CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I’m a Professional Phrogger. I’ve Never Seen a Family Act This Way" Creepypasta

Episode Date: May 20, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saint ZanderCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

I've been a frogger since I was 13. At this point, a professional squatter. It started a survival, but over time it became something else. I don't do it for food or shelter anymore. I do it because it makes my pulse race. I do it because slipping between cracks of someone's life without them ever knowing I was there feels like proof that I existed. people think of squatters as junkies or drifters, but froggers were different.

We become ghosts in pristine houses, ghosts with beating hearts, watching the living world from air vents and crawl spaces. There's a whole online scene buried. You wouldn't stumble across us by accident. You'd have to be broken in just the right shape. Once you're in, you're in. I've been doing this longer than almost anyone else. I've lived in mansions, farmhouses, penthouses, doomsday bunkers.

I've crawled under floorboards while families ate breakfast above me. I've watched people sleep from the shadows of their closets. I've held my breath for hours in insulation that made my skin bleed. There are contests. longest stay undetected, most dangerous infiltration, most expensive home, most absurd hiding place. I've won all of them at least once. They treat me like a legend. Some of them even message me for advice.

There's a thread with my name pinned to the top of the forum. I post tips, photos, maps, audio files. I teach them how to disappear in. plain sight, how to become nothing, and survive inside someone else's everything. Before all of that, I was a kid no one wanted. My mom dropped me at a fire station when I was a baby, a bundle and a duffel bag. I grew up in orphanages that smelled of bleach and sadness, passed between foster homes like a borrowed jacket. Every new house came with rules, slaps, broken promise, and Some of them starved me, some locked me in closets.

I ran away from all that when I was nine. Took a bus as far as I could afford, then walked. I stole food, snuck into unlocked garages, lived in empty homes under renovation. Then I got better, started hiding in homes that weren't empty. I watched and listened, learned habits and schedules. I found silence and made it my armour. That's when it changed from survival to skill, then from skill to instinct,

then obsession. I couldn't stop, even when I didn't need to anymore. I got jobs eventually, did odd work. I started making enough to rent a place of my own, if I ever wanted it. But I never did. I found the ranch by accident, dragging through satellite images one night while riding a post-job high. I just finished the clean exit from a two-week infiltration in Boulder, wealthy newlyweds.

As always, I didn't take anything, didn't leave a single sign. That's what separates froggers from burglars. We're not thieves. I kept scrolling aimlessly, waiting from my adrenaline to stay. settle. Then I saw it. A rectangular smudge of green in the middle of Utah's drylands. Nothing around it for miles but dust and sand, all scorched and crumbling. It was a lush square of impossible colour, a full orchard from the looks of it, a ranch house with a wraparound porch. It looked perfect. I pulled it into my files and started scanning deeper.

No records in the county assessor's database. I cross-referenced it on four different mapping services. Same thing. I took a screenshot, logged into the forum, and posted it under the title. Anyone tried this place? The replies came fast. What is that? A new movie set?

In the middle of nowhere? No, thanks. Nah, man. those rural folks don't play. You don't mess with ranch families. Too isolated. If they catch you, they'll bury you in the back pasture. People have their own guns.

They'll shoot first. Ask later if you're lucky. I waited before replying. Eventually, someone tagged me directly. Don't even think about it. You're good, but that's suicide. Another added, He won't do it.

He knows. better. I stared at that line for a while. Could have closed the tab, gone to sleep and found a safer target, but the green rectangle sat in my mind like a loaded chamber. They thought I wouldn't do it. That's why I packed my kit the next morning and started walking east. I was going to Utah. I traveled light. Everything I needed fit into a canvas pack that had been stitched and restitched too many times to count. My boots were cracked at the seams, soles reinforced with glue and strips of tire rubber. I stuck to low ground and outcroppings during the day, walked at dusk, and slept under shrubs when I couldn't see a head anymore. It took two full days to cross the

desolate stretch leading to the ranch. The air was dry enough to strip moisture from your lungs, and the ground swallowed footprints within minutes. When I finally saw it, it felt like my mind had been tricked. One moment I was looking out across endless, dead nothing, and the next I saw colour bleeding through the heat shimmer, lush grass, tall corn, a patch of orchard trees bearing fruit, rows of cabbage and beans. All of it nestled inside a perfect square of green that pulsed with life.

