Creepy - A Debt in Blood

Episode Date: November 3, 2025

A Debt in Blood***Written by Logan Gill-Johnson***Gone Fishing***Written by: EM Otero and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***There’s a Bump on the Back of Your Head***Written by: Mr. Michael Squid and Narrated by JV Hampton VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. If you're hearing this, and I sure hope you are, it means we finally got the transmitter to work.

I know this is a bit of a format departure, but I figure that I should do some explaining ahead of time to save some questions. And before I get started, yes, I know how weird this is. My wife keeps telling me. So, I know October just ended for you all. There's been a lot going on behind the scenes over here.

Hopefully, most of you listening haven't been dealing with the same issues we've been getting emails and messages about. A few of you wrote asking about stuff like the podcast feed going dark. Others asking why the website keeps going away and coming back, but with broken links. I wish I had an answer for you about that stuff, but I'm not a tech guy. I think it's an issue with my computer, but so far I haven't had any luck with customer service or tech support. Just the same response is that it looks like everything's working properly. A few of you said something about old episodes getting uploaded over and over again. I don't know how to explain that.

They shouldn't be. I didn't re-upload them. Honestly, as much as I love those old stories, I don't listen to those episodes ever. Mostly for vanity reasons. Quality has changed a bit over the years, you know. I tried to go through and delete the ones I'd see pop up, but they keep coming back as soon as I refresh the feed. Sometimes only on certain platforms, sometimes with some. like changes, different lengths.

There's some like they have narration mistakes and outtakes that wouldn't be in the files we uploaded. Again, I'm not a tech guy, so I have no clue if the issues with a hosting site, user error, or if I just did something to royally mess up my computer. None of which would really matter in the long run if I could actually still record and upload from my house, which I can't for reasons that my internet provider can't or won't explain. anytime I try to send an email or upload a file, I get an error message. I can't connect to the internet for some reason. When I actually try and plug it into a landline, nothing.

Fortunately, our admin, CK and our producer Pacific haven't been having the same issues so they can respond to listener emails and post on social media for me. But that kind of leaves me in a tough spot. November has always been a bit hard for me to come down from all the time we spend getting ready for October. So this hasn't been particularly welcome. And maybe I'm not thinking as clearly as I might otherwise. Or maybe this is an amazing idea that I should have thought of a long time ago. Regardless, I think I came up with a solution to at least get us through this week.

So I started recording somewhere new. Yeah, I know this sounds extra, as my kids would say. but any port in the storm. My voice recorder's been messed up, so it won't even read SD cards, so I can't record and just send stuff out, and until the geek squad gets done with my laptop and desktop, there's not a lot I can do from home,

which leads me to why what you're hearing right now sounds like it does. There's an old radio station outside of town, basically just a brick box out in farm country, the kind of place that used to play polka in high school sports. Budget and funding cuts being what they are, and the slow death of terrestrial radio, the station owners were willing to make a deal with me. And yes, I realize how ironic it is

to be recording a podcast in the business that my business has impacted. I'm currently in one of their old studios like a real late-night DJ, life-imitating art and all that, broadcasting on an empty frequency pirate radio style. And no, I can't tell you where and when I'm broadcasting because I'd really rather not get them in trouble or myself with the FCC.

So, if you happen to be listening to the radio right now as I broadcast this, just know, there's nothing wrong with your radio. Sorry, couldn't resist. I love the outer limits. Hopefully things will be back to normal next week, and all of this will just be a strange... Hey, remember that one episode where John recorded in a radio station? He's really weird, right? Yeah, yeah.

The situation isn't ideal, and my blood pressure has been pretty high the last few days as I scramble to figure out how to keep the episodes going in the meantime. But if I'm being honest, I kind of dig the setup. I wonder if this is what it felt like to be an overnight DJ in the 80s and 90s. Just me, a soundboard, and a microphone. Better in the closet under my stairs. This place would actually make for a pretty cool horror movie set. It's pretty isolated out here.

Not a lot of light. pollution, almost no traffic. The tower even hums when the wind hits it just right. They even ask me to keep most of the lights off to save money. Anyway, that's me over explaining things as usual, so you all don't wonder why the sound quality is suddenly dropped off so much. Don't worry, that's just my intro parts. Fortunately, I do have a back catalog of stories recorded that our producer already has, and none of the narrators have said they have the same issue, so the stories will be good to go as usual. And best of all, if you're hearing this at all, that means it feeds alive again.

But if you're hearing this over the air on an actual radio, then I don't know how you found me, but I hope you enjoy the show. I suppose you really never know who's listening, right? Okay, enough of me. Let's get Sarah with her first story this evening. After inheriting a journal from his estranged uncle, a man uncovers a horrifying history to a bloodline he didn't know existed, and the journal still has chapters left to write. Written by Logan Gil Johnson, Creepy Presents, A Debt in Blood I've never liked funerals. There's something profoundly unsettling about standing in the presence of the recently deceased.

The air hangs heavier in those spaces, thick with the lingering remnants of extinguished lives. What chills me most isn't the silence, but the realization that this motionless shell before me once contained an entire universe of experiences. Every joy, every heartbreak, every mundane moment that shaped who they were, all of it simply... gone. I wish I could claim to feel that particular grief for Uncle Victor. The truth tastes bitter, even in my own mind. I'm glad he's dead. He'd become something monstrous in those final years. Not the kind of monster that lurks in the shadows, but the slow, rotting kind that festers in plain sight. There had been traces of strangeness, even in my childhood memories of him.

But time had twisted those quirks into something unrecognizable. By the end, he'd severed every familial tie, transforming himself into a reclusive specter haunting the edges of our family's consciousness. I could still remember better days, when his visits brought excitement rather than dread. Those memories have been overwritten by his final years. The suffocating presence that seemed to leach the oxygen from any room. Incoherent ramblings that slithered from his cracked lips like dying whispers.

My last clear memory of him alive remains etched behind my eyelids. His hospital bed. The way his parchment thin skin stretched grotesquely over protruding bones. Every breath sounded like autumn leaves scraping against concrete. When his skeletal fingers closed around my wrist with surprising strength, I had to suppress a shudder. His eyes burned with unnatural intensity as he struggled to form words. His voice reduced to a deathbed rasp.

He spoke of someone coming for me, of being the last of his bloodline. A violent tremor racked his emaciated frames he delivered his final warning about a messenger who would come after his death. When he finally died a month later, the responsibility of burial felt to me as the last remaining relative. The expense was astronomical, though I couldn't muster any real resentment about it. At the graveside service I expected complete solitude, Uncle Victor had systematically alienated. every person who might have cared enough to attend. But as I watched the casket descend, I became aware of another presence. A woman stood several feet away, her face a road map of decades etched in wrinkles and shadows.

