Creepy - A Very Important Meeting & Beneath the Streets of Edgewood Forest

Episode Date: May 29, 2025

A Very Important Meeting***Written by: Ashley Edens and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Beneath the Streets of Edgewood Forest***Written by: Jason P. Burnham and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***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. Creepy presents. A very important meeting.

Written by Ashley Eaton's and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. The sun is too bright and much too hot for this time of year. I fear the foul scent of perspiration leaking out from my armpits as I bustle down the busy block. A big whiff of the stagnant city air ripe with cigarette smoke. Baked goodies staged behind a patient. shop counter, and the tinge of hot rubber reassures me. However, it does nothing to stop the pool of sweat collecting on my blouse, or the waterfall from nerves and heat racing towards the pool. To make matters worse, the murmur of a blister appears within my shoe, and I still have

11 blocks to go. I would curse myself for poor decision-making, but I have a very important meeting to attend, and I believe my choice, pleaded black dress pants in a modest red blouse, is both sensible and professional. However, while my glossy loafers with the low heels and decorative bows match my pants, they may not be reflective of my model decision-making skills. I've worn them on a variety of occasions, so I wasn't too concerned about their flush-shearing ability, but I stand corrected. Fuck, I'm going to be hobbling corrected soon.

If it just wasn't so hot, even the teen-seiest of breezes would be a lifesaver right now. The sidewalk is packed with others just like me, a mix of business professionals with steely determined faces moving at a no-nonsense pace. Many tap away at cell phone screens or carry on a single-sided chatter thanks to nearly invisible speakers planted in their ear canal doorways. I imagine roots sprouting from their earbuds, tendrils creeping through the inner ear eager to be embedded into pulpy gray matter, wriggling like maggots. Stop it, I scold myself. I am simply trying to reach my meeting. just like all these other hardworking individuals.

See, up ahead, a woman with the exact same Kate Spade Laptop Toad. I would know that pattern anywhere. Little gray flowers comprised of spade-shaped petals. Clever. She is just like me. Spotting the bag produces a dull ache in my right shoulder where the strap is settled. The monotna shifting at my legs pumped down the sidewalk might just bore that strap into my shoulder like a hacksaw. A man to my left in a dark gray suit turns to the man.

me in winks. His tie is white with little orange and red cartoon explosions on them. Capal. I pushed the nonsense out of my head and move a little more quickly. The buildings on this block all tower overhead, beastly metallic entities with rows and rows of black rectangular eyes. Even the windows on the street level are impenetrable. I get caught staring into the repeating black void over my right shoulder when a sharp pain detonates below my left hip. I squawk and look down to find a murky white claw foot bathtub. The feet are bronze and crafted to replicate those of a chicken. They are poised to skitter across the cement, but that would be absurd. A glance inside reveals a ring of rust circling the basin. A small cloth doll has been shoved

into the drain. She has yellow yarn hair and gray button eyes and peers up at me with a crooked stitched smile. One that screams the needle was plunged into the fabric by the hands of an inexperienced child. I look up to the crowd to see that they have all paused to stare at my alarm. A few lips move quickly updating their contacts on the line, but no sound is audible. I flick from face to face in pursuit of understanding or a state of equal confusion. They are blank slates. In a blank, they are all flashing uneven, toothless smiles, crooked ones that match the cloth doll. I'm not sure one's lips can even twist that way. The next moment a boy on a skateboard shoulder checks me as he hops on the tub rim and slides across to the other side, breaking the illusion.

Everyone is walking again. Still walking, it seems. I briefly make eye contact with exploding Ty Guy, but he breaks it immediately. I have made him uncomfortable. I take a few steps forward uneasily, but can't help turning around to see if the tub is still there. A woman is placing a young girl inside. Her long, mousy brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail. A few strands fall into her face, one that holds a small, pinched smile as she looks at the child. Hence, a worry line sprat across her forehead and beside her lips. The face of a mother. She glares up at me the next second and snaps,

Do you mind? I turn on my painful heels and continue moving with the crowd. I brush the back of my left hand across my brow, so the sweat droplets won't trickle onto my eyelashes. I almost stumble into someone when I realize the flow has stopped. We are at a red light, but I am so far back, nearly to the middle of the block. The swarm of people ahead is multiplied. I try to peer around the group and spot an older gentleman walking a dog through the crosswalk.