At its centre stood a house with a wide porch and pale wooden siding. There was a sharp border at the edge of it, a soft dent in the ground. It was literally one step of sand, then grass. I stopped at that line and crouched down, pressed my hand to the ground. The dirt under my palm felt warm and faintly alive, if that's the right word for it. I brushed aside a patch of grass and saw that the line was definitely not natural. There was something buried just beneath the surface, chalk or salt or ash. I couldn't tell.

It formed a thin grey barrier running through the soil, clean as a ruler line. I stepped over it. The air smelled different immediately. The temperature dropped by at least 10 degrees. My skin stopped burning. I should have turned back right then, but I kept walking. I found a good vantage point behind a stone wall that had collapsed on its western edge. The ranch house sat 200 yards ahead, wrapped in a horseshoe of crops and animal pens.

The field stretched out behind it, and from where I crouched, I could see a set of cattle luring near a feeding trow. The entire scene looked pulled from a dream, something from a calendar photo or an old oil painting. The family appeared on the porch just before sunset. First came the father, broad-shouldered and tan, wiping his hands with a stained rag. His wife followed, carrying a tray of glasses and a picture. Three children bounded after her, each under ten. They were laughing as they ran down the porch steps, chasing a small dog that darted through the grass.

They moved in the kind of grace I hadn't seen in a long time. Whatever their lives were, they didn't wear the weight of them. I was jealous. I watched them eat dinner out. outside, grilling over a fire pit near the barn. They passed food back and forth. The sun eventually dipped low, casting amber light over the field. It was a perfect postcard, every detail framed by golden haze.

I waited until the sky turned black and the lights in the house started going out one by one. Then, I moved. I crouched low and moved fast across the edge of the property. Every footstep I made, I would make sure to stop, wipe it clean so it doesn't leave a print, and stayed out of open ground, weaving through trees and parked equipment, until I reached the east side of the house. I waited again, pressing my back to the cool wood siding, listening for footsteps or voices. There was nothing.

I took one last look at the darkness behind me, then slipped around the back of the house and tested the windows. One of them was unlocked. And I was in. The house was old, but not falling apart. Every piece of it had been cared for, yet nothing had been modernised. The floors were polished wood, the walls were dark, timber, thick and slightly warped with age. Shelfes line the corners, each one stacked with books,

jars and figurines. The art on the walls wasn't the kind you'd find at hobby stores or Sunday school. Most of it was hand-carved or painted. Demons and angels fighting, horned men, circles of fire and bone, symbols arranged in patterns I had never seen before. Most of it looked Christian, some weird denomination of Christianity. Some of the figures looked human, but wrong in ways I couldn't explain. One piece near the staircase showed a figure kneeling in front of a goaded head man with his hands open. Weird religious depictions weren't rare in roll homes, but man, it was a shocker to see every time. I moved past it and opened the refrigerator.

I took my time. I had done this hundreds of times before. I knew how to take without drawing attention. I broke off small pieces from a wedge of cheese, sipped just enough milk to cool my throat, and took a spoonful of something sweet from a glass jar. I wiped the edges of the containers with my shirt and placed them exactly where I had found them.

Once I was sure the kitchen had no cameras or alarm systems, I scouted the rest of the ground floor, It was a wide open layout. No hallways. The living room opened directly into the kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a hallway led to a laundry room and what looked like a study. A staircase on the far end curled upward toward this second floor. I found my hiding spot behind a false panel in a storage closet near the laundry room.