Her expression was unreadable. Was she mourning or gloating? Before I could decide, she shattered the silence with words that struck me like a physical blow. She called Uncle Victor a good man. The absurdity of the statement left me momentarily speechless. Good? The man had been a self-absorbed, paranoid wreck who died as he lived, alone by his own design. Yet the conviction in her quiet declaration unsettled me.

She spoke with the certainty of someone who knew secrets I didn't. As if she'd glimpsed some hidden aspect of the monster I had known. My retort tore from my throat before I could temper it, the words splintering the cemetery's silence like breaking bone. How dare she sanctified that miserable bastard! Instead of taking offense, she only chuckled. A sound like dry leaves scraping concrete that raised the hairs on my neck. Her gaze drifted upward, eyelids fluttering as if she was,

of watching some private horror play across the inside of her skull. When her focus returned to me, her expression had shifted into something unreadable. Then she said the words that turned my blood to ice. Something about protection. About them. About my lineage mattering. A cold weight settled in my stomach as if I'd swallowed a stone. Uncle Victor's madness I could dismiss.

But this woman spoke with terrifying certainty. Her words carrying the weight of truids I wasn't privy to. My body reacted before my mind could process, taking an involuntary step back. The comparison to Uncle Victor's insanity should have angered me. But her responding laugh contained no humor. Just something dark and private. Then came the statement that froze me completely. that I owed my continued breathing to Uncle Victor's efforts.

Her finger pointed at his grave marker like an accusation made flesh. The slap came faster than I could process. One moment I stood facing her, next my knees struck damp earth. My cheek burned as if branded. Through the ringing in my ears, I caught muttered words about stubbornness. and my father, before she produced an object from her bag. A journal so ancient, it seemed to exhale decades of stored breath when thrust into my hands. The book felt wrong against my palms.

Its cracked leather cover bore scars from countless openings. The spine permanently creased from obsessive study. Faint markings swirled across its surface. Not quite patterns, not quite language. but something that made my eyes ache if I stared too long. Harnished metal corners framed the cover. Their surfaces hatched with symbols that danced at the edge of recognition before slipping away. My fingers hesitated at the journal's clasp, the cold metal against my skin despite the warmth of my hands.

When I finally worked it open, pages released a breath of stale air tinged with that same metallic sharpness. The scent of secrets kept. too long. The uneven edges of the yellowed pages felt fragile into my fingertips, like handling the wings of dead moths. I looked up to demand answers from the woman to ask what cruel joke this was. But the cemetery stood empty. No retreating figure, no sound of footsteps on gravel.

Just me, Uncle Victor's grave, and this cursed book in my hands. A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the autumn air. For a long moment I stood frozen, the journal's weight suddenly feeling far heavier than its physical mass. Then, with a forced shrug I didn't quite believe, I shoved it into my backpack, pushing down the knees coiling in my gut. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I told myself.

The week that followed should have buried that strange encounter in mundane concerns. Finals loomed, and when my study group bailed at the last minute, I almost welcomed solitude of my empty dorm. At least alone, I could focus without distractions. But when my hand plunged into my backpack that night, instead of the familiar texture of my binder's plastic cover, my fingers brushed against cracked leather, the journal. I genuinely forgot about it. Yet here it was, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment of isolation.

A sensible person would have thrown it away, burned it maybe. But as I turned it over in my hands, the same morbid curiosity from the cemetery returned tenfold. Before rational thought could stop me, I'd untied the leather strap and flipped open the cover. The first words hit me like a physical blow. If you were reading this, I assume you are one of my descendants.

My breath caught. The elegant old-fashioned script spoke of a hand long stilled, yet the words vibrated with terrible urgency. An apology followed, for tragedies brought upon our family, for actions taken in the name of some greater good. The signature beneath made my pulse stutter. Samuel Graves.

Not Uncle Victor's name. Not any relative I knew. Yet the claim of relation rang with undeniable truth. The ink seemed to darken as I read the words again. This wasn't just some old journal. It was a confession, a warning. and perhaps most terrifying of all, an inheritance I'd never asked for. The dorm room around me suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in as I stared at that

opening passage. Every instinct screamed to close the book, to pretend I'd never seen it. But even as my hands shook, I found myself turning the page, drawn toward whatever horrors Samuel Graves had seen fit to record for his unwitting descendants. April 1st, 1884 Paw sent me to tending the farm again. He still holds out hope that I'll take up the family trade and carry on his legacy, but my mind keeps drifting westward.

A traveling salesman came through town yesterday, spinning tales of men striking a rich out there. Big money to be made, he said. For the first time, I found myself wondering if there ain't more to life than till in this land. The grave's name has been tied to the soil for as long as I can recall, working hard from sun up to sundown. But me? I long to set my sights beyond these fields to see the world beyond our little patch of Earth. April 15, 1884.

The water's been drying up lately, and it's got folks on edge. The creek that used to run steady is now a little more than a trickle, and the well's been coughing up more mud than water. Some say it's just a dry season running its course, but others whisper that something ain't right. Worse yet, people are falling ill. It started with a fever here, a cough there, and now it's spreading. Poor Miss Betty, our good neighbor,

has been bedridden for the past week. Ma took over some broth and cool rags, but the way she spoke when she came back, I could tell she don't think Betty got much time left. Paw says hard times come and go, that the land always finds a way to set itself right. But when I look around, when I see the worrying folks' faces, I ain't so sure this is just another spell of bad luck.

April 18, 1884. Miss Betty passed earlier today. Folks expected it, but not this fast. The doctor came by, but he had no answers. Said he'd never seen a sickness take hold and claim a soul so quickly. One day she was weak, but breathing, and the next, she was gone. Just like that. Now Ma and Pa have taken ill.

Started with the same fever and cough, but by nightfall they could hardly lift their heads. They ain't left their bed since yesterday. Ma keeps saying they must have caught it from Miss Betty. that whatever took her is working its way through the house now. She's scared, though she won't say it outright. I can see it in the way she clutches at her rosary, who's spring prayers under her breath. She won't let me near them, says I need to keep my distance,

that I can't risk falling sick too. But how am I supposed to just stand by and watch? They're my ma and pa. I don't know what to do. folks in town are whispering something that's just a fever others say it's a curse all I know is

town feels different now colder quieter like death is waiting to claim the sick and I don't like the way it feels April 20th 1884 the sickness is getting worse

spreading faster than anyone can make sense of Maen Pa are barely hanging on. The town feels like it's withering away alongside them. The drought hasn't let up either. Not a drop of rain. Not a hint of relief. The creek is bone dry. The wells are near empty.

