a cigarette whilst waiting for the tea to brew. Hungry? He turned to ask me, scraping his tongue across the cigarette's paper skin and gesturing to some biscuits on a nearby plate. Later, perhaps. Isaiah, my son, stay strong in the name of the Lord. I replied with a weak smile.

The smell of the brewing tea filled the room and offered me a little comfort. Stephen had always appreciated a strong tea. I placed my bags down and looked around the room. It was exactly how I remembered it, untouched and impeccably clean. as was Stephen's fancy. Ted... Ted looked quite out of place in such an uncluttered arena, his wild beard and dirt-stained clothing.

He didn't say anything to me, and grossed as he was in a cigarette rolling, which caused me to grow a little impatient with the man. Look, if something is happening to Stephen, you have to little bit know quickly, Ted. What is it? He proceeded to pour two cups of tea, And after passing one along with a small jug of milk,

he struck a match and lit a cigarette before leaning back in his chair and signed. There isn't an easy way to say this, Ben. So I'll just come out with it. Stephen has left the parish. His ways, shall we say, over the last few months have been unnerving. Many of his parishioners and the bishop felt it was in everyone's best interest that he takes his leave, at least for a few months. I nodded, not so much in agreement, but simply out of shock.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the last two letters Stephen had sent me and handed them over to Ted. He placed his cup on the table and took them into his huge hands without saying a word. He stroked his snow white beard whilst intermittently, nodding and sighing as he flitted from page to page, occasionally rereading a section and then nodding once more. Once finished, he handed them back to me, picked up his cup. up and took a sip, straining the brown liquid through his beard. Do these letters mean anything to you?

He was talking about the bloody witchcraft business an awful lot. I knew some of what he was talking about, especially those trees out back past the graveyard. I used to play around the gunner's clow as a boy. There was always tell about how evil that place was. You're from Barton. You must have heard the old tales about the ghost and goblins and how old saltpeter would get you if you linger too long past sundown. Salt Peter?

I replied with a smile, recalling the childhood memory of how my grandfather would warn me of entering the gunner's cloth after dark. Stay away from those woods, boy, you would say. Salt Peter, salty Pete, some call him. Three legs he goes. He'll trick you into the woods using the voice of someone you know. That's just an old wives tale, Ted.

Steve would have never taken such talk seriously. Imps and witches, familiars. It's just childish superstition. Well, I can't argue with you there, Ben. He said, taking another sip of his tea. But it was more than weird changes in its nature that I wanted to talk you about. Not all this witchy nonsense. Tap the letters on the table as if to emphasize how little he thought of their contents.

Such as? I said, picking up my own cup. Well, a couple of folks rumbled him good to the bishop over his knightly doings. They said he'd been calling regularly with shady types from me. Eastwich and that he was involved in some missing money here at the parish. Quite a sound of folks are to believe. Quite a sound of folks are to be believed. Then there's the strange sounds and stranger lights coming from the cemetery.

My mother was telling me about this week's ago. I didn't want to believe her. She's never been too keen on Stephen. Not just that been. He was his whole manner. He just stopped giving a damn about the community. He grew slack in his duty, and you know that's not Stephen. He turned into this cruel, morose man, almost a complete stranger, really, unsettled a lot of the vocals.

Took a few more sips to this tea and finished his cigarette before continuing. So there was a village meeting, and with the agreement of the diocese and Chester and the bishop, it was a side that he should leave us. Can't say I know where he's gone, but I reckon that you'd want to. and takeover's duties if you're willing, at least until the bishop couldn't find a replacement. He stood up and opened a nearby drawer, producing a sealed letter for the mark of the Chester diocese. Opening it, its contents confirmed what Ted was hinting at. I didn't know what to say. I was supposed to start my tenure as a curate under Stephen, not becoming the village viker. Why didn't Bishop Ellison speak to me directly about this?

Ted simply shrugged before continuing. There's something you should know, Ben. You brace yourself because what I have to say next is going to upset you. Stiffed my back in response and allowed him to continue. Some believe that Stephen may be dead. I opened my mouth to reply, but he raised his hand. Let me finish. I said some believe he may be dead, but that doesn't make it so.

Nonetheless, no one has heard, hide, or hair of him since he left. Phil Crouch heard a rumor that a man who looked just like Stephen had been spotted down by the locks a few nights ago. You know the ones by the river down past the canal that run through Blackroft. He was ranting and raving, Stephen, that is, almost as if he was having a quarrel with himself. Well, Phil says he came out to see what the fuss was and he swears hands down that he saw Stephen throw himself into the locks. he told the local Bobby's about what he'd seen and they couldn't find anything amiss I thought you should know

unless you hear it from someone else in less favorable terms I felt my world come crashing down around me this was too much for me to absorb it once every man be he a saint or a sinner has his share of faults but to hear of these developments coupled with the last letter Stephen had sent me and the news that he may have killed himself not to mention the expectation that I should

should take his place at the parish. I'll need time to think about it, Ted. I said, standing up slowly. He nodded and finished his drink before standing himself. I understand. Look, no one's expecting you to hold a service or anything. The whole village knows the situation, and I just think that they are,

I just think that they and the council are glad to have you here. You won't have to perform any public services, not until you are good and ready at least. No doubt our placement will be found before too long. And try not to worry too much about what feels. Phil Crouch says, you know him, stupefied with drink half the time. I'm sure Stephen's fine. He's probably just taking the time he needs.

You pointed to the keys on the table. These are yours until it's all sorted out. Look, I best begin back to work out there. If it need me, just say so. But I hope you'll stay. Patting me on the shoulder, Ted left, leaving me sat alone in the kitchen. My mind was ablazed with confusion and doubt. just what chaos had I returned to.