Someone had remodeled this part of the house recently. the panel didn't sit flush with a wall. I pried it loose with a butter knife and found a gap between the inner wall and the original frame. It wasn't spacious but I had slept in worse. I tucked my pack into the corner,

lay back and steadied my breathing. Every creek of the house made me flinch but nothing stirred. I slept in short intervals waking often to listen. The next morning, I waited until the family left the house. I heard the kids talking through the walls, their voice is muffled and distant. At one point, the mother said they needed to find some fresh meat soon.

The father grunted something in reply. One of the children asked if they were going to the usual spot. The mother said no, they needed something stronger this time. I assumed they were talking about livestock, maybe venison, something rural and bloody. The house was larger than it looked from the outside. Two full floors. I started by mapping the layout in my head. The kids stayed on the bottom level, tucked into two small rooms near the kitchen.

The parents slept above them in a spacious master bedroom that had a double balcony. There was a third room on the second floor, locked from the outside. I couldn't figure out what was inside, but the door had been nailed shut and covered with a faded wall tapestry. One night, while checking around for a new hiding spot, I noticed the small indentation on the rug in the kitchen. When I lifted it, I found the edge of a small wooden hatch, maybe two feet wide, with a thin, brass handle and four nails holding it shut. A narrow wooden staircase led down into darkness. The air rising from the opening was cold and dry, and it carried that same strange scent

I had noticed when I first entered the house. Dampness mixed with something ancient and faintly sweet. No one had mentioned this space in the time I've been here so far. I hadn't heard anyone go down there either. If I could make that space my own, I could stay here as long as I wanted. I could vanish beneath the house and live for months without a single footprint. If they never used it, it was mine. I closed the hatch and pulled the cabinet back into place, pressing the rug down to hide the seam.

All I had to do was wait for the right time to move in. If I did now, there was no guarantee. the stairs leading down wouldn't creak and groan. I had to wait. Two mornings later, I heard the mother mention the same thing again. I had slipped out of my hiding spot before dawn and crouched just behind the half-open door to the pantry. The kids are in the kitchen, eating breakfast,

or the parents moved around the counter, packing something into canvas bags. We'll need to be gone at least a full day this time. The mother said, maybe two. If we can't find any on the low trails, we'll go further. Should we take all three? The father asked. No, she said.

Just the deep one. The others are too thin. The land won't respond. I didn't know what they were talking about. One of the kids asked if you could stay up late while they were gone. The mother gave him permission, then leaned in and kissed the top of the top of the time. of his head. The other two whined about having to feed the goats and prep the drying racks again. We'll bring back fresh meat. Be patient. The kids groaned in unison. They were leaving. That meant

the house would be empty. I waited. Once the house was quiet, I was sure that the parents had gone. I slipped from the wall panel and crossed through the kitchen barefoot, stepping carefully to avoid the boards that creaked. I peeled back the rug and exposed the hatch. It lifted without a sound. I didn't hesitate. I stepped into the hole and pulled the hatch closed above me. The stairs groaned, but not too loudly.

My shoulders scraped both walls as I descended, and the temperature dropped with every step. The smell hit me halfway down. Iron and soil was thick in the air, clinging to the roof of my mouth. When I reached the bottom, I stood in pitch black and listened. My breathing echoed faintly off stone. I pulled a flashlight from my belt, wrapped the lens in cloth to dim it, and clicked it on. The basement was fairly large, rough stone walls braced with timid.

remember, hooks hung from overhead beams, rusted chains dangling beside them, some old fibres stuck to the links. The floor was stained in regular patches. I moved slowly, casting the light across the space. There were animal bones along the far wall, stacked in a bin beside what looked like a salt block and several glass jars filled with dark liquid. I stopped myself before the anxiety got too loud. My first instinct was to run.