And folks are starting to look at each other with that quiet, uneasy kind of fear. I couldn't just sit and watch them suffer. This morning I packed what little I could and set out on foot. heading toward the next town over. I don't know if they'll have medicine, but I have to try. I thought of coming back empty-handed, walking through the door and seeing Ma's tired eyes and pause shallow breathing with nothing to offer them.

Twist my gut something awful. I don't know how far I'll have to go, or if I'll even find what I'm looking for, but I do know one thing. I can't let them die. Not like Miss Betty. Not like this. April 21st, 1884.

This doesn't make sense. How is the sickness here, too? I reached the next town this morning. Hope clinging to my ribs like a scared animal. Maybe here I'd find medicine. Maybe here death hadn't taken root. But the truth lay rotting in the streets. The town was dying.

same cracked earth same thirsty wells but the sickness dear god the sickness moved like nothing i'd ever witnessed bodies lay where they'd fallen in doorways across hitching posts faces frozen in final moments of surprise no struggle no warning just living one breath gone the next near the saloon movement caught my eye a man slumped against the post skin the color of spoiled milk, sweat painting shiny trails through the dirt down his face. When his sunken eyes fell in mine, he tried to warn me between wet rattling coughs. Sickness was contagious, he claimed. Then his fingers, surprisingly strong for how near death he was, closed around my sleeve.

Through bloody coughs he blamed some salesman, said that the man carried bad magic, that he tried to warn him. folks. His grip weakened as he made his terrible request, a mercy killing. He believed the sickness died with its last host. My hand drifted toward my revolver without conscious thought. The weight of it suddenly felt different, no longer just protection, but potential damnation. I'd come seeking medicine, but only found an impossible choice waiting at this town's edge. As I rode back toward home the wind carried more than dust,

carried a creeping certainty that death wasn't just waiting back there in that town. It was pacing me, matching my horse's stride, breathing, now my neck. April 23, 1884. I killed a man.

That thought'll be with me until the day I die. It ain't the kind of thing you can wash off your hands no matter how much you try. Paw taught me out a shoe. how to steady my aim and pull the trigger without hesitation, but never for something like this. Never to put down a dying man, like he was some poor suffering animal.

He was already knocking on death's door. I just gave him the final push. At least that's what I keep telling myself, that I did him a kindness, that I spared him from something worse. But the truth is, when I close my eyes, I see his face. The way he looked at me, pleading,

the way his body slumped to the ground, still and lifeless. And God help me, I don't know if I did the right thing. After it was done, I didn't linger. I turned back toward home, desperate to warn the town of what I'd seen. What was coming? Maybe there was still time.

Maybe something could be done. But when I arrived, There was nothing left to save. The town was gone, burned to the ground. Charred beams jutted from the earth like broken bones. The remains of homes and shops now nothing more than smoldering ash. The air was thick with a stench of smoke and death. My chest tightened as I kicked my horse forward,

my mind screaming for me to turn back, to not look, to not know. But I had to not not. No. I rode past what used to be the general store, past the blackened husk of the church, and then I saw it, or what was left of it, our home. The roof it caved in, the walls collapsed into themselves, the old rocking chair where Ma used to sit was nothing more than a pile of embers. The door where Pa used to lean, arms crossed, watching the sunset, gone. everything was gone ma pa i slid off my horse my legs barely holding me up stumbled forward calling their names my voice force and cracking

but there was no answer and there would never be an answer i sank to my knees in the soot my hands trembling as i ran them through the ashes somewhere beneath it all they were there they never even had a chance i was too late and for the first time in my life i had nowhere left to go june 4th 1884 it's been months since i last wrote in this journal the last thing my parents ever gave me good way to keep your mind at ease while traveling pod said when he handed me it to me. I wonder if he'd still say that now, knowing where this road has taken me, knowing what I've become. I've been tracking the salesman, hunting him. At first, I just wanted answers, some kind of explanation, some reason for why my town, my parents, were ripped from this earth.

But the more I did, the more I realized this wasn't just about us. that man whoever he is has left a trail of death in his wake six towns six that's how many i've found so far i spent weeks searching through every newspaper every whisper in every saloon the stories are always the same first the drought then the sickness and within days the whole town is gone left a rock or burn. It was never just my town. He's done this before. And no one even remembers him. Not his name, not his face,

just a passing mention of a traveling salesman who came through right before the sickness took hold. Some say he sold remedies. Others say he only asked questions, watching folks with a keen eye like he was studying them. But every time, me left. And death followed. I should have left this alone. I should have kept riding west like I always dreamed. But I can't. I see my ma's hands, trembling as she reaches for me that last day.

I hear my paw's voice, weak but steady, telling me everything would be fine, even as he knew it wouldn't. That salesman took everything from me, and I won't rest until I find. I find him, November 15, 1884. I've started hearing voices when I'm alone. At first I thought it was just a wind. Whispers carried through the cracks of an old inn, a rustling of leaves on the empty roads. But now, it's different, clearer, closer.

I think the isolation is getting to me. This hunt is driving me insane. February 2nd, 1885. 1885, I figured out what the voices were. God speaks to me now. I should have known it all along. Should have understood the whispers, the murmurs in the wind. I thought I was going mad.

The solitude of the hunt had finally broken me. But I see now, I was never alone. God has been guiding me, urging me forward, pushing me to find this man. And he has given me a purpose. At first, I didn't understand. What did he mean? What did he want from me?

But when I rode into that town, plagued with the same sickness that took my family, my friends, my home, I understood. They were suffering just like my town, just like ma and pa. And suffering is not what God wants. for his children.

As the sick chosen, do my bidding, and you will find peace. So I did what had to be done. I drew my revolver and eased their suffering. The sickness had them in its grip,

rotting them from the inside out. There was no saving them, no doctor, no medicine. Only death could free them now. So I granted them mercy. one by one I sent them to God's embrace I pray he welcomes their souls into his warm arms and I pray that when my work is done

he will welcome mine April 23, 1885 I've lost count of how many I've freed each time I tell myself it'll be the last that maybe just maybe I've done enough that the sickness will stop but it doesn't. More towns are falling.

More people are dying. And the sickness is only getting worse. It's spreading faster now, like wildfire through dry brush. And I can't put it out. Not like this. Not without him. I need to find the salesman. I need to end this.