It took no small amount of time for me to settle into the house. I avoided going into town at all cost and only received the minimal amount of visitors, many of which were only at my door seeking gossip. I quickly dismissed the worst of them and focused instead on the genuine well-wishers and sympathizers, of which there were depressingly few. Apart from Ted, the only person I spoke to regularly was my mother,

who was less than supportive with the whole matter and only offered a few snipes about the man I had come to think of as my father. I spent the rest of my time in the church taking care of daily chores and wandering around the cemetery, where I would occasionally bump into Ted and have a short, pleasant, though sterile conversation about the weather before moving on. The days were growing colder, and I would frequently bring him hot tea and food

as he worked relentlessly on maintaining the church grounds, especially those close to where the feral brambles of the gunner's cloth constantly enroached. He wasn't bad company by any means, but as the days turned into weeks, we found less and less to talk about. I also kept it constant... I also kept in constant contact with Bishop Ellison, who offered me all the support he could in running the parish. He was confident that a replacement for Stephen would be found quickly, but was very sensitive about discussing it in detail, knowing just how close he had been to me.

It was during one of these many daily excursions around the churchyard, It was during one of these many daily excursions around the churchyard that I decided to revisit the witch elm trees that Stephen had once shown me. I had explored most of the large open cemetery and decided to walk around the far back end which borders with the gunner's cloth. I cannot state with any clear conviction what had possessed me to walk along the lonesome and lonely stretch of graveyard, crammed as it was with crumbling tombstones, the names of their occupants long since worn away by the passage of time. In the shade of those large, forsaken trees, there rested some of the oldest and most decrepit headstones in the whole cemetery. Many of them leaned, had steep angles, and some had toppled over entirely, their surfaces now home to moss and lichen. I passed each in turn, trying in vain

to make out the names and dates that have been washed away by the relentless reign of northwest England, till I came across the witchelm trees once more, nestled at the very back of the copse, deep in the shadows of a particularly diseased-looking tree, I could see a patch of ground that appeared to have been freshly excavated. I made my way closer and stood in front of it, noticing that a small carved stone had been half submerged in the recently disturbed soil. It was green and furry with moss. I had been down and ran my hand around it and found the clumps of moss growing upon its surface easy enough to pull off. Neathe of the valley. vegetation. I could spy that there was an inscription and a date chiseled into the sandstone underneath,

or the moss that preserved it. Here lies Francis Ellis Pendle, beloved by the devil, unforgotten by his disciples. 1751 AD. The carving was undoubtedly old, and despite the protection afforded to it by the moss, it was still eroded and worn away in parts. As I pulled the stone out of the earth, I noticed a newer, fresher-looking carving on the back. It was an odd shape, some kind of hieroglyph. It's difficult to truly say just what it was. It appeared somewhat similar to a pagan pinagram, where the lines were broken resulting in a series of independent points.

There said what looked like a lozen-shaped eye. In place of a pupil, there was instead a small flame-like shape. The symbol must have been heathen in origin, for I had never encountered its likes in all my years of, religious studies. The whole stone was perhaps only ten inches in height, hardly what one would call a tombstone, but appearing to hold the same purpose. Instinctively, I dropped the stone close to where I had found it and rubbed the dirt off my hands. I felt as if I had just come into contact with something unmistakably evil, as if my very soul had been touched by the hoary and eldritch nature

of whatever darkness it had been used to commemorate. It was then that the words from Stephen's last note crept into my mind. Fear that witch lurks beneath which tree, do not invite it in, for it will make itself a home within you and through you work its black magic. The hour was growing late, and the dimming sun caused the darkness of the gunner's cloth to wash over me, enveloping me within its black folds. I had no desire to stay in that place, and hastily made my way back to the house, determined to reach it before the sun disappeared behind those vile trees.

Once inside, I breathed a sigh of relief and then set about preparing me. myself a supper of some toast and fresh tea. Try as I might, I cannot banish the warning from Stephen's letter. Eventually, perhaps driven by a need to see if I had remembered his words correctly, I took the bundle of Stephen's letters from the kitchen drawer, where I kept them tucked away beneath some parish leaflets, and sifted through them until I found the one that mentioned Stephen's talk of witchcraft. I unfolded it and reread it until I came to the passage with the warning. I had indeed remembered it verbatim. Unnerved, I folded up the letters and hastily placed them back into the drawer. A moment later, Ted came into the kitchen, trembling about the cold and

wiping his mud-stained boots on the doormat. He nodded and helped himself to the tea I had brewed before sitting himself down and pulling out his tobacco to roll himself a cigarette. I waited a few minutes for him to progress halfway through his task before approaching the subject of Stephen in a strange decline. So, Ted, did Stephen ever mention a grave to you? We're not in the yard close to the woods. He put his tobacco down and nodded. I, I saw him looking over it a bunch of times.

He told me he was a grave of a witch. Hung for his crimes hundreds of years ago. One of the last in England he reckoned. And that was the last he was studying him before his change of character came over him? He nodded again and lit his cigarette with a match before extinguishing it with the shake of his hand. Study is one way of putting it. Obsession would be another. You know he converted the cellar of his house into some kind of study?

A library, I guess you could call it. Filled with all sorts of queer-looking books. Latin, I reckon. Not unusual for a viker. I guess, but some of them is written in German and others in languages I can't begin to understand. Not only that, but it moved all kinds of bloody chemicals and equipment in there too. Can't really say I recognize most of it. The place stinks to high heaven.