I don't know why. Maybe it was the smell or the cold or the way the silence bent around me. My legs twitched, ready to sprint up the stairs. But then the voice in my head, the one I've been sharpening for years, kicked in. Calm down. Use your eyes. You've seen butchering rooms before, man. farmers put your meat and then dry it

that's probably what they use the basement for besides this family had done nothing out of the ordinary in the time I've stayed here the weirdest thing about them was the religious stuff around the house and that wasn't even the weirdest thing I've seen in homes in my life I made my way to the far corner and checked around there was no way out but the stairs but the corner itself had just enough shadow

and a few crates blocked direct line of sight from the center of the room. I pulled them aside, stepped down, and wrapped myself in the old canvas dropcloth I had stashed in my pack. Just before I dozed. I had the basement hatch open, a faint click, then the groan of old hinges. My eyes snapped open and my breath locked in my chest. I twisted beneath a canvas and pressed my face between two wooden slats.

The stairs creaked one step at a time, soft voices followed, four sets of feet. I angled my flashlight toward the floor and watch their shadows stretch into the room. The first two were the parents. I recognized their outlines immediately. The man walked ahead, carrying something heavy draped. across his shoulders. It looked to be a person. The woman followed with a bundle tucked under one arm.

Behind them came the two others, robed, their faces completely hidden. The man stepped into the centre of the basement and signalled for what seemed to be his companion to do something. He took a table that was near them and dragged it to the centre of the basement. The other man laid the burden across the table. I could see it now. It was a woman, he sat down, and she seemed to be unconscious.

Her limbs hung limp, her hair had been matted with sweat, and her stomach bulged beneath her dress. Was she pregnant? I felt my stomach lurch. Her chest moved shallowly, so she was still breathing at least. The roped men stooped. stepped fully into view, and I got my first proper look at them. Their robes were deep black, made from something thick and textured, and each one was stitched from the neck to ankle

without a single seam visible. Around their hemps and sleeves, symbols had been embroidered in a sickly, off-white thread. One of the row figures produced a long piece of bone, sharpened to a fine point and dipped it into one of the dark glass jars. He bent low and began tracing a perfect circle in the dust, followed by a pentagram at his centre. The lines gleamed wetly, and from the way the lantern caught them, I realized he was using blood. It dragged across the stone in thick strokes, bleeding into the grooves carved into the floor

itself. The other roped figure stood by the table, whispering something low as the father and mother adjusted the woman's position. Her stomach rose in a full, tight curve. She was heavily pregnant, close to term. She remained unconscious. The table they placed her on was an old butcher's slab, covered in scars and grooves. The grain of the wood blackened and glossy from years of use. The father stepped back as the robed man finished the pentagram. The lines met, closed, and the robed man gave a nod. She's strong, one of them said. She'll hold, said the other. The mother moved to the far corner and opened a wooden crate. She produced a long, curved dagger, wrapped in red cloth and handed it to her husband.

He took it without a word and stepped up to the table. He leaned in and placed a hand on the woman's forehead, brushing her hair aside like he was saying goodbye. Then he placed a blade into a chest and drove it straight through her sternum. Her eyes snapped open. She didn't scream, but her mouth twisted as a hand seized at the edge of the table. Her back arched and her legs sat down. kicked against the slab. A choking sound rasped from her throat. Blood welled up around the handle,

thick and dark, soaking through a dress and pooling across the pentagram beneath her. She convulsed once more, then went still. The basement fell into silence for several long seconds. The father stepped away from the body and wiped the blade against his sleeve, folding it again in a red cloth as if it were a sacred object. The two robed men began chanting something in a guitaral language, made of deep cliques and harsh consonants that didn't resemble anything I had ever heard. The mother ascended the stairs without explanation

and vanished through the hatch. She returned several minutes later, cradling something in both arms. At first, I thought it was a bundle of fabric or maybe an animal. but then I saw it was a severed goat's head freshly taken. Blood still dripped from its neck and darkened a blouse as she carried it across the room with care,

as though presenting her newborn. The goat's eyes were milky and half-closed and his tongue lulled out between its teeth. One of the roped men retrieved a short saw and placed it on the table. The father held the woman's body steady or the mother guided the blade. It took several strokes.

Her neck split slowly, vertebrae crunching as the saw made contact with bone. I could barely watch. Her head came loose with a wet snap and the mother lifted it free, laying it in a clay bowl beside the table. Then they placed the goat's head on the open neck, seating it awkwardly.