It's low to the ground and brown and seems to be waddling along behind its leash. Not a dog, possibly a ferret or beaver, but those don't seem quite right. It has a long snout or bill and I can't help but say the word out loud. platypus? I tense momentarily expecting another unsettling stare from the crowd, but this group stands motionless, attention facing forward. It can't be a platypus.

They live in Australia, and zoos can't even acquire them. This fact strikes me followed by Grandpa Joe's words. Best to avoid them anyway. You know they have nasty stingers on their feet. A seal is splashing around in its tank at the Henry Doarly Zoo. Crass laughter from my brother as he calls me a baby. my pink canvas slip-ons turning to red with my tear drops. A love for wildlife dove into fear that day.

I seem to have gotten stuck in the memory because an irritated, terse voice behind me tells me it's time to go. Coming to attention, I see a large empty space ahead. The crowd is shuffled to the next block. Quickly, I bustle towards the intersection. Foot screaming, shoulder weeping, skin surely gleaming. The sun is much too bright.

I am almost to the curb when the light changes. An angry red eye glaring boldly. My arm extends involuntarily, finger reaching up to tap the button, it's wet. I pull back to find red smear to top the arrow. Flipping my handover reveals a bulging bloody bead on my fingertip. There's no discernible wound. Something must have pricked me.

I bring the cushion of my finger to my lips and pop it into my mouth. Everyone has done it. but I am flooded with images of fangs sinking into flesh, the undead. I rip my finger out of my mouth and the skin is flawless. The light flicks green, but as I stick my foot out to the street, a frigid gust wraps around me. Bits of leaves and trash flutter and bounce against my body. I wonder if it's a prank or if I've been thrown into a glass booth with flying money like one of those old game show stints. A styrofoam burger container pelts me in the cheek.

crispy glass clippings tangle in my hair. It's hard to see, but I'm not on the street anymore. And I'm definitely not on a game show. The ground settles, bits of rock jutting out beneath my feet. This is not the city. The open air around me is sort of dark, but not stormy. A bit dull, faded perhaps.

I can't make out anything around me except a figure in the distance. It's as though I have a telescope, but it only points one way. but even with telescopic vision, it is impossible to make out any features. They are a dark silhouette. They are crooked and bent. I am still too far away for anything else. The air here is cool,

and thanks to my moist body, the chill is exceptionally noticeable. The figure takes a step towards me, and I am thrust back into the city, back onto the sidewalk with the miserable sun already sizzling away the goose flesh of my arms. I peer around to see I am still, Still at the intersection. Fortunately, any impatient people have moved around me and I see no bitter

faces in my vicinity. A circular, uncovered trash can sits on the corner. It is nearly overflowing. A bike helmet placed on top blocks the opening. It's pristine white sheen nearly blinding in the sun. I drag my eyes away and then stretch my foot out into the crosswalk. I am pleased to find nothing happens when my foot touches the white painted line. Another step in and something tugs my head. The way your inner voice nags you to double-check the deadbolt. I check the curb behind me to find it mostly uninhabited. A man in a gray suit strolls up and tosses something at the garbage can. His head is bald, but for the white tufts of hair above both ears. It looks like stretched cotton balls plastered onto a kid's school project. The thing bounces off the helmet and drops to the

sidewalk. It is the cloth doll from the bathtub drain. The yellow strands of yarn fan out around her face. Something wet plops onto her crooked smile. My eyes scan up the trash can and land on the bike helmet. It no longer gleams and appears rather scuffed. A section of it is dented severely, the upper edge of the dent broken away, chips of the shattered plastic missing. A thin crimson stream flows from the opening and races towards the doll. I groan and disgust and hurry across the intersection before the light changes again. It's not until I'm on the other side that I notice my foot isn't throbbing anymore. A glance down confirms my glossy loafers have been replaced with a pair of tennis shoes.