And then... Maybe I'll see Ma and Paa again. June 4th, 1885. His trail is fresh. I don't know how I missed it before. How he stayed ahead of me for this long. But it doesn't matter now. He's close.

I can feel it. And when I find him, I'll end him. I'll put a bullet in his chest. Now it will be done. My work will be finished. My sins will be forgiven. and God will welcome me home. I will see Ma and Pa again.

I will write again, when it's done, October 5th, 1905. The pen trembles in my hand tonight, not from fear, but from the terrible weight of 20 years' silence. This journal, this damned, cursed thing that has haunted me like a second shadow. It demands its due at last. The leather cover is warm beneath my fingers, as if alive, as if hungry. I remember the night my damnation was sealed with perfect, agonizing clarity. After a year of chasing whispers across the territories,

I found him in that god-forsaken canyon where the moonlight dared not shine. He sat by his fire, the flames casting shadows that moved against the wind. My revolver was steady in my grip, finger-taught on the trigger, until he spoke my name with the same voice that had whispered. Cleaned them. As I burned my parents' home, the deal was offered with a smile that showed too many teeth of my protection. He said, For your bloodline service. Your life spared today. and in return

I collect from every graves yet unborn His shadow stretched unnaturally long as he extended a hand Sawing in blood Samuel Or die here in the dirt I refused The pain that followed wasn't pain

It was my body remembering every wound I'd ever inflicted Every life I'd taken during my Holy Work fingers snapped backward my ribs cracked inward Through the screaming I heard him chuckle Still no Then let me sweeten the bargain

With a wave of his hand The canyon walls dissolved in the visions My mother's face as the flames reached her bed My father's last words wasted On begging his own son for mercy This is the truth you've been running from Samuel Take my deal And I'll make you forget

Refuse And you'll relive this moment Forever When I finally choked out Deal The mark burned itself into my flesh A twisting vine of scar tissue That pushed like a second heartbeat

He pressed the journal into my hands Its page is already filling with names Not yet born Your family's ledger He whispered, Every graves shall write their chapter before the end. For twenty years, I've searched for a way to break his curse upon our bloodline. I have followed every lead, no matter how desperate, no matter how dark.

I sought out a hoodoo woman in Louisiana bayou, her shack hung with bones and dried herbs. She took one look at the journal and threw it into the fire. The flames turned black. When she pulled it out, unscathed, she crossed herself and told me to leave before whatever followed me, noticed her. In New York, I found a blind rabbi who specialized in the cabala. The moment his fingers brushed the journal's cover, he screamed. A sound I will hear until the day I die.

And clutched his face as though his long-loss sighted returned only to show him something unspeakable. Lakota Shaman and the Dakota Territories agreed to help. But after reading a single page, he plunged his hands into his campfire and held them there until the flesh blackened. When I tried to pull him away, he only laughed through the pain and said, Better blind than seeing what comes next. Each path led only to darker truths. I have learned things about this world that would shatter a normal mind.

But the fairy tales mothers tell their children at bedtime are not stories, but warnings. The brothers Grimm did not write fiction. They wrote history. The mark on my arm pulses as I write this. It started small, a faint twisting line like a vine of scar tissue. But over the years it has grown, spreading out past my elbow, the skin around it fever hot at the touch. With its spread came the visions,

shadows that move without light, faces in the grain of wood paneling that follow, me with their eyes. Creatures that skittered just beyond the edges of my vision. I was vanishing when I turned to look. The world is not what it seems. And this cursed journal is the lens through which I see its rotting underbelly. I have tried to destroy it.

God help me, I have tried. Fire blackens the cover but never consumes it. Water warps the pages only for them to smooth again by morning. I once locked it in a bank vault in Denver, determined to be rid of it. But within hours, the world lost all color. All taste, all feeling. Food turned to ash in my mouth. Music became noise.

The faces of those I loved grew hollow, like wax figures left too long in the sun. I lasted three days before I clawed my way back to that vault. My hands shaking as I tore the journal free. The moment I touched it, The world rushed back in, vibrant, terrible, alive. The book is both prison and key. It shows me horrors, yes, but it also shields me from something worse. I suspect it is keeping me alive as bait, fattening me up for some unspeakable reckoning.

The power to see beyond the veil comes at a cost. My hands shake constantly now. I find blood in my spit each morning. The faces in my shaving mirror are never quite my own. Sometimes younger, sometimes older, sometimes not human at all. And worst of all, I am starting to understand them. The whispers that used to be mere noise now form words in a tongue that makes my teeth ache. Last Tuesday, I answered one without thinking.

The moment the words left my lips, the air in the room turned thick and greasy, and something laughed from the corner where no one stood. This will be my final personal entry. From now on I will document only facts, the symbols that ward them off. Salt works for some creatures, silver for others. The dates when the veil grows thin, the equinoxes are worst. The names that must never be spoken alone. loud. Let this much at least guide you, my unwilling heir. Whoever you are, cousin, niece, some poor bastard child I'll never know. Understand this. You are a graves. Our blood is in the

contract. The mark will come whether you want it or not. I've seen it in the journal's future pages, your name written in inks that don't exist yet, describing horrors you haven't suffered. The book is already calling you across the years, shaping your dreams even now. I thought I could fight this. For 20 years, I carved protective sigils into my flesh. I starved myself to weaken its hold. I tried to end my life three times, once with a bullet, once with a noose, once with poison. The journal always brought me back.

It needs a graves to write in it, you see. and when I'm gone, it'll need you. Don't make my mistakes. Don't try to burn it. The flames just make it stronger. Don't bury it. The earth rejects it. And God help you, don't read ahead.

Those blank pages aren't empty. You're watching. Samuel Graves. The following text appears in, a different shakier handwriting. He's coming up the stairs. The mark burns hotter with every step. God, forgive me what I've doomed you too.

And the final line is written in blood. It was never just my soul I sold. What the actual fuck? I muttered as I closed the book. None of this could be true. I refuse to believe it. It's Samuel Graves. this raving lunatic couldn't possibly be related to me.

The journal was just some elaborate hoax, some sick joke left behind by Uncle Victor. I shoved it away, determined to forget I'd ever seen it. But as I reached to set it down and unbearable, searing pain shot through my arm, like a hot knife curving deep into my flesh. I gasped, clutching my form as his skin twisted, forming a mark I had. I had seen only once before, the same twisted vine of scar tissue that had covered Uncle Victor's arm. The one I'd always assumed was just some strange tattoo.