Blood ran from the seam, soaking the pentagram again. It looked so grotesque and wrong. I had to use every ounce of willpower to not wretch and throw up. It sat too high. It sighs off by just enough to make the body beneath it seem small. The mouth twitched. And for a moment, I thought I had imagined it. The mother and father began to spread salt in a precise pattern.

along the edges of the circle. Every few seconds they paused, muttered a word, and dropped small metal tokens, coins, rings, a gear, a broken key. The symbols carved on the floor flared dimly,

then pulsed again brighter. The temperature shifted around me, dropping to freezing in seconds. My teeth clenched as I wrapped my arms around my chest. The table began to tremble. Then. The body twitched.

First the legs, then the arms, then the fingers. One foot kicked, then the other. The abdomen clenched once, twice, then swelled unnaturally. The goat head rose slightly, its mouth opened and hung. From deep within it came a sound I'd never heard repeated since. It was low and wet, a gurgling croak that built into a shuddering intake of breath. It rose upright, arms rigid at its sides, and then it spoke. Why have you summoned me?

One of the figures stepped forward, arms outstretched in reverence and bowed low before answering. The crops have dulled, the ground has dried. the air takes more than it gives. We need your blessing. We need the land to breathe again. The goat head twisted slightly to the side and hovered that way for several seconds as if considering their words.

Then its arms jerked upward, bone cracking at the shoulders and its hands snapped open. The entire table rattled beneath it. A long growl rose from its chest. and deepened into a gurgling scream, its volume climbing until it filled every corner of the basement. One of the jars near the altar cracked.

The father staggered back and caught himself on a crate, his face pale. The mother clutched the silver charm that had been hanging around her neck. A creature slammed his hands down on the table, splintering one of the legs. It bared its teeth and hissed through clenched jaw. His voice returned, less articulate. You have wasted blood. I will not take offerings in such circumstance. The robed men exchanged the glance.

Something disturbed it, one said. We must abandon this side for 24 hours. Let it rest, let the lines reset. The other said. We will stay with you at your ranch, he said, looking over at the man and woman. When we return here, we cleanse every inch of this basement, every crack, every hiding place. It will all be scrubbed. They began collecting their tools in silence.

The creature hissed again and pressed its hands against the inside of the pentagram, testing it. The salt still held. I saw one grain train. tremble at the edge and roll across the line. A faint spark flared from the ground, and the creature recoiled. Return prepared, it said. They didn't speak again. One by one they ascended the stairs.

The hatch creaked shut behind them. The sound of metal locks sliding into place hit first, then the dragging of something heavy across the top of the hatch. A power drill whined. The seal was thorough. They weren't just closing it. They were barricading it, sealing the basement shut from the outside world

with no intention of returning until they believed it was safe. I sat frozen beneath the crates. My back was damp and clung to the wall. Each bang above me sent a new spike of dread through my chest. I felt like I had. had just been buried alive.

I closed my eyes and buried my head against my knees, counting seconds in my head to keep from losing it. Then it spoke. To me. I know you're here. The voice came softer this time. I smelled you as soon as I came. I tried to keep my breath quiet enough to vanish into the walls.

You watched it. It said, You've been watching for days. I stayed still, but every part of me burned with panic. I didn't know if he could see me, or if it only sensed me. It let out a deep, slow breath

that filled the basement like steam rolling out of a furnace. You and I, we are the same. I stayed curled behind the crates with my body locked in place, listening as the creature shifted on the table. His voice filled the room again, drawing out each syllable.

You are small, but capable. I clenched my jaw and tried to ignore it, but my arms are already starting to tremble. My legs had gone numb. I didn't know how long I could keep this up. The voice drifted close, sir.

I know what you desire. I wanted to yell back, to tell it to shut up, but I couldn't summon the courage. You want to leave, they continued. They will not let you. They will come back tomorrow with fire and oil. They will burn the walls. They will tear the floors apart.