They are pink with white laces and breathable mesh patches. They are so very dirty and tattered, but oh, so comfortable. My shoulder still aches, but it will be much easier to reach my meeting. It is very important. This block is surprisingly bare, although the street is bumper to bumper. profiles of irritation and annoyance wait in line ready to follow the leader. At least I'm not stuck in that hell. I find my next inhale refreshing and nearly clear aside from the wisps of exhaust

and perhaps a tinge of body odor escaping my pores. Damn it. I keep a travel deodorant and body mist in my bag for just these moments, though. So a visit to the restroom should solve that situation. Eleven blocks. It's only 11 blocks. I pick up my pace and the shops on my right practically pass me by in a blur. I pause long enough to observe a window mannequin wearing a prom dress.

She is porcelain white with depression for eyes, a barely there nose, and thin lips painted bright red. It is the only color on her body aside from a long black wig. Her bubble gum dress is strapless, highlighting the seamless transition at the shoulder joint. Her stiff hands are positioned at her sides, one in front. and the other behind as though in stride? Just when I'm about to look away, her mouth pops open and a tongue jabs out, curling down, revealing rows of taste buds and saliva bubbles.

Her hands twist into an obscene gesture when an edgy adolescent might make for a funny photo. I am so startled I roll my ankle and stumble backwards. She must be one of those human statues, only moving for unsuspected tourists, my mind reasons, but she has no eyes. Only smooth unseeing plastic. before I can debate myself a cry crescendos from behind my elbow.

I shift my arm to find a stroller. Nervously, I tilt to look beneath the canopy and see a perfectly normal and hysterical baby writhing against their buckle. A little girl, I presume, as they are dressed in a pink onesie with the number 1990 and blazoned in gold. A shaky chuckle escapes me like a hiccup, and I turn to the mother to make a witty comment. She is poised behind the handlebar and has been gazing at me.

She has been gazing at me with large gray button eyes. I can see crusty flakes of scabs where the black thread has been. Long, lemony strings of yarn dangle at her shoulders and her small puckered mouth expands, revealing a line of cross stitches across her lips. She smiles as wide as the stitches allow, the tension of the thread stretching the needle holes unnaturally, before forcing her mouth open with a loud pop. It seems she is about to say something,

but I take off running and I can't hear the words because the screaming is too loud in my ears and my lungs are on fire and it is too fucking hot when my legs are ready to liquefy and the spasins in my chest are too strong I stop and double over

throwing my hands over my ears ready to scream into oblivion but find I have no more left to give and my vocal cords are blazing I straighten it and then immediately pelted with another hurricane blast This time little hard bits rained down on me, biting at my skin and eyes like an angry insect horde. I realize it is dirt and throw my arms over my face now to ward off the worst.

When it stills, I lower my arms and glimpse around to find I am back in that strange, faded place that is not the city. The theoretical telescope still focuses on that one spot, not quite as far in the distance now. My unfocused surroundings amplify the dark silhouette that is still twisted and contorted. The goose flesh writhes on my body as I take a step closer. The world brightens slightly, a warmer hue, so I dare to take another step. My progress is measured in clarity and color. The hazy lens dissipating with my forward motion.

Cold still encapsulates me, but the trip of birds nearby thaws my insides. With one final step, the shadow figure straightens and transforms before my eyes. No longer a demon ready to creep into your nightmare. I am staring at the profile of a familiar. My first thought is my father. But then the man twists his face my way as though he heard my footsteps in the grass, and I recognize the features of my brother.

He is older than I recall. But I'm not sure I do recall just how old he is. I'm racking my brain for our last encounter. But the gray whiskers in his stubble and the hollows of his cheeks are not present in my memory. I want to wrap myself around him and relish the warmth of his embrace. I want to hear my apology for missing all this time enter his ears and travel to his heart. I'm ready for all these things when I spy a woman.

She's across the grassy field from me, elderly, with long white hair hanging well past her shoulders. She's wearing a thin hospital gown in beige socks that stretch nearly to her knees. Her flat-footed stance hovers about a foot above the ground. But the worst part is, her eyes are locked on me. Goosebumps would arrive if they weren't already covering my body. She sees me see her.

I gaze down, and I see myself in spandex shorts in a purple tank top. No more professional attire for me. A young boy I hadn't noticed before shouts gleefully from in front of the old woman and then quickly darts away as his mother runs up, demanding him to stop in a loud whisper. Once they are gone, I see the old woman has vanished as well. My eyes linger in the space. she had occupied momentarily before flitting to a large stony block on the ground. A headstone.