Is it still there in the cellar? No. I reckon he took almost everything with him when the bishop told him to leave. Might be some bits and pieces down there, but you'd be lucky to find much. We both then sat in silence. Ted turning his attention to a local newspaper folded on the table and myself to my thoughts. The next day, acting largely upon a hunch, I contacted the East Witch College and asked to speak to their head, who turned out to be a rather jovial man.

named Lee Humphrey, who was all too happy to answer any and all of my questions. Over the phone, he confirmed a suspicion of mine that he and Stephen had had some mild correspondence concerning lab equipment and various chemicals, compounds, and assets. He reeled off several overly long and complex names, oblivious to the fact that I was totally ignorant of what he was speaking. I thanked him and hung up the phone. A few more pieces of the puzzles slotting into place in my mind. The distance between them, however, was too great to form a larger, cohesive picture, witchcraft and science, chemistry and an obsession with a 200-year-old hidden grave. How do they connect?

Determined to uncover more, I decided to visit the library Stephen had set up and then dismantled during that time we were separated. The entrance to the cellar was in the kitchen, behind a narrow door that I first presumed to have been a broom cupboard. It concealed a flight of cold stone steps that led to a distinctly dank and musty underground room. A few cramped shelves on the walls, either side of the steps, has a collection of mundane objects. Candles, dried out paint cans, and the like. But also, luckily, a working torch.

I took the ladder and switched it on as I descend to the steps. So it drives me crazy how British people call flashlights torches. So can't you just be normal? Torch is another thing. You're stupid, whatever. He has a torch in my head now, like a flaming torch. Ben. I just said Ben.

Ben. The cellar wasn't very far down, but the low ceiling above the steps was frighteningly claustrophobic, and I was forced to cock my head to the side to avoid banging it on the wooden beams. I reached the bottom and found an open doorway to my right, which led into a very simple square room that, like the stairs, possessed an oppressively low ceiling and a strong musty scent. I entered the cellar, relying upon the feeble cone of sickly yellow light emanating from the torch to make out any firm details from the malaise of murky dark.

darkness beyond. A large rotting wooden table served as a centerpiece for the room, and there were rows of badly handmade shelves lining the back wall, sagging and leaning at odd angles. The shelves were mostly barren, but there was evidence in the dust that a large collection of books had once stood here, and a bare steel skeleton of chemistry equipment, and a few empty bottles set on the desk. As I moved the light around, it reflected off several large bottles on another shelf to my right, large, thick, almost barrel-like. Most were full of clear yellow liquids. Others were not brown oil in color.

A few were marked with hastily scrawled labels that read Royal Water. Beyond the collection of chemicals, there was a door that appeared to lead out of the cellar. This confused me, for I cannot recall any outside entrance that led to the cellar beneath the house. The door itself looked ancient, with its rusted, bold and a handle barely holding on to the crumbling wood, to which they were both crudely nailed into.

As I moved closer to it, the light for my torch caught something carved into the frame above the door. It was that curious star hieroglyph I had seen on the stone above the grave of Francis Ellis Pendle. I ran my finger along the carving, almost as if to ascertain that it was real. As my finger traced the freakish shape, I felt a chill creep over me, the same chill that had caused me to flee from the shadows of the witch elms. This time, I refused to let fear grip me, taking the door by its' wall. rested handle and pushing it an inward. To my surprise, the door did not lead to the outside of the

house, but instead revealed another set of stone stairs leading further down into the earth. The odor that assaulted my senses as I took a solitary step towards those stairs was foul. It was a putrid stench, unlike anything I'd ever smelt before. If I was to describe it as an ungodly mixture of some acidic compound and rotting excrement, I would be on the verge of doing injustice to the malignant, invasive scent. I instinctively took a step back and raised my hand to cover my nose, as if it would somehow relieve me of the burden of breathing in that foul and fetid air. For a brief moment, I consider turning around and leaving the cellar, but out of burning curiosity,

I slowly started to descend those awful stairs. We'll lay at the bottom is something that will haunt me until my final days. For laying beyond, it was a second chamber, not unlike the first. But whereas the above cellar space had been converted into some kind of perverse amalgamation of esoteric library and alchemist laboratory, this hidden chamber was nothing less than the devil's workshop. Strange images were carved and painted onto the walls, many of them resembling the hieroglyph I had seen on the meager gravestone of Francis Ellis Pendle. There was little to tie the various pictographs together, some depicted spheres or eyeballs. Others were long snake-like tendrils that curled upon themselves to create a rudimentary alien text. As I edged further into the room, I could make out various objects nailed to the ceiling.

Some were rusted tools, like the kind you would find at a slaughterhouse. Others were odd assortments of twigs held together with twine, creating shapes that had a vague human outline to them. The crowning horror, however, was the table. This long stone edifice was less a desk and more like a bow. butcher slab, stained a hideous reddish brown all over. There were grooves carved into the table's surface, all of which culminated towards a round hole, underneath which a rusted iron bucket had been attached. It was from this bucket that the stench appeared to originate, and bending down to inspect

its contents, I could see the glistening, rotting hind limb of a dog. Maggots wriggled across its surface, burrowing in and out of the putrid flesh. I felt bile rise in my throat, but I managed to keep it down and continue my investigation. Like the room above, there were shelves fitted to the walls, but these were not bare, instead being filled to the brim with various manuscripts, papers, maps, and glass jars. The whole scene had an unmistakable sense of the bygone laid over it, as if it had set there undisturbed for centuries. Among the papers and jars, I found a small linen bag tied with a piece of string.