Now I understood. It was never a tattoo. It was a brand. My heart pounded as I stared at it. The skin still throbbing as though something beneath it were moving. Then... Laughter. Not from the room, not from outside. From inside my skull. Inhuman, twisted, hungry. And then, slithering through the silence like oil over bone, the voice spoke again. Let's make a deal.

For a second story this evening, when a fisherman's hired to track down aquatic predators in the Hudson, he soon discovers that he may have bitten off more than he or anything else can chew. Written by I.M. O'Am Otero and narrated by Owen McCune. Creepy presents. Gone fishing. I've been a fisherman for a long time, and I've seen a lot of methods in those years. Some folks preferred to fish with dynamite over a standard rod. Sure, that is effective, and if there's a lot in a small area, you spear them, drag them to shore, and claim your prize. Problem is, they can only be done in remote areas.

Folks don't like explosions happening around their homes and businesses. Then you factor in that us fishermen are mercenaries of a sort hired only when there are sightings. So dynamite isn't ideal. The fish have been getting smarter about bait, too. and the expensive lures and traps have gotten more fishermen killed than they have actually caught them, damn things. Spears work, and harpoon guns are the obvious upgrade, but they're expensive and inelegant. I prefer the bow.

It may seem primitive, but it's the only way to do it. A compound bow with a 70-pound draw, heavy arrows tipped with a barbed head and a steel line. In the past, a typical arrow would be able to do it. only go about 10 feet deep. Mine, a state-of-the-art compound meant for this kind of fishing, can go 30. I take my net,

stake it down on one end of the shore, hop in my boat, and stretch it across the river. The net's a massive thing, hand-sown out of the thinnest polyethylene I can find, so it's nearly invisible underwater. It has to be,

since their eyes and other senses evolved for this environment, and when they travel up river, they're cautious. Once across, I let it unfurl and the bottom sinks aided by a series of weights. I throw in my sonar fish finder and leave it off for the moment. Other fishermen may disagree, but I know they can hear the frequencies used in sonar, and they avoid it like the plague.

Sonar bursts are actually used to deter them from coastal communities with favorable results. Unfortunately, and it's the only way to locate, them accurately when they're too deep to see. I simply wait until I see movement in the net, turn it on, and earn my keep. The Hudson is wider than most rivers I've worked on, second only to the Mississippi. Usually this area is safe.

The lock set up by West Point keeps most of them out, except folks have been disappearing along its banks. It's not unusual for people to vanish along bodies of water, especially now. When this happens excessively, especially in freshwater, near prosperous locales, they call me.

The locks don't always keep them out anymore. They're getting clever. There are many fishermen like me, but none as nearly effective as I am. For most, it's a job. The pay is good enough to merit the danger, as long as you're successful, that is. It's not just the money for me.

I enjoy it. the chase, the fight, and claiming my prize. A warm-blooded mammal coming out on top, asserting myself and therefore mankind as the top of the food chain. These cold-blooded bastards need to be reminded who the true rulers of Earth are. Sure, the ocean covers more of the planet now than it never did before, but we are still its keepers and will not become chattel. The bounty for this fish in particular was damn near our year's pay, which was good and bad. A bounty that high attracted loads of hot shots who wanted to make their mark on the world.

These rookies wanted to bag a big one and take the shortcut to fame. Four other fishermen died before someone called me. I heard about it, the river monster of the Hudson, affectionately called Kipsey by the locals. Of course, this wasn't the Loch Ness Monster look-like that had been the stuff of legends. This was something else entirely. When my phone rang, it was responsible for 15 confirmed deaths and 30 more unconfirmed. The call was brief, and there was very little information. No one saw the fish, so no one knows how big this fish is, and no one knows if it's the only one.

possibly 40 deaths in under a year seems unlikely for just one fish. I loaded up my Jeep and drove over to Poughkeepsie. The disappearances were moving up along the river, starting at the newly coastal town of Peekskill. Then the last confirmed kill was in Marlborough. If my deductions were correct, then they rarely weren't.

I would head off the fish before it got to the next central town. Of course, depending on the type, this fish could do various things. It could stash some folks that vanished to eat later on, or it's far larger than what would usually slip by the military at the locks. It could be ravenous. It could also be a school of fish, which would explain the number of disappearances with no eyewitnesses. Only if there were a large number of them would they have been noticed.

So now that I have parked my truck along the river, on Peg's Point, with my net out and my bow ready, I find myself overwhelmed with melancholy. This river swallowed up so many towns and now ran deeper than it ever should. It hid horrible things that needed to be dragged from the deep to be left to rot in the sun. I watched the water and the net for any disturbances, and there are none. I let the line out of the three winches on the front of my truck and attach an arrow to the end of each, placing two of the broadhead arrows and foam holders next to me, with the third knocked in my bow.

I'm not a patient person in most aspects of my life, but when it comes to fishing, I can lose myself for hours, even days, depending on the task at hand. It's the only time I can sit and ruminate. The first time I went fishing, it was very different, not just in what we were fishing for,

but in the techniques, equipment, an entire goal. It wasn't a mercenary job where the government paid for the severed dorsal fins. It was a pastime where friends and family would sit together and bond. Then the sea rose, and folks started going missing along the coasts. Some even snatched right off of ships. There were pictures, videos, and news reports. We thought we were safe inland. We were miles and miles from the coast, but we didn't know that they could live in fresh water.

Nobody knew back then. I remember it sitting in a John Bo with my father, and we were talking about something. I can't even recall what it was, just that it was funny. He was laughing hysterically. One moment he was there, his face grinning and full of joy. Next, it was a rictus of fear as a scaled talon hand. and grabbed hold of them and pulled him under. The water turned red around the boat, and I screamed for him.

I kept screaming until I realized that might draw the creature back. I curled up in the boat too scared to do anything and hoping that whatever attacked wouldn't return for more. I remember the sound of things scraping under the boat and wondering if it was the creature's talons or maybe just a sunken tree. I was found a day later in the fetal position at the bottom of the boat washed up along the bank. Since these creatures have turned up, there have been groups of scientists who want to study them. They think they can find cures for exotic diseases or even use them to explore the ocean.

I knew the only thing to study them for was an easier way to kill them. Deep in thought, I take a moment to register that the line twitched. I stand ready to draw my bow. The water ripples around the line, as if something's trying to force its way through. Turning on the fish finder immediately gives me its location. I draw the bow as the sonar burst stuns it for a moment, just like whistling to cause a buck to pause. I take my shot. The cable unfurls as the arrow hits the water with barely a splash.