My blinders fall away as I spin around to find I'm surrounded by headstones. Some are simple. Many are flat. And I spy several sizable crosses from where I stand. One large granite piece the next row over contains what appears to be someone's senior portrait. I dreaded glance at my brother's fixation, the object over which she had stooped. tells me everything I already knew somewhere deep inside. His fingers trail over the etched name and linger briefly over the eleven that follows the dash that encapsulates life. Then he turns and steps off my grave. I feel the blistering heat on my eyelids before I open them, inhaling deeply first,

begging the sensation of rushing water pulsing through my body to subside. The hot garbage scent of soiled diapers and steamed cabbage punches me in the nostrils. I lift a wary eye and find I am on the, the sidewalk in the city. A man in a wheelchair buzzes by, his muscular arms pumping quickly. He has a tattoo on his arm that reminds me of something that I can't quite place because that's how this works, isn't it? A trickle of sweat zips down between my breasts, and I resist the urge to scream, it's too hot for these games. I begin walking again, thankful for my tennis shoes and relieved the weight of my laptop toad is lessened. I stopped mid-step when the realization

kicks in that there must be some significance. I don't hesitate long, but already a throng of people have coalesced behind me, muttering hateful comments as they divert around my stalled frame. My breath hitches when I look up to find one man grumbling. Go to hell, from lips out of sync. An effect similar to when the audio and video signals get messed up on your TV, but more horrifying. I step to the outer edge of the sidewalk and cautiously open my bag.

tucked in the bottom is a silver wire basket. Inside the basket, two gray button eyes planted on a cloth face examine me. I reach in and retrieve the basket, finagling it awkwardly out of the bag. It is rectangular and bigger than I originally thought, with two black hooks attached to one of the longer sides. Hooks for hanging over something, like a rod or handlebars. The doll inside smiles in her crooked knowing way, happily harboring her secret. I pluck her from her metal bed and squeeze her in my fist, bringing her eye to eye.

I try to draw it from her, but wind up overwhelmed by the vision of the woman on the streets with the doll face, her sewn mouth distending and distorting until it popped. I nearly dropped the doll at the memory, but then I'm stuck with another one, sitting at the foot of my grandmother's rocking chair, our craft supplies overflowing the wobbly ottoman, the way she showed me how easily the needles slid into the fabric and back, the bubble of blood that ballooned from my fingertip when I first tried, my pride when I knotted the thread on the last stitch of her grin. I never named her, and she lived on a shelf at my mother's home for years, with no identity.

Then fast forward to those button eyes. My last sight as I faded on the street. Time slowed with my ragged breaths as my chest struggled against the blood pumping into my lungs. I mourned her neverness at the moment. for I had not even a name to leave my lips as I left my body. The basket clangs against the sidewalk before I know it's dropped. The laptop tote follows shortly after. I spin slowly, ready to reemerge in the pedestrian flow.

People are still bustling, but most are no longer business professionals. There are more in hospital garb, and many in pajamas. A few men are mosying and boxers. One woman passes by in an allowed. She calls out for a groom that has grown old elsewhere. It is still hot, but I am back in my outfit from the cemetery. My earthy sweat clings to me, almost alive. These are my old biking clothes.

A fire reignites in my belly as I remember that I need to get moving. I have a very important meeting and 11 blocks to go. So much for resting in peace. Creepy presents Beneath the Streets of Edgewood Forest Written by Jason P. Burnham And narrated by Cole Burkart Lawrence was a fastidious man

He shoveled his sidewalk and driveway As soon as the snow stopped falling Sometimes before In his youth, a neighbor's unsheveled wot Would annoy him But he was old enough now To shrug off his neighbor's snow-shoveling apathy. If they wanted lawsuits from passerby who slipped and injured

themselves, that was their choice. And yet, his brain sometimes compelled him to clear a bit of his neighbor's concrete, just a few paces, and sometimes he'd wipe their cars off. He found it hard to believe they didn't know they had to clear their entire cars. not just the windshield. Blowing snow could obscure the road for drivers, and Lawrence wanted no part in death. He never told his neighbors he had saved anonymous drivers from their snow maintenance carelessness,