the brown stain on the bags underside made me think twice about opening it but i eventually found the courage to do so inside were numerous small white objects that looked like tiny stones but upon tipping the contents out and inspecting them with the torch i found my horror that they were children's teeth brutal okay so when stephen went mad he began to like give himself over to these occult teachings and the dogs the animals that went missing all the rumors and stuff was him performing like experiments in this lower basement yeah and also i think that the witch i think that he let it in and this is him doing the black magic that he was talking about as well yeah do you think it's him getting possessed and that's why he's like that's how it was

with himself while he's fighting himself that's out red but i feel like it's like he's going insane and he's like performing uh obviously non-holy black magic kind of I wouldn't even say experiments. I just think he's like doing rituals and shit in his basement. Do you think that maybe he started doing this because he thought he could defeat the witch? Like there was some ritual he could perform to get rid of it. Yeah, I think so. I also think that he went in ignorantly thinking that this was just like a cool discovery

and not realizing like the thing that he just like let loose. Yeah. That's how it goes sometimes. You think you found a cool dead witch and the next thing you know, you're collecting children's teeth. It's a bummer. Yeah. It's, you know, it's rough. It happens to us. By this time, the smell was becoming unbearable, and I had no wish to linger further.

Deciding to abandon my investigation, I spied a small, frayed notebook left on the right-hand corner of what I now thought of as a vivisection. By this time, the smell was becoming unbearable, and I had no wish to linger further. Deciding to abandon my investigation, I spied a small, frayed notebook left on the right-hand corner of what I now thought of as a vivisectionist table. for whatever reason I could not then fathom curious woodblock image on the front must have caught my eye and I picked the book up and tucked it into my jacket before making my way back to the sanity of the house above.

I immediately removed my jacket and threw it onto the kitchen table disgusted that the terrible stench from below had somehow attached itself to me like a parasite and then methodically opened all the windows of the house hoping that the chill air would purify the hideous odor that had made a nest for itself in my nostrils tired, my poor mind swirling from the revelations of that hypogee realm,

I eventually collapsed onto my bed and succumbed to exhaustion. I cannot say how long I had been slumbering when the first of those terrible dreams came to me. My sense of time had been grossly warped by my exploration in the cellar, but it must have been quite sudden, as the sun was still in the sky when I finally jolted awake, my pillow wet with sweat. It's impossible for me to tell if the dreams were brought on by Stephen's final. letters, or if that hidden chamber below the house had awoken something macabre and unwelcome in my imagination. I found myself standing within the cemetery outside, only it was different. The land around

me was sparser, with fewer tombstones jutting out of the soft mossy ground. The gunner's cloth lay before me. It's outlined far more feral and foreboding than it had any right to be. The sky above me was a blackened abyss, punctured by thousands of twinkling stars that glittered and gleamed from the great beyond. The fat silver moon slowly crept above the tree line, casting its pale white light upon the cemetery, causing long, deep shadows to detach from the headstones and crawl upon the ground towards me. I took a few steps back, but they still followed me, chilling me as they swept over my feet, legs and body. Then out of the tangled briars he came, hopping and gambling out of the branches, the awful form of saltpeter.

On three legs he danced, the sleek body of a greyhound, upon the neck of which there leaned and swayed the head of a cat. His eyes were milky orbs, faintly illuminated like phosphorus toadstools. From his feline jaws, there dripped a reddish-clear syrup that hissed as it hit the sanctified ground of the courtyard. He momentarily ceased his incessant frolicing to scratch himself. But I could see that it was his missing back leg that was attempting the impossible task, a raw, bloody stump that gesticulated feebly towards the source of his irritation. Then, beyond the twitching imp, I could see another figure, a man. Even at this distance, I could make out the repulsive details of his form. He was tall and thin, his long, slender fingers

like twigs. His lengthy nose and sunken eyes were clearly visible through the cemetery gloom. Worst of all, a sardonic and wolfish grin lay stretched across his face. There was a hunger in that smirk, a deep and terrible burning hunger. When Saul Peter ceased his scratching, and in a hollow voice that somehow sounded like my mothers, spoke these words. Come, child, come. We have marmalade and mausapan. And all manner of baked treats for you. We have seed cakes and toffee apples.

All that your heart desires Come with me into the forest And I will share the delights Beyond your dreams I felt myself being pulled towards those honeyed words All the while the tall, sinister man said nothing Only grinning at me from beneath his wide-brimed hat I can't

It's dark and my mother will want me home for supper Supper Applied salt Peter His rotting pale tongue licking around his chops Oh we shall have supper won't we master? The imp then looked up towards the terrible man

who stayed silent while nodding his head in agreement. I tried once more to turn away but my feet were spellbound marching me towards what I knew to be my demise. Mother, please, I'm scared.

A terrible man laughed as Salt Peter rubbed himself upon his master's blood-stained breeches, a wheezing purr emanating from his twisted form. Mother! I cried once more, the words mercifully,

pulling me back from the precipice of my dreaming madness. Mother. Wimpered, awake now and once more in my bed. To say that the dream, the nightmare, had unnerved me, would be a lie. In fact, it was all I could think of for the next few days. I did not dare to sleep again on the first day and instead piled myself with the strong Turkish coffee that Stephen had kept hidden away for special guests.

When I finally did succumb to sleep the next day, my dreams were less vivid and mercifully brief. I felt the presence of Salt Peter and the terrible man on several occasions but managed to awaken myself before they could make themselves known I also dreamt off and of the gunner's cloth and of the outer copse of witch elm trees that lay beyond

I think Salt Peter was an old name for gunpowder I thought so I wonder if there's a connection between, am I wrong? Yeah, potassium nitrate, okay yeah well it's the chemical that's used in gunpowder and black powder and stuff like that I wonder if there's a connection

between this creature being called Salt Peter and then all the references to the chemical stuff that Stephen was doing in his basement. I don't know. The manuscript I had taken from the hidden cellars do what? I just said, who knows? Who knows?