A fraction of a second later, the cable goes slack, and I check my shot. the screen. The signal's strong and the fish is still. I grab the line and tug at it, thinking that maybe I managed a kill shot. It is rare, but I have done it before. I pull on the cable again and feel the dead weight of the catch at the end. I walk over to the winch and retract the line. Part of the net shifts as my kill comes ashore and I wait, this time with a regular broadhead arrow knocked to ensure it's dead. Some fishermen used guns or knives. That was too loud and too close for comfort for me.

I still kept a 44 with me, though, just in case. My prize breaks the water with the arrow protruding from its lower chest. I wait with my bow drawn for it to move, to attack, but it doesn't. Its bluish-black blood leaks onto the stony bank of the road. river, and I take a step closer. Still nothing, but the gills on its neck flutter softly. I kick a stone and watch as it strikes the back of the thing's head. It leaps up onto its hands and feet, if you can call them that. It is a monstrosity that looks too human to be a simple fish, even though that's what a fisherman call them. This one stands about four feet tall and looks

as if someone had it wrapped a man in a scaled shrink wrap. The black, beady eyes meet mine, and before it can react, I release my arrow. This broadhead sinks into its left eye, and the creature falls backward with a wet thump. I cut my net free, and it takes up its standard shape in the river. Next, I cut the dorsal fin off for the bounty, and then throw the corpse in the back of the truck.

The government may pay for fins as a bounty, but others pay for the body itself, either for eating or for study. I try not to ponder which one will happen when I make the sale. After all, a fish is a fish. I wait, knowing that this juvenile can't be responsible for the carnage along the bank. I wait, and over the course of the next three hours, I kill two more juveniles. It feels good knowing that I'll be able to make enough to live on for the next few months, from just one job.

The sky turns deep purple as the sun sets, and I know I should call it a day. Some fishermen like to spotlight fish, but this trip is already going to be prosperous. I pack up my gear, including the 44 and other light gear, saving the fishing supplies for last. Then the net stretches rapidly, nearly pulling the stakes from the ground.

I click on the fish finder, and immediately a large, shape comes into view on the screen. Only this time, the sonar burst doesn't shock the fish. Rather, it darts towards the machine. I only have a few seconds before it destroys the fish finder, but I don't let the adrenaline cause my hands to shake. Taking the same steps I do with every shot and not thinking about the fact that I'm going to be blind if it destroys the machine. I don't think about just how large this fish is and the implications. I knock an arrow, Pull the bowstring back and aim at the fish finder.

The murky river water holds its secrets, but I release a shot into the water just as the fish finder's screen goes dark. I pull another cabled arrow, and I release it into the water right next to where I shot the last arrow. The line swiftly goes taut, and I hit the button for the winches to pull in my catch. I knock a regular arrow, ready to put the massive fish down, since I'm certain my shots didn't kill it.

I hear the motors strain as they pull, and the truck even shifts as if it's going to be pulled into the water. If the fish escapes by ripping free, the barbs will have done enough damage that it will die and harm no one again, although I hope it comes in even more. I watch the water expectantly, unsure when it will break the surface,

but I'm ready. A shape emerges, and I'm in awe. The fish isn't like the juveniles I had slain, or like any other I've seen. Most are the size of an average man, and they look like human fish hybrids with similar proportions and features.

This thing is a monster from the Stygian depths of the ocean. It has two-tone counter-shading, with a white belly and dark back, as well as a smooth skin appearance, unlike the thick-scaled creature before. The fish doesn't have a distinguishable neck, and instead of a humanoid-shaped head, it resembles that of a shark, with a wide jaw filled with rows of vicious teeth. It approaches me slowly, with one of its muscular humanoid arms extended forward.

The setting sun turns the beast into a shadowy mass of demon. It looms tall, more than double my height. And counting the length of its tail, the creature is easily, easily over 15 feet long. I'm too dumbstruck to notice at first that the creature's unharmed, but also has both arrows gripped in its left hand. As the epiphany hits, I realize I'm pulling it towards me. It reaches the shallow edge of the river and stands on the shore in all its savage glory. I turned to the truck and climb inside.

I pushed the button to start, grateful I don't have to find my keys. When I look up, the silhouette of the creature blocks out the bloody sun. I put the truck in reverse and put the pedal to the floor, with my system flooded with adrenaline. I don't think to look at my backup camera until it's too late. I backed into a tree hard enough to jolt me, but not enough to set off the airbags. I turned the dial to put it in drive,

but when I raise my gaze, the creature slams it the webbed fist against the windshield. Each blow sends large webs of cracks across the tempered glass. I try to accelerate, but the tires spin of the damp earth. I put it in four low just as a fist burst through the glass, and I hit the gas. The truck's wheels find purchase as the fist tries to grab me and lurch forward. I turn the wheel, unable to see, and hope for the best. The creature, now unbalanced, still grasps at me, its clawed hand.

shredding the upholstery and my right arm into ribbons until I hit another tree. The force of the impact pulls it from the window as the airbags go off and my vision goes black. I wake up sometime later and the sun has set. The starless night is as inky black as the bottom of the sea. I pull myself from the wrecked truck trying to remember what happened, and that's when I smell the fish. The smashed headlights of the truck illuminate the shark creature wedged between the truck and the old pine that brought us to a stop. It leaks red black blood from wounds where several branches are protruding from its flesh. I searched my truck from my gear bag, pull out a flashlight and my knife to cut the fin.

I know this has to be the fish that was causing all the havoc. It has to be. It is the most enormous, meanest creature I've ever caught. I look at my knife and realize that something like this would be wanted whole. They could examine its stomach contents and determine precisely what it had eaten and its origin. As far as I knew, a fish like this had never made it this far inland. This could be something worrisome or a fluke. It wasn't up to a fisherman like me to sort that out, though.

The scientists are going to have a field day with this thing. I check my truck for leaks, and it seems to grill guards to be. most of the damage. I back it up, letting the fish collapse to the ground. After some further inspection, I deemed the truck safe enough to drive into town with my prize. I backed the truck to the dead creature and pull the winch cable up over the top of the cab to pull it onto the bed. I don't care if it damaged the truck at this point. With the bounty on this thing, I plan on buying a new one. I wrap the cable under the creature's arms and clip it around its back. I pull the cable tight to ensure it won't slip off and turn the winch on.

As the shark moves onto the bed, and the shocks creak in protest, I noticed something strange. I click the winch off and move closer. The shark's abdomen squirms and rives as if something's moving under the skin. I watch closer as it bulges, and the skin splits. The oily blood leaks from the wound, and a small pale hand reaches out.