They will find you. I let the thought pass through me. It wasn't hard to imagine. If they had gone this far, then finding a frogger in their basement would only make their work easier. I would become another ingredient. But I can help you leave.

The words stopped my breath. Break the salt, only a single line. Then we shake hands. That is all. I helped you, it said, and you help me. One wish, that is the price. One, I didn't answer. You do not have to die here, it said.

I pressed my fingers to the floor. I counted my options and found none. If I stayed, I would be found. If I ran, I would be caught. if I waited. I would be part of the next ritual. I stepped out from behind the crate and walked toward the table. It crouched low on the table now, knees folded beneath it, one hand resting on the wood,

and the other stretched toward me with its palm open. His head followed my movement without turning, but his presence bore down on me with unbearable weight. I approached slowly. my eyes on the edge of the salt line, the grain shimmered slightly as I neared. You are close, it said. Finish it. I stepped forward and used the tip of my boot to break the smallest section of the circle. The salt scattered outward.

The creature rose to its full height in a single motion, limbs unfolding with perfect fluidity. It stepped over the line and stood before me, towering, not with bulk, but with form. The dress it wore hung in tatters, soaked through with blood that had dried in layered streaks. The goat's head stared straight through me, its hands still hung in the air.

I reached forward and tuck it. The moment we touched, the entire room shivered. The ceiling cracked once a bowl, above us, a gust of wind passed through the room. The creature nodded once, then spoke, Turn around. For a second, I thought this would be it. This was the part where it would rip me in half, or drive its fingers into my skull, or whisper something into my ear that would collapse my mind. I thought it would betray the deal, twist it, drag me down into whatever hell it had come from. But I turned around and accepted my fate. After a while of nothing, I turned back,

and it was gone. Then I heard it. Wood splintering, a scream, sharp and short. I crouched and crept toward the stairs, stepping lightly to avoid the cracked boards. Another crash followed, then a sound that turned my blood cold. It was wet and sudden, like someone tearing a roast from the bone with bare hands. A gurgling cry ran out, followed by a thud that shook dust loose from the ceiling beams. Someone else yelled, a deeper voice this time,

angry, cut off by a second impact that made the floor groan. I reached the top of the stairs and press my ear to the hatch. Muffled movement echoed above me. I eased the latch open. Whatever had been used to barricade it was gone. I slipped through the opening and rose to my feet in the kitchen. The light was dim, fed only by the flicker of lanterns that swung in the hallway. A smell hit me before I saw anything.

Blood, warm enough to coat the air. I moved through the living room. and crouched behind the banister near the front entryway. Beyond the corner, I saw the creature. The flesh was pale and glistening with sweat and blood. Vains pushed against the skin as if something large writhed beneath the surface. His torso swelled unnaturally with each breath, and the skin around its belly stretched so tight

I could see the outline of something shifting inside. The goat's head remained fixed above it all, still slack-jawed and expressionless, but the air around it vibrated from the growling sound, rising from its throat. One of the roped men, in clear desperation, charged forward with a blade drawn from his belt, but the creature swatted him aside with one arm, shattering his jaw and throwing him into the far wall. His body hit the bookshelf and slid down, crumpled and twitching. The other raised his hands and began chanting.

The creature lunged forward, driving its fingers through his stomach. They punched through his robes and into his flesh with ease. He buckled around them, and the chanting died in his throat as he collapsed, folded in half. The mother and father tried to run. The father was too slow, however, so he grabbed a shotgun from behind the door and fired once. The blast tore through the creature's shoulder, exposing raw muscle, but it didn't flinch, it didn't bleed. The flesh folded back together as if nothing had happened. It crossed the room in two lurching strides and tackled him against the wall.

I heard the bone crack before he even screamed. The creature pinned him there and pulled the gun from his hands, then pushed its face into his neck. and bit down. The mother suffered a similar fate. I didn't wait for my turn. I ran through the side door, out across the field, and toward the edge of the property. My legs burned and my lungs pulled cold air that stung my chest. The sky above me swirled with smoke and stars.