The manuscript I had taken from the hidden cellar chamber lay forgotten on the kitchen table during this haunted time. Until by a chance a week or so later, I happened to find it beneath a small pile of local newspapers that Ted had been collecting. I was once again taken aback by the grotesque, demonical woodblock printing on the front of the manuscript. Sitting down and inspecting it further, I could see roughly a dozen or so figures depicted in the image. Most were what I would

describe as crones and hags, many of them riding upon the backs of black goats and other less discernible creatures. Various furtive, demoniac characters were also shown, some of them dancing and copulating with the crones and disgusting detail. Around them were various smaller figures. I guess you would call them emps or familiars of varying anatomy. Many of the figures were oddly named, text appearing next to them, to be what I took for some form of early English. Queer titles such as Pye Wackett, Grizzle Greta Gutt, and Peek in the Crown.

But one of the odious creatures had a name next to its image that caused my heart to jump in my chest for a moment. the image was that of a three-light town burying the head of a cat next to the beast lay the words salt Peter I paused for a moment images of that terrible nightmare

playing out of my mind like a perverse pantomime I glanced back at the yellowed manuscript there was no title on the front so I slowly peeled back the first page and there printed in bold black lay the words Sussex manuscript cultus

cultus mollificarum Uh, so that means cult manuscript, I'm pretty sure, I think. Is that one Malificare? Maybe maliciousness. My computer gets possessed immediately. A Malificarium. Okay, Malifficarum is in reference to witches, because the book Malice Malifakarum means the hammer of witches. So cultists would be cult of witches, I would imagine then.

Sussex manuscript, the cult of witches. Um, also the other name, Pye Wackett's a legend too, right? I'm making that up. Yes, Pye Wackett is one of the familiar spirits of a convicted witch accused to be claimed of Witch Finder. Okay, yeah.

So it was a spirit that like witches would summon and stuff like that. So it's a book of spells, book of witches. It reminds the disciplinary out of like these weird shapes these half man things like uh copulating with the crones and stuff like that remind me of a lot of old depictions of like witch festivals where they're around a fire and the demons appear and dance with them kind of like the ending of the movie the witch um but there's a painting i think it's called black sabbath this is important to me witch's sabbath yeah so there's a painting called Witches Sabbath. That's a very famous one of like all the witches gathered around like

a depiction of the devil or Baphimet, whatever, goat-headed thing. But yeah, typically in like old tradition, the witches would gather together and have these big fires where the spirits would come out and give them blessings and stuff like that. Anyway, no author or date appeared anywhere in the front or back at the manuscript, but as I flicked through, it opened on a section roughly half of the way through. This particular chapter must have been referenced many times, for the manuscript almost appeared to want to open at this point. I glanced down and saw the title, Calling Upon Thy Black Imp.

It almost looked like something out of a cookbook, a repulsive recipe that was half-profane culinary instruction and half-matchical incantation. Odius images accompanied the next page, showing a gnarled crone gleefully chopping up the bodies of rabbits, cats, dogs, calves with an oversized meat cleaver. I decided to put the manuscript in the kitchen drawer next to Stephen's letters

and did my best to banish its foul images for my mind. That's a really funny place to put it. So what's the caretaker's name? Ted? Yeah, so he's just like walking around one day and he opens, he's like, oh, what's in the cookbook? Oh my

God. Oh, boy. Oh, God. Oh, no, it's happening again. Okay. All right. This isn't a drill. Days, and then weeks passed by, and eventually I managed to put most of the past behind me regarding the Horde manuscript, as well as Stephen in a strange turn of personality. The dreams lingered for a while, but eventually they released me from their grip, and my sleep grew more restful. I resumed my duty as a stand-in vicar with a renewed guestau and opened the church. At first, the locals were slow to

return, but as word spread, my Sundays were soon busy, and I found myself welcoming faces new and old to my service. I allowed myself to forget about all this talk of black magic and imps and witches that had plagued my return to the village and instead focused on serving my community with the help of a few curates appointed by the bishop to assist me. I even found the courage to descend once more into the cellar and bricked up the entrance that led to the hidden room beyond. Thoughts of Stevens still occasionally crept into my mind, of course. Typically in the form of short dreams I still experienced from time to time, but these were less disruptive than my prior nightmares, being less sinister in nature. I had resigned myself to the awful truth that I may

never see or hear from Stephen again, and so spent more time with my mother and rekindled a few friendships in the village that had grown cold whilst I was away studying. I grew keenly aware that I was being groomed by the diocese to replace Stephen as the parish priest and struggled with my conflicting feelings on the matter. I had managed, however, to develop a firm mental robustness that permitted me to carry on with my new daily routine, growing my flock and welcoming the Lord's light and forgiveness into the hearts and minds of my community. Sadly, this period of respite would abruptly end with an event that was singular in its horror and absurdity. It was an event that, at a certain time in my life, I would have welcomed wholeheartedly,

and how it was one that filled me with an inescapable cold dread. For the first time since returning to Barton, I finally received word for it. Steven. A note that plunged my mind back into madness. Oh, that's cool. The letter was from Stephen, but this wasn't obvious to me immediately, as it lacked not only the hallmarks of his handwriting, but also that of any normal sane human being. The writing was a mere scribble, childish and scratchy. Cramp's script appeared as if it had been fighting with itself as it spilled onto the page in a vain effort to form some kind of discernible legibility. The paper itself was also odd. It appeared to have been torn from a book. As the printed stamp, property

of Barton Library appeared on the opposite side. The paper was also slightly damp, water stains, and a strange, grit-like sediment dotted around the written words. The content of the note, as best as I care to remember, was as follows. Ben, don't out long before these hands are not mine. I managed to make it back to my body. I can feel him pulling me back to his. I don't think I can escape again. I will try. Do one last thing for me. I beg you.