This shark was pregnant, and I'm going to have a live pup to turn in. This will definitely be worth a small fortune. A live specimen of a pup. Had any other fishermen done that? Not that I heard of. I grabbed my knife and cut the wound open further. Its skin is thick and tough,

but I managed to see it open, and the black eyes of the shark pup look out at me. I wonder if they have some kind of imprinting instinct, like birds or dogs, where the first thing they see upon birth they bond with. Would this pup think I'm its mother? I pull the wound wider and reach in, excited to see this new creature into the world.

I feel it to find the roughness of its scales, wrapping my hands around a small limb, I pull. It comes free, slick with blood and gore, and plops to the ground. It's larger than I'd expected. The pup is nearly two feet long and resembles its mother in every way but size. It looks up at me with dark alien eyes, and I feel for sure this is the look of a baby to its mother. I kneel and reach my hands toward the shark pup to pick it up and swaddle it. It pulls itself onto its web, hands and feet and crawls towards me, its tail dragging on the ground behind it. I whisper,

Come here, it's okay. I won't hurt you. A small creature comes within arm's reach and leans closer to put my hands on its little Pisine face. It turned to regard my hands curiously, and its nostrils twitched as it moved closer. Then, with the speed of a viper, It lunges and its jaws wrapped around my left thumb and pointer finger.

I scream as blood spurts from between its teeth. I punched and swatted at it. And with a quick jerk of its head and a fist to its face, the shark fell to its side. Pulling my hand to my chest, I reach for the knife. The pup gets back on all fours and lunges towards me. I put the knife through the top of its head, forcing it to the ground. Its body twitches and jerks.

but I hold it down until it stops moving. Until I'm sure it's dead. My hand is feeling cold. And I look down to inspect the damage. My thumb and pointer finger are gone. The shark pup's razor teeth bit both fingers clean through. I feel my heart pounding and my vision narrows. I know I'm in shock and I have to get myself under control.

I take off my shirt, wrap it around my hand, and then make a tourniquet from my belt. I sit back against my truck trying to steady my breathing. I need the hospital, but I don't want to call an ambulance and leave my prize here for anyone to claim. I need to load it up and take it into town to get claimed, then go to the hospital.

My first attempt to get up is unsuccessful because my limbs are now all 100 pounds heavier. I'm going to try again, but I hear a strange sound like a weird, wet plop, like something wet and squishy fell to the ground. Then another plop, then another. As it happens, I'm certain the sound is familiar, but I can't immediately place it until I look at the dead pup.

Shit, shit, shit! I curse and fight harder to pull myself up. I turn just in time to see another pup, pull itself from the wound and fall to the ground. Shit, of course I get the one that has a damn litter on the wall. away, I grunt as I drag my leaden feet over the ground to the front of the truck. Then my left foot doesn't move, and I tumble onto my face. The pain in my hand is white-hot and blinding. I roll over onto my back, clutching it to my chest.

The sound of something wet being dragged over grass catches my attention, as well as the rotten smell of fish. I force myself to sit up as the pup is trying to rip through my boot, and another open its mouth to chomple my leg. I kick that one in the many rows of teeth and send it reeling. Then I put my boot into the side of the other, but its razor of teeth don't release. Instead, I feel the pain of its bite in my foot. I keep kicking, and eventually it releases.

With one more kick, it tumbles away. I roll over to my knees, thankful for the truck right there, for me to pull myself up with, until an excruciating pain blossoms from the back of my calf. I turned to backhand the creature off of me, and when I do, there's a crater left in my leg. Another shark pup lunges onto my arm, wrapping its small arms around it before biting down. I scream and flail, trying to fight it off, but before I pry the second pup off, a third sings its teeth in. And then a fourth, and fifth, I fall to the ground and feel dozens of teeth biting into me,

seeking pound after pound of flesh, and as my vision darkens, I get the sensation of sinking. Like I'm drifting into the black of the deep ocean. I have one last insane thought that hopefully all the fish I killed aren't waiting for me in this dark abyss. And for our final story this evening. When a man notices a strange bump on his head, an impromptu surgery leads to a horrifying realization. that his problems are just the beginning. Written by Mr. Michael Squid and narrated by J.V. Hampton-V. Van Sant. Creepy presents.

There's a bump on the back of your head. Reach your left hand behind your head now. Touch the back of your head on the right side near the base of your skull using your ring finger. Do you feel a bump there? If so, I need you to listen very. carefully. If not, it still might not be too late. I found one too, just a few days ago. I'd woken early and zipped through the morning routine, but a phone call caused me to turn my neck a bit too quickly

as I was shaving. I ran to answer, expecting news about the merger we were working on. I lifted my cell phone from my desk and answered with my right hand, then touch the aching kink in my neck with my left. I felt a bump and withdrew my hand in shock as I listened to my boss. I had to rush, three more emails and a last-minute revision. It would be an extra hour of work, and I sighed, then touch that bump on the back of my head again. I'd never felt it before. I washed myself off and raced to the community. revising the emails and sending the new itinerary to my coworkers.

I grabbed a cereal bar from the cupboard and glanced longingly at the coffee maker, knowing very much I'd be struggling until at least lunch. My glance was redirected to the tight schedule planner in my head as I locked the house and unlocked my car. I started my engine and drove, practicing my rehearsed speech a few times. A nagging feeling of unease kept tugging my attention to the rear view. I kept looking for the bump I'd felt just above my hairline behind my ear, seeing none. I reached back with my right hand, but it was gone.

I felt nothing, and chalked it up to the pain of perhaps whiplash from the phones ring, having stretched the ligaments in my neck. I'd survive the day at least, so I placed any thoughts of my well-being on the back burner. I had a merger to assist with. The day was exhausting, but fruitful, and I couldn't wait to celebrate. The rest of the week would be a cakewalk.

Still, it was overshadowed by thoughts of a malignant tumor. My father had passed from brain cancer, so I was rightfully worried. I gritted my teeth and made an appointment first thing the next day via speakerphone on my drive back home. I kept looking in the mirror, but there was no sign of any abnormality. I replayed the events of the morning and then touched the back of my neck with my left hand, and I let out an involuntary yelp. Something big and soft was just under the skin, poking from just above my neck.