The property line came into view ahead of me. Grass stopped and sand began. as it had the night I arrived. My body slammed into something solid and invisible. It knocked me back flat onto the ground. I gasped, rolled onto my knees and tried again. I clawed forward and lunged with my shoulder, but the wall held. There was no sign of what was stopping me, just empty air with a density of steel.

I beat my fists against it. I kicked it. I even screamed at it, hoping something would shift. Nothing did. Behind me, it was coming. Galloping, hands and feet pounding the dirt frantically. I turned and saw it charged through the dark, arms bent, mouth wide. Its goat face stared directly ahead. Those empty sockets locked onto mine. Its legs kicked up dirt as it closed the distance.

I braced myself and shut my eyes. But it stopped inches in front of me. Its breath was harsh and fast. I felt the warmth of it on my skin. I opened my eyes and saw the goat's head tilted downward, close enough that I could see the crusted blood dried onto the hairs around its mouth. It just stared. Then it sat down in the dirt, folded its arm,

over its knees, and whispered one sentence, My wish. It sat back slowly, folding its legs beneath itself, arms resting on its thighs, shoulders heaving with slow breath. The goat's head tilted down toward the earth, and the body underneath began to sag, muscles quivering beneath the stretched, sweats lick skin of the pregnant woman's frame. My wish.

is this. You must raise my kin. I didn't understand what it meant at first. The words registered, but the meaning floated beyond them. The creature load itself further into the dirt and wrapped its arms around its abdomen. The flesh swelled and pulsed, shifting in thick waves, as something began moving inside. It gritted its teeth and bent forward. nails dragging through the earth beneath it.

I watched the belly twitch and lurch, muscles contorting, as if something larger than the frame of the woman's body had ever been meant to contain, began forcing itself free. It whimpered once, a low rasp torn through clenched teeth, then braced itself on one arm and reached between its legs with the other. Blood poured out under the grass, soaking the soil beneath it. The stench filled the air.

I wanted to look away, but I was locked in place. The body convulsed once more, and then something slipped free and hid the ground with a wet, muted slap. It was small, no larger than a toddler. Its body was covered in coarse black hair and grey skin. Its limbs were jointed like a person's, but longer. and hairier. Bones jotted out at odd angles, and from his back, two leathery wings unfolded and stretched

outward with a slow, fluttering pulse. Its head was elongated and bent forward, nose flat and wide, eyes already open. It blinked once, then rolled onto its back, and looked up at me. I understood then what I needed to do. So I rushed forward, grabbed it by the torso, and hurled it down against the dirt with everything I had. It bounced once, let out a short yelp and rolled to its side. I turned, found a smooth rock about the size of a football near the edge of the line, and raised it above my head. My arms trembled from the weight, from the panic, from the surge of hatred I didn't even know I could feel.

I brought the rock down on its skull Once, twice, three times It giggled Then it looked up at me and said Da da da I dropped the rock and stumbled back Nearly falling I wanted to scream but nothing came out

It reached one hand toward me Finger splayed Smiling I don't remember walking back to the ranch I must have been in shock. My body moved, but I didn't guide it. My arms clutched the thing to my chest. It rested against me and pressed his head beneath my chin, breathing slow and steady, humming to itself.

Its small hands gripped the color of my shirt with frightening strength. I walked into the house expecting to see blood, but there was nothing there. The hallway rug had no stand. no tears. I passed through the rooms in disbelief, searching for any trace of what had happened. There was none. The fireplace glowed with a faint bed of coals as though someone had stoked it an hour ago. I climbed the stairs, still holding the creature to my chest. Its eyes were closed. It smiled in its sleep. In the master bedroom, the bed was made. The curtains are open. Sunlight washed through the room in slow, golden waves. I stood in the doorway with my hands trembling and my knees ready to buckle.