Beneath the tree. I am beneath the tree and in pain. His spirit is free now. It wants you. My body's no longer suitable. Yours is better. I beg you. Dig up the earth under the tree.

Take what you find beneath and burn it. Not fire. It must be acid. Take the royal water and drench his remains in it. None of the essential salts can survive to you understand he can return if you use fire dying slowly in the ground i cannot stand the blackness anymore i am myself for a few moments back here in my own rotting body to write and bring you this note soon i must return to the soil my own fault i called him and he answered

i'm so sorry for bringing you into this madness do as i ask stephen so not to diminish the story it's It's really cool, but if I was to text you that randomly, would you come burn the body? I, yes, in a heartbeat. Even if you're still, if you're walking on the street, I'd cover you in gasoline, I'd light you a blaze. Or no, I throw acid in your face. Yeah, yeah, throw acid on me. I just looked it up to Royal Water is an old name for a mixture of nitric acid and hydrochloric acid. It's a metal way of saying it, Royal War.

That is a cool way to say Royal Water, the stuff that just burned stuff That's pretty sick But so if I texted you that Which he's not even I mean he's saying burn the body So that I can be freed of it Because he's possessed by it

But he's not saying to burn his own body Right No he's saying burn the witch Yeah so why would you burn me If I texted you that Oh I wouldn't think about that in the moment I would think about that later

Oh shit I guess it goes Oh, well, I'd be, I'd be wrong about it. I'll just kill you. That was an oopsie daisy. That's what I'd say. Oops. Oops. My bad.

I'm on the ground screaming. My face is melted off. That's what I say. Oh, dang. Fuck. Man, I'm so sorry. Oh, that's rough, dude. I'm sorry to hear that.

That's sorry. Oh, well. You know, this is really one of those when some lose some scenarios. I'm bleeding everywhere. I mean, now, it's fascinating. I see more and more where the story opened up at with him in the madhouse for digging up a body. I must have burn it.

The note must have been burn it. The note must have been hand delivered, for it lacked a stamp or even an address on it. It was simply a folded up piece of paper with bin scrawled on the front and the same spidery pinmanship. I needed some fresh air to clear my mind

after reading the baffling note and took a brisk walk through the village. The banishing sun was pleasant enough, but it was punctured cruelly by a cutting wind that caused my skin to shrivel with goosebumps. The village was quiet, and I saw only a few locals as I walked a loop around the village, starting at Townfield Lane and then along Runcord Road,

finally back up lit lane and towards the church. There was so much chaos flowing in my mind that upon returning home, I simply collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and lay my head down. I weighed heavily upon my heart that Stephen was out there somewhere, either a drooling madman or the victim of some black sorcery that I could barely bring myself to give credence to. But if God and His mighty kingdom, were real as I had been raised to believe, and surely the devil and all the denizens of the pit must

be also. This affair did not strike me as madness. There was a revolting authenticity to it, not to mention an alien element that my mind struggled to grapple with in its complexity. As the sun sank upon that day and gave birth to the inevitable darkness, I found myself drawn to the decanter of brandy that Stephen had kept in the lounge and indulged myself heartily of its warming contents. The fire conjured in my throat by the liquor was very much welcomed him. By the time I had polished off of a fourth glass,

I was very much under the sway of hypnosis and carried myself numbly to my bed. For the first time in weeks, the dreams returned. I tossed and turned all night, unable to settle. My brain buzzed with a thousand thoughts as half-imagined fears danced in my mind's eye. There is a horrid semi-realization that my slumbering form was being watched

and more than a few times I felt my spirit lift out of my body and float above my bed. From this observation point, I could see a dark figure standing in the shadowed corner of my room, his eyes glaring at my sleeping body with an alien hunger. I saw Salt Peter, that hideous abomination, leap upon my bed and paw playfully at my lips. This one will do nicely.

The imp then spoke, once more in a voice that sounded like my mother's. This one, master, and then we are free. When the morning sun blissfully shined through my bedroom curtains, I was able to banish the night's dread back to whatever foul pitted had spawned from. But each night they returned. I held sermons for the following fortnight designed more to comfort myself than my community. I spoke with fiery conviction how Jesus had defeated both death and the devil and how with his love, there was no evil on the earth that would not be banished. It settled my nerves somewhat, but the comfort of normalcy, which I craved, eluded me. A few days after receiving this crude note, I learned with great dismay that Stephen's body had been found on the Blackcroft Heath.

Though his bloated corpse had been discovered some distance away from both the canal and the nearby river, the coroner ruled his cause of death as drowning. The funeral shortly followed, and I decided to lead the service, despite the bishop offering to take that burden from me. The turnout was higher than I expected, which comforted me, and I even saw my mother shed a few tears for our villages departed Viker. Eventually, with both the terrible dreams and Stephen's demise wane upon me, I made the decision to step down from the parish and to leave the church entirely. What had once been a dream was rapidly transforming into an unending nightmare. I planned to leave Barton altogether, to never again step foot within its haunted streets. I'd concluded that the village was not a good place to linger and made plans to relocate to

Manchester. This decision, final and resolute in my mind, did manage to bring some comfort. and I allowed myself to hope that this whole affair would one day be behind me. I didn't inform the bishop. I was concerned that he would try to convince me to stay. I gave myself no longer than two months to wrap up my affairs and then informed the diocese of my decision. As fate would have it, that decision, along with many others,

stolen from me on that awful night that was to come. The renewed sense of peace brought on by my impending resignation and relocation might have lasted had that crowning horn not invaded my war, world on that dark December night. I'd retired to bed early, but the constant lashing of the rain had been relentless all day and was set to continue throughout the night. I slept fitfully and in sporadic episodes of thrashing, where I was experiencing the most vivid and horrid dream imaginable.