and they never mentioned it if they'd seen him cleaning on their behalf. But this was the worst snow in at least 10 years, the news said. Lawrence had shoveled four times, in one day just to keep up, and he was out at five in the morning for his fifth. There would be no leftover energy for his neighbors. The streets were dark, save the streetlights and the occasional solar-powered lamp casting a halo of light into the white powder, like a miniature city asleep. There wasn't a lot for him to do on his sidewalk, an inch maybe,

but the plows had come through overnight, pushed piles onto the bottom of his driveway. It simply wouldn't do. Lawrence took his shovel, a hardy one with a thin band of metal at the end, and made of a strong but light plastic polymer. He'd used it for years, though never as much as he had in the last day. The shovel was showing signs of wear and tear, but it would make it through this storm. Lawrence took to the driveway terminus, He didn't have anywhere to drive, but he needed it cleaned. He dug into the ice, muttering softly to himself. Where the driveway met the street, there was a particularly tenacious layer of brown, packed ice.

He'd heard some cultures had dozens or hundreds of words for snow, and he could believe it. He knew all the types of snow browning, car sludge, dirt, people sludge, sewage, dog poop, shoemuck, and on and on. This particular brown was unfamiliar though, and the ice particularly dogged. Lawrence pushed the shovel into the brown ice with a crack. A sound he knew bothered his neighbors at this hour of the day, but the brown patch wouldn't last much longer at his hands and they could sleep the rest of the Sunday away. pushed the metal in with his foot, and the ice rippled, like there was water underneath, or perhaps a pocket of trapped, salted snow. The plows also pushed around the ice melt. Lawrence tapped

the shovel again, and a two-foot piece of ice fractured, floating above the liquid. He wedged his shovel beneath the mini-bird, and kicked it with his foot, sending ice flying into the middle of the street. In its weight was a puddle of liquid that had an off-white, milky appearance, like what you would find in the tray of a tres leeches cake that you'd eat in half of. Lawrence liked Thres Leches. And it kind of smelled like Tre's Lechés, too. Lawrence walked forward and probed the liquid with his shovel. In all his years of snow shoveling, he'd never found anything like this beneath the ice. The liquid was thick, but shallow,

and when he dug his shovel in, something cracked and gave, Lawrence quickly pulled back his shovel. There was a small, longitudinal crack, just proximal to the metal strip. As he was about to test whether the shovel would still work, he noticed that all the milky liquid was gone. Lawrence studied the area. There was no drain here.

The proximate snow and ice showed no signs of the missing milky liquid. There were no animals to have slurped it up. There was nothing. There was nobody. It was ten minutes past five. On Sunday, everyone was asleep. Lawrence bent down and poked at the place where the litwit had been with his glove.

The darkness obscured the fine topography of the wintry gutter, but his hand found no liquid, no ice, and when he reached in up to his elbow, Lawrence suddenly realized there was no concrete either. Where there had once been street, there was only void. Lawrence couldn't stop his forward momentum. Something was pulling him, Not a grasping, not a grabbing, but a gravity.

Lawrence fell into the hole, left by the brown ice he'd removed, by the liquid he'd drained into the void. It was 11 minutes past five. No one else was awake. From above, Lawrence's driveway appeared nearly shoveled, but there was no sign of Lawrence. No sign of his shovel. They'd both fallen through.

Helen was late. Her ER shift was starting in 15 minutes, and she lived 20 minutes away without snow. She'd gotten up in plenty of time to warm up her car, de-ice the windows, and dig a path out of her driveway. For a typical storm, she'd not realized how much snow had accumulated while she slept.

She texted the currently on-call ER doctor and told him she'd be running late. It happened. These sorts of things happened in this kind of weather. Helen knew Dr. Smith would be miffed when she showed up to replace him, but he would just have to deal with it. If she couldn't get out in time,

she couldn't get out in time. They didn't give refunds for Acts of God in the airline industry, and this was no different. She tossed three more shovelfuls, side, kicked at the large mound the snowplow had piled at the end of her driveway, and told herself that would have to be good enough. Helen hopped in the driver's seat of her Jeep Grand Cherokee, spun her wheels, gathered speed, and gunned it down the driveway. If her banged up Cherokee took a hit

from the snow pile, she didn't care. She needed to get to work. What Helen hadn't anticipated was that despite her speed and shoveling, she'd get stuck in the snowplow's pile. She swore, under her breath, threw open her door and retrieved her shovel from the yard. The sun still hadn't risen, and even if it had, it would have only showed the gray clouds which threatened more snow for when Helen eventually got to leave the ER later that evening. It was only 6.48. 12 minutes until her shift, a 20-minute drive without snow. Dr. Smith was going to make her cover one of his shifts in the future if she didn't hurry up.

