Creepy - All Through the House

Episode Date: December 29, 2025

All Though the House***Written by: Unknown***At Bay***Written by: Tim Pratt and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Silent Night, Secret Cry***Written by: Angie and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***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. I know it's the holiday weekend for a lot of listeners, and you're probably still busy trying to figure out

how to download updates for video games, standing in line returning gifts, nursing hangovers, yelling at sports teams for ruining your bets, performing your wish-burning ceremonies, coming up with resolutions you don't want to do, and possibly feeling trapped at work. Busy time of year for all, am I right? So, to address the elephant in the room, I didn't kill Santa.

Yes, there were noises on the roof. Yes, projectiles might have flown. But when I went back to the shallow grave, I dug behind the radio station to pay my respects and secretly cry about the actions that would haunt my every decision for the rest of my life. Turns out the grave was empty. So either we have a zombie situation, or I buried a drift. or I imagined all of it. I don't care for any of those options.

But it is what it is. I was raised by boomers, and we don't talk about our mistakes or feelings. Just got to keep moving forward. I did start thinking about that job posting Owen mentioned last month. So I asked them to send me the link, and I swear the posting itself changed. I have it pulled up on my phone right now.

The station anticipates a vacancy in the new year. rates increase from individuals with an unusually steady temperament. The role involves converting legacy audio formats, primarily reels, cassettes and other materials previously housed in our long-term storage wing, and maintaining the integrity of the radio station, its parent company. And all that is known to be unknown. Applicates would be comfortable working alone for extended periods despite feelings that they're being watched, and be able to remain focused despite intermittent background noise reported in the

transfer room. is aware, no action required. We are serious this time. This process for future welfare only as a current digitizer continues to the full duty so December 2025 until they are no longer able to function proper.

Prospective applicants are asked not to inquire about the circumstances of the upcoming vacancy and to wait until notified. I don't know what it means, but I suppose I also don't have to, do I? I never thought this gig would be full-time. and companies can hire whoever they want.

I am a little bothered by the no longer able to function properly, part. But then again, I also have a few days left until the new year anyway, and there's no sense in worrying about the future until it happens. Boomers, remember. So let's focus on something better. Like this week's first story, about a burglar looking for an easy score on Christmas Eve, who finds himself in the middle of something he could have never expected.

Creepy presents all through the high. I'd never worked on Christmas Eve before, mostly because people stayed home and empty houses were my specialty. The quiet ones. The ones where there's no garbage on the curb for pickup. Where the lights either stayed off or all turned on at exactly the same time every night. The kind where the owners were off skiing in Colorado or drinking port somewhere warm. In short, the empty ones.

That night it was supposed to be no different. Snow fell heavily across the neighborhood. I couldn't have asked for more. Any tracks I made would have been gone before the sun came up. I'd scouted the house earlier in the week with a drive-by and a walk past the back. The blinds were drawn. The driveway was empty. And there weren't any lights on in the house that I could see.

It was a perfect opportunity to get in, grab what I could carry, and get out. Merry Christmas to me. The window over the kitchen sink had a loose latch, no security sensor. I used it upward with a gloved hand. The frame stuck slightly from the cold, but after a moment it gave way and allowed me to slide inside. I twisted past the sink and landed softly on a tile floor like I should have been a goddamn gymnast in another life. I scanned the room and saw nothing unusual. The counters were spotless.

The sink was empty. A bowl of fruit sat on the center island. Too perfect to be anything other than decoration. I could tell the banana's been bought for display rather than eating. Everything had that same stage look, the way rich people have no taste or imagination instead just pull an entire room right out of a catalog or hire a designer. I stepped through the kitchen and into the hallway.

The faint pine scent drifted toward me, probably from a tree in the living room. The owners must have decorated before leaving town. It was normal. Plenty of families put up trees and ornaments well before heading out to celebrate elsewhere. Didn't bother me. What did bother me was the silence. Deeper in any house had ever entered.

I didn't even hear the hum from the fridge. The temperature was slightly warmer than I'd expected, but the air had a still, stuffy quality, like a room shut up too long without circulation. I flicked my headlamp in moonlight mode, barely one lumen, not even enough to show through the curtains, and moved toward the living room, expecting to see the tree, the presents, maybe a few stockings hung with the usual holiday cheer.

Instead, the moment I stepped into the doorway, I froze. A family of four sat arranged in their living room. A man in an armchair, a woman on the couch, a girl perched on the ottoman and a younger boy on the floor beside her. All of them sat perfectly straight, eyes open, hands resting in their laps or against their knees. They looked as if they'd been positioned rather than seated, placed with deliberate care and a tableau meant for display. Their faces were blank. not peaceful or sleeping or surprised, just empty, with no visible sign that they were aware of me or anything else.

At first I thought there were mannequins, maybe to deter burglars, and mannequins didn't breathe. They didn't have the slight sheen of moisture in their eyes. They didn't have the fine details of pores and tiny imperfections that only real human skin carried. The longer I looked, the more I realized that these weren't props. These were people. Real people. Motionless, silent. Like that old viral trend where people froze in place, but worse.

Arranged as opposed by someone who wanted to show off a family, but I never observed how families looked when we relaxed or comfortable. My pulse kicked upward and I stepped back into the hallway, ready to just say fuck it and bolt out the door. These people hadn't reacted at all to my entrance. Not a flicker of awareness, not a turn of the head. Nothing. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew I needed to leave.

I'm quick. I had no interest in whatever this was. It was all so surreal that I didn't even think about going back out the kitchen window. My mind went to default. I turned toward the front door, which was a few feet down the hallway, and reached automatically for the doorknob. Except there was no doorknob. And there was no door.

The space where the door had been only minutes earlier was now a solid wall of white plaster that matched the surrounding surface perfectly