I dreamt of being confined, found in the darkness. My arms worked, but my legs felt numb and lifeless. I struggled ceaselessly to remove myself from this foul bondage, but my body felt like some spindly Marionette whose strings had become tangled around my fingers, cutting off the blood flow and leaving them numb and useless. After what seemed like an eternity, I somehow managed to muster what little strength I had and force my form through the cracks in my prison. I dreamt of pushing upwards, forever upwards, past the rotting wood and the soft wet earth, past the worms and the matted tangle of endless roots, and finally to the cold rain-lashed surface above. I awoke suddenly with that

last thought, set upright in bed with cooling sweat pouring it down my back, but it wasn't the dream that had startled me awake. As my senses adjusted, I could hear that it was the ringing of the church bells that had mercifully returned my mind from the abyss. The clear and familiar sound of ringing bells pierced the night air, and I glanced at the clock to see that it was just past three. The witching hour, I thought. I jumped out of bed and grabbed my dressing gown. No doubt the noise would eventually awaken the entire village, and I would be to blame. I raced down the stairs and bolted out of the kitchen door into the chill of the night. I barely noticed the cold rain pelting my face as I ran towards the church. My slivers greedily soaked up

the muddy water that pooled around my footsteps, and I shuddered as the cold, damp muck sank in between my toes. Determined to stop the commotion, I fumbled with the keys, but the door was already ajar, and I pushed it open and made my way to the main hall in the direction of the bell chamber. By the time I reached the door, the ringing had mysteriously stopped, and I slowed down my pace. As I bent over to catch my breath, I noticed a disgusting trail of mud and slime shaking its way from the doorway and through the hall. It seemed to lead directly to where I was headed. I kneeled and swiped my fingers through the baffling sludge. It possessed a charnel stitch, not unlike the faded aroma that had sickened me in the cellar that terrible day.

I immediately pulled a handkerchief from my gown pocket and wiped the horrid jelly from my fingers as best I could. I was determined to find out the cause of the ringing, but it crept over me that there was perhaps a mundane, yet still unnerving explanation. Suppose someone had broken in and was using the bells as a diversion while an accomplice robbed my home, I thought. Still as much as I would have liked to accept the solution as fact, I felt compelled to investigate the muddy trail. There's little value in the house that a thief could steal, and even if it was true, I had no desire to confront a burglar in the dead of night. I therefore slowly entered the tenubris chambers that housed the bell ropes beyond the main hall. There was a feeble sliver of light that glowed through the window from the street lamps outside. I could just make out the basic parameter of the chamber.

I was certain that no one else was in the room and I carefully walked deeper into the darkness to inspect the six ropes. All were unmoving, except one, which swayed gently in the dark. Just like the floor outside, there was a smear of foul-smelling mud over the ground, as well as on the moving rope. I placed my hand upon it, and it stopped swaying. Then, just as I was considering leaving, I suddenly became aware of a shape on the ground in the far left corner. My eyes were still adjusting to the dark of the room, but at first I fancied it looked like a mud-stained bundle of rat. and twisted sticks. But as I inspected further,

a creeping horror washed over me along with a terrible recognition of what I was seeing. What did I see? That is, at once, an easy and a difficult question to answer and is perhaps at the crux of this whole affair. Relying on the ground in front of me, face, or should I say skull, pressed to the stone floor, was an ancient collection of decayed bones and mummified flesh.

chunks of stinking sought in earth and flayed tattered skin were wrapped around the grisly mound of necrosis it was a brown spindly thing more bone than meat with a whitish cracked dome for a head wrapped around its spine close to what once passed for her neck was the rotten damp rope of the hangman's noose it was then that i heard a muffled and strained sound emanating from the skeletal horror lay at my feet. It was at once a whisper in a growl, human and bestial, disembodied and echoing all around me, yet at the same time focused upon that mass of rags-infused bone.

The noise allulated of my soul, for the voice was that of Stephen Adams. A corpse thing before me issued forth a single sentence for growing still and silent once more. Ben, for the love of God, please. Oh, gosh, dude. Oh, your boy says that he's been, like, possessed by the spirit of this ancient witch. And then the witch's, like, decomposing skeleton shows up and you hear your friends say, please.

My gosh. So it seems that the witch switches places with Stephen. Like, the witch's spirit is still trapped in his tomb, but because Stephen came into contact with it, Stephen now possesses the rotten body of the decaying witch. Deep beneath the earth, that explains his visions of being covered in roots, unable to get out, and now it wants Benjamin next.

So Stephen has to horrifically switch his body with a corpse that's decomposing in a coffin. Right. And now it's crawled to the church to try to get Benjamin to help him. That's rough. Those who have bothered to speak to me at any length know the rest of my story. Half mad and howling with a volatile mixture of fear and fury,

I retrieved the yellow chemicals from the basement and together with the rotting bundle threw their contents into the self-exumed grave of Francis Ellis Pindle. At some point, two police officers accosted me and I managed to overcome them and continue my grisly task, dissolving the whole mess into acrid sludge.