Helen whacked at the pile of snow, intermittently kicking with her boots when her arms tired. Clumps of snow fell onto her legs and fell between her boots and skin, chilling her. Just as she was reaching a pile height that she thought her Jeep could climb, Her shovel clanged against ice. Helen didn't have time for ice. She furiously hammered the shovel into the ice, brown in the soft yellow of her headlights. The ice was thick,

but eventually submitted to her will, leaving behind a murky, off-white liquid with a sweet smell. Helen thought of the single-serve ice creams they had in the ER for patients who needed a snack, while they were waiting for a hospital bed, or waiting for test results, or just waiting. Helen was mildly curious what the liquid was, but not so much that it was going to make her even later for work. Liquid meant she'd reached bottom. She hopped into the Jeep, reversed a few feet, and drove forward quickly.

Her front tires slammed into the off-white liquid, which splashed across her windshield. dissolving the glass where it landed. An aborted scream lodged itself in Helen's throat as she and the Jeep crashed through into nothing. Dr. Smith had to cover Helen's shift. It was five minutes to seven. Around 10 in the morning, Fred went out to shovel his walk. Fred was retired and lived alone. He liked having a clean sidewalk, but not for himself. It was nicer to walk on than unshoveled cement, but he did it for a dog. Three winters past, he'd discovered his neighbor three houses down. Marianne had a dog, Andy, who was completely deaf and partially blind, that much preferred walking on shoveled sidewalks. So much so that he had to be carried across unshoveled snow.

Fred had gone out and shoveled his sidewalk immediately. The first time he'd done it, Marianne had walked by with Andy, a brown and white cane cavalier spaniel aged nine at that time, and Andy had pointed at his shovel. Marianne had said she'd never seen him point before, and to Fred's knowledge, had never done it since. That had meant something to Fred.

So now he always shoveled, for Marianne and Andy. He'd slept in that morning, being retired, having not much of anything to do on a snow day, and experienced the general possum-like quality of a quiet post-snowstorm morning. Fred hadn't seen Marianne and Andy yet, but he knew he'd better get to it. He could see that Lawrence had already cleared his snow. Then there was Helen's partially cleared driveway with tire tracks that stopped at the snow, snowplow's pile. He thought Helen must have already made her way out for her ER shift this morning.

Fred shuddered at the thought of having to go out in this. Fred shook his head and got to work. There were a few kids out with sleds, some mating and throwing snowballs, others building a fort. Fred didn't have any children, but the neighborhood kids were sweet enough and generally stayed out of his way. Single retired guys didn't hold their interest much, which he didn't mind. After shoveling 90% of his sidewalk, Fred leaned against his shovel to rest. The heavy snow boots, the multiple layers, the heavy coat, the gloves, Fred was worn out. He wasn't out of shape, but he wasn't exactly in shape either. His breath was short and his chest was tight.

He hoped it was just the cold air. After a few minutes, the chest tightness relaxed its grip, and his breath came easier. As he cleared the last bit of snow down his neighbor's driveway and into the street, his chest seized suddenly. It was all he could do to steady himself with one hand on his shovel and the other on his knee. This position put him in view of a large patch of a large patch of brown ice beneath his shovel. The ice looked odd, but Fred had other things to worry about, like whether his chest was too

tight for him to walk inside and call 911. As he pondered, the energy drained from him, forcing him to sit on top of the brown ice. The ice was incongruously warm against his pants, but he was too focused on his breathing to properly consider the implications of this. That is, until the ice underneath him let out an ear-splitting crack. Fred jumped up, catching his breath as he did, where he'd sat a sticky white liquid was pooling in the cracked ice. The liquid's marbled appearance reminded him of something out of a horror movie, but its smell recalled Grandma's homemade ice cream.