The windmill outside turned slowly in the breeze, casting long shadows across the fields. And I understood then that I wasn't going anywhere. I tried to kill it again. I tried to kill it again. during the first night. After returning to the house and wandering through room after room that had been wiped clean of blood and memory, I laid it down on the kitchen floor and grabbed the heaviest butcher knife I could find. I raised it over his chest, two hands on the grip, and stared at the pale, pulsing skin between its ribs. Its chest rose and fell slowly. It looked asleep, though its eyes were over. open. I brought the knife down with everything I had. The blade hit the skin and stopped as if striking cured leather. I pressed harder. It didn't pierce. It didn't even leave a scratch. The thing blinked once, reaching up with a tiny hand and tapped the edge of the knife, like it was curious. Then it laughed. A small image of a little image. A small image of the knife. A small imitation of human joy that sent a chill down the length of my spine.

I dropped the knife and stumbled backward. It rolled onto its side and cooed, dragging itself across the floor. Later that night, I found the father's gun. The shelves were still in a wooden box beside it, organized by caliber. I loaded it around and pressed it to the side of the thing's head while it napped in a bundle of blankets. I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I opened the chamber and checked.

The bullet was clean. I reloaded, tried again. Click. Nothing. I pointed it at my own temple and fired. There was a flash and a crack, and then everything went black. I woke up on the porch with a creature sitting beside me, giggling again. My ears rang.

I checked for blood and found none. The bullet was lodged in the wood beneath my seat. I tried again. This time I aimed in my chest. The fire bloomed through my ribs and dropped to my knees. I passed out choking on my own breath. I woke up in bed, tucked beneath a wool blanket. The creature stood by the window, humming to itself, staring out of the field.

The gun rested on the nightstand with a safety on. I couldn't take the sound of its laugh anymore. I waited until noon when the sun was highest and climbed up the windmill. It wasn't tall, but it stood far enough above the property that I could see everything. The land rolled out in perfect symmetry. Everything in this place was a symbol from the fences to the paths. I saw it clearly from above. The windmill stood at the centre.

Each plot of land, each structure, each buried mark, an etching in the stone, had been placed to match the design of a vast, incomprehensible symbol. I laughed. I don't know why. I think I lost something in that moment, something important. I climbed to the edge, spread my arms. and jumped. The fall should have shattered my legs and broken my spine,

but the impact felt like hitting a warm mattress. I bounced once and rolled through the dirt. My limbs ached, but nothing snapped. The creature watched from the fence. It clapped twice like I had done something clever. Time started to rot. I stopped counting days. I would wake up and find the creature had moved the furniture

arrange plates in circles on the floor, place books in spirals across the kitchen tiles. It mimics speech and movement. It watched me eat and copied me, though it never needed food. I never saw it sleep for long. Sometimes it stood in the hallway and stared at the ceiling for hours. It smiled more.

Its teeth changed. The front row straightened, the gums pink and, The texture of its skin began to smooth. The wings on its back folded down and slowly receded. Its fingers shortened, its gate adjusted. It studded me when I moved and copied me without hesitation. At some point, I recalled my old frog in community. I silently pray they'd notice my absence

and maybe someone would come to this ranch and rescue me. but nobody came I tried to run I tried to walk into the woods and keep going I hit the barrier again I circled the entire perimeter for days the invisible wall was absolute it never stopped following me either

some days later something happened the sky was clear the stars flickered in slow spirals I sat on the porch staring at the dark, holding an empty cup. My fingers ached. My back had started to curve. My hair had thinned.

I hadn't aged normally, but I hadn't stayed the same either. My body was changing. Then I felt it. A heat rose from behind me, soft and warm, followed by the faint creek of wood beneath careful steps. I turned and saw it standing in the doorway. It wasn't the unholy demon-spawn anymore. It was human.

It was morphed. Its features were perfect. Its skin was clean. Its hair was dark and soft, combed and parted. It wore simple clothes, a linen shirt, but his eyes still carried the same smoke. Behind the pupils, a swirl of faint grey fog moved slowly, and on its forehead, just below the hairline,

a small circular mark glowed faintly. It stepped forward and sat across from me. Then it reached forward, touched my hand, and said, Thank you.