I watched it bubble and froth into the black soil as the earth reluctantly absorbed the disgusting mass. Despite the obvious horror, I felt a great relief wash over me. The chaos of the past few months of my life came sharply into view, like a knot unraveling before me. Madness gave way to clarity, though this is the end of my account, it's not the end of the matter. For there was no doubt in

my mind that, beneath that lonesome witch helm, beneath the cold earth of that hidden grave, the soul of my dear friend, Stephen Adams, had lain incarcerated for months in silent torment. He had called up the wicked soul of his ancestor for whatever purpose I can now only guess at. He had not been strong enough to put down that which he had called forth and paid for it with his life and soul. A terrifying spiritual transfusion had taken place. Pendle had taken Stephen's body, and Stephen had been forced into Pendles. At some point, Stephen had managed to take control of his body long enough to hurl it into the churning waters of the river, hoping to end that evil which had made a home for itself within him. Stephen had been reduced to a mere

consciousness, as Pendle's spirit roamed freely. As the witch set up, about renewing his covenant, conjuring up his black imps, Stephen's sentient mind, fully aware with its senses intact, understood with abominable clarity that it had now inhabited the 200-year-old corpse of Francis Ellis Pendle. He who had been hung for his crimes against God and the kink. He who had sought to bargain with the devils of the sky and of the earth. He who had slept restlessly beneath the dark soil of the gunner's cloth, his presence felt by all who dared enter. He who had dreamt up nothing but the torment and wickedness, he would unleash upon the descendants of those who had delivered him to his grave. Dreams of vengeance and dark oaths,

those terrible dreams of blasphemy and madness. The dreams beneath the witch tree. And that's the end of the story. You know, usually one of her stories, whatever stories end with like a little exposition dump like that. Usually I'm like, eh, but it was nice. It was like a little, it's, It feels fitting. It feels like poetic. Yeah. And also you have to take that ending and compare it back to the very beginning of the story, where it's like we're reading an investigator's account or like he's talking about Benjamin,

who Benjamin was thrown in a madhouse after being found, you know, dissolving the body and acid. Right. It says he came under direct care and says one night he vanished from his cell not long after his statement was recorded through unknown means. He has thought to have overcome the security staff brutally murdering one of the the junior physicians, Dr. Howard Fleming, before making good his escape.

So he's made it out, he's hiding in the woods somewhere. So what I think happened is Pendle's body switched with Stevens, right? We know that happened. And then Stephen managed to come back from the grave or crawl out of the grave to have Benjamin dissolve him so that he'd be no more. Which sure, Stevens finally laid to rest, his soul's no longer trapped in the body. But even though Stephen got to throw the rotting corpse, or he got to throw himself into the river for a quick moment,

we know that spirits can still possess rotting corpses. So that would mean Pendle's spirit is inside of Stephen's body, meaning that's still out there. And again, if my theory is correct, that Stephen and Benjamin are father and son, then it's likely that Pendle is now seeking Benjamin's body. And in our intro to the story, which is set after the events of the letter,

it seems that Pendle got what he wanted. Perhaps Stephen's, or Benjamin's dream of being beneath the ground wasn't him in Pendle's old body. It was him in Stephen's own body. Now Pendle has possessed Benjamin in the psychiatric ward, killed a doctor on his way out, and made it into the night.

So his witchcraft came to fruition because he didn't need the father anymore because he had the son. So I think that's where the story ends. And also there's some clever stuff in there about Benjamin not feeling fit to take over the moniker of the church and saying God will protect him and all this stuff. But despite his stated assuredness in God protecting him, he always continued to think

on these evil things. He continued to go down into the basement. He continued to look into the witchcraft. He looked more and more into it. He told himself that God would have it under control, but he kept prying into the demonology, into the witchcraft of it all. And eventually, he suffered the price because at the end of the story, it seems he became the next vessel. So it's ultimately like a story of him slowly drifting off a slope. He starts the story like you mentioned saying Stephen was such a good guy, Stephen would never do anything wrong and Stephen does all this evil, gives himself over

to the spirit of Pendle, that now at the end of his story, he's fallen into the same trap. Stephen, who I believe to be his father, was just a forerunner for him. So it's a fascinating story with like, of like one character's descent into madness, even though trying to convince himself that he's able to stop, not being able to stop. And eventually succumbed to the same fate that he tried to save and eventually save Stephen from.

Yeah. It's a good, it's a good work. Same again with his other story, Dagon's Mere, really great characters, great interactions between like little set-ups. Like I feel like they just having like a character like Ted come in for a brief moment and kind of be at least someone who was there watching him and be like, I know, seriously, it's getting really fucked up. It's just a fun little addition. even if it isn't like, you know, tie itself into a huge part of the outcome of the story. It's just a lot of fun. But, you know, a really, really fun story.

I always like whenever stories have a thing, too, of like a priest. Like, it kind of reminds you of the movie, uh, the final prayer, which I reference all the fucking time. But it really is just like people coming to a parish where the guy is seeming a little, like a little out of usual, like not, not super normal, kind of a bit weird. And it just fully envelopes into like, like, a giant horror that the guy has been having to deal with for some time. So that's always fun.

But guys, that's our episode this week. Thank you so much to the audio listeners on Spotify and Apple Podcast. Thank you so much for giving us a nice, beautiful rating there. And also, patrons, we appreciate you so much for supporting the channel. Be sure to check it out if you want some extra goodies. But until next time, stay creeped, everyone. Bye, bye. Stay creeped.

And of course, check out Nick Lowe's Instagram and a creepypasta account down in the description. I'm looking forward to when he inevitably writes a story about me saving Hunter from being in the spirit of an ancient witch only for me to then quite tragically wind up in Hunter's rotting body. I'm sure that will happen on this podcast at some point, so stay tuned. Thanks for watching. I don't know. So,

I don't know. I don't know. I'm going to be able to... I don't know. I don't know. ...phe... ...and... ...and...

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