Then, he smelled something else. Acrid, burning, charred. Then he felt it. The liquid had eaten through his pants, his underwear, and was rapidly burrowing through the outer layers of his barracks. Fred yelped, slipped, and dropped through the widening crevice in the ice. It was 30 minutes after 10. Elijah, aged eight, slowly mating a snowball, saw Fred disappear beneath the cement, or where the cement should have been.

It was just afternoon. All the families with houses around the green space, now white with snow, had congregated outside Ira's front door. There were about 75 people. Absent were Lawrence, where Lawrence, Helen, Fred, and Elijah, and all the other children who were old enough to stay inside their houses without parental supervision. The tone of the discussion was bewildered. Had anyone seen Lawrence or Helen disappear? Had anyone, besides Elijah, seen Fred disappear? Had anyone looked at the holes in the cement from closer than a few feet away? What had they seen? The consensus had been to call the fire department and have them take a look. But the fire department dispatcher had said all engines were busy.

The snowstorm had caused lots of problems, and there was no one available to come check out what sounded like a prank call. After that, all the lines had gone dead. Ira was the neighborhood lead. He was the one who sent out text messages. to remind people about leaf pickup every Thursday in the fall. He was the one who arranged to have the screen set up in the green space every Halloween, so the children could watch hocus pocus.

He was a leader. He had just as much idea about what to do as everyone else, which was nothing, with a sight of panic. In the end, a few volunteers came up with a plan to take together brooms and rates such that they could be, used to probe the last known location of Fred, the only of the missing three that had been seen by anyone, and determine what happened when the contraption was pushed through. After a few taping attempts of varying success, an apparatus of approximately 25 feet was concocted.

It was held, somewhat unsteadily, by four volunteers. The closest to the whole being Kenny, aged 65, returned. Tired, grandfather of six-month-old Ashley, who was being held by her mother, Lauren, stationed outside Ira's house and nervously watching her father. The broom, rake, shovel, apparatus was pushed into the section of the void which had swallowed Fred. The apparatus was summarily swallowed, Kenny and the other three volunteers letting go of it about six feet from the aperture. The apparatus bounced around, the last several feet of it seeming to stand upright for a second

before completely disappearing into the ground where cement should have been. The group reconvened with the volunteers in front of Ira's house. There was a din of grumbling and fear for a moment, then silence. None of the volunteers to give any further information except that the apparatus had disappeared, and they had not seen what was beneath in the space where Fred had also disappeared. Mia, living a bit further into the neighborhood, ran breathlessly up to the group when they were standing around contemplating what to do next. Her parents, Dave and Darlia, had been out shoveling snow when they'd hit a patch of brown ice,

covering an off-white corrosive liquid, sweet, in scent, before the liquid had burned away. dropping her parents into a blackness beneath the street. She'd panicked, calling 911, but had only succeeded in encountering dead air. She'd screamed for help, knocked on doors, and found that nobody was around, not knowing of the meeting at Ira's house, absent Lawrence, Helen, Fred, and now Dave and Darlia.

The consensus among those gathered at IRA's was that no further investigations should be initiated into the disappearance beneath the sidewalk and roads. There were no sounds, no further smells, no liquids coming into or out from the holes that had swallowed their neighbors. There were no signs that anyone who had disappeared was anywhere in any proximity which would permit rescue. And seeing as it was nearing one in the afternoon and some of the people had been on for many hours, the neighbors gathered at Ira's found their hearts empty of any hope of recovery. The other consensus was that everyone should stay off the roads, off the sidewalks, and for the

love of God not to shovel any snow. The neighbors made their ways slowly back to their houses, carefully avoiding sidewalks and roads, wotting over the thickest patches of snow and avoiding brown ice with possible off-white, sweet-smelling liquids underneath. By quarter till two, everyone was back in their houses. The weather was fickle.

By three, the temperature had risen above freezing. The sun was out. The snow was melting. The forecast for the next day saw a predicted high of 53 degrees Fahrenheit and no further precipitation. Everyone stayed inside, waiting to see what lay beneath the snow when it was all gone. 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.com.

on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative common share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.