It was definitely there, larger now, and filled with smaller, squishy parts. It was the length of a fingertip and twice as wide. Was it a cyst? I began hyperventilating. I got off at the nearest exit, winding down the spiral into a barren intersection. The sky was dark and the lighting low, so I pulled over next to a bodega and turned the interior light on in the car,

peering into the mirror. There was no sign of anything there. I finally took my phone out and snapped. tapped a few photos with the flash, getting an odd stare from the occasional passerby. Well aware, I looked like a lunatic. Nothing. Each photo was the same. A smooth, clean, blank canvas of skin.

There was no sign of any lump. I sat there for another ten minutes, feeling it with the soft tips of my ring and pink. pinky finger, wondering how only those fingers seemed to feel it now. It was a strange trick of the mind, like when you hold a warm and cold object in the same hand and it feels like you're holding something burning. That was surely it, just an odd sensory illusion. I finally drove home, but I spent the evening searching for answers. I looked in the mirror for nearly an hour, experimenting with the anomaly.

I looked online through various message boards, even asking some friends via messenger and text, but no helpful answers were to be found. I even posted an anonymous inquiry to a number of forums, hoping for some sign I wasn't absolutely insane. I found a number of unsettling image results, and a few nightmare tales of discovered terminal cancer, which did little to ease my growing anxiety. After a long shower, deliberately not washing my head,

I distracted myself with some television until it was late. I eventually unwound and was able to fall asleep. I woke up and started my routine again, showering, shaving, flossing, and brushing. I checked my emails and ate a proper breakfast before I touched the back of my head with my right hand, feeling nothing. I then remembered the strange phenomenon and touched back there behind the right ear with my left pointer finger. Nothing. I sighed with relief. It was gone, just a stress-related fluke, perhaps,

but then my ring finger brushed against something, and I felt it. Something was definitely there, something that seemed to contain bones, something that seemed to move. I yelled and pulled my hand away, quaking with horror. I'd felt it, slick and shifting, jutting out from the back of my head. Yet I could only feel it with the ring finger of my left hand. It was much larger, alive and

serpentine, like a small fleshy eel filled with tiny ribs and warm organs. I screamed and cried, confused and terrified. I emailed work explaining I needed the day off. I made an emergency appointment and drove to the physician's medical complex unable to stop shaking. There was something alive in my head protruding from my skull.

I felt nauseated and tried to count the fibers in the carpet of the waiting room to keep from vomiting as I waited. Finally, the salt and pepper hair, thick rimmed glasses, and practice smile of the doctor welcomed me into his office. So, what brings you in today? Was answered by my recounting of events, how I felt something on the back of my head,

something moving. He pulled out a light and took a look and probed, the skin at the back of my neck and skull. He then asked me to locate it, and I did to his response. Hmm, there's nothing there I'm happy to inform you. Have you been stressed out lately? He asked. Yeah, but that's not what this is, I explained.

If there's something wrong with my nervous system, I need to know. I read your family history. I understand your concern. But there's absolutely nothing there. Maybe take a vacation? Your job sounds very demanding. He smiled. Relaxed.

I listened to his attempts to reassure me. He prescribed an anti-anxiety medication and sent me on my way. Call me in a week if the sensation persists. I shuffled my feet to the car and sat inside, touching that horrible thing on my neck that just one of my fingers, on just one of my hands, seemed to be able to feel. I was going mad, or maybe I was having a nervous breakdown. Stress, like the doc said. Maybe a cancerous tumor had crossed some wiring in there, and I felt it outside for some reason. Either way, I had to know, and not in a week.

I had to know right then. I drove straight to the craft store, walking past aisles of balsa wood and glue sticks. I bought a box of Xacto blades. After returning home, I laid them on a new towel after boiling them one by one to sterilize them. I then tried some breathing, to steady my shaking hands. I moved a standing mirror into my bathroom to view the smooth back of my blemish-free head that looked perfectly normal, and I felt back there.

Only the tip of my ring finger could feel it anymore, but it was definitely there. A large, moving pupae that pulsed and writhed. slippery and soft and alive. I watched my hands in the mirror, steady and pale as they operated. I watched as the blade cut into the air in front of that spot on my neck, just air. But I felt an excruciating, piercing pain.

I felt that thing smacking into my ring finger as it writhed and squirmed, and I kept cutting around it near the base. I sat shaking and wide-eyed as the mirror showed nothing but my clean, clear neck, and my fingers held nothing, but I felt it. I felt an agonizing pain and a thrashing thing flailing against one fingertip as I cut it from my skull with the razor. After 15 agonizing minutes, I stared in absolute horror at the twitching stump jutting out from the back of my head, now glossy and red from blood. That was only then visible. I looked at that horrible thing moving on the bathroom floor for the first time.

It was as large as a prawn, and unlike anything I'd seen. It writhed back and forth on the bloody tiles where it had fallen. It looked like a giant mammalian caterpillar, variegated with translucent flesh over dark veins and vertebrae visible from within. I could even hear it, hissing and spitting angrilegged. from the floor, eager to escape, but instinctively, my leather dress shoe stomped down. A squeal howled over the crunch of bone, and thick red blood pulled out from under my shoe's heel. I trembled and cried, horrified, and confused as to what was happening.

I stood to fetch some paper towels to clean up the me. mess of gore and dispose of the thing that was inside of my head. And I stopped in front of the TV. The female newscaster, pretty and immaculate, in her heavy makeup and silken hair, was turned to the other anchor. And there it was, moving around just under her golden curls. A horrible, translucent worm writhed about, twisting and bulging and reaching out as she ranted about Thanksgiving events in the area.

The male newscaster turned, and I saw one in the back of his dark parted hair as well. I fell into my recliner stunned, no longer concerned with the blood spilling from the back of my head onto the leather chair as I flipped through channel after channel in shock. Every piece of live footage showed those strange moving stalks. They coiled and swayed from the bases of skulls, wiggling and alive. I watched with a fluttering heart as a model in a fast food commercial, ate a burger while a strange and pulsating thing wriggled down onto her neck. I could see the internal organs through the translucent skin darken and flush as she bit into the burger. I slowly stood and walked over to the window, peering out into the busy street, and watched as an icy wave of fear washed over me.

Every man, woman, and child I see down there has one of those things. growing out of their heads. Each stems from the base of their skulls behind their right ear where the head meets the neck, where I had felt it. Some are larger than others with more sections. Some with what appear to be tiny nubs

of forming legs that poke out from the sides near the end. I have no idea what they are, but they seem somehow to be able to bypass our senses, and they seem to be growing. Now, reach your left hand behind your head. Touch the back of your head on the right side near the base of your skull, using your ring finger. Can you feel it? For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube.

All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherylite licensing, or with written consent from the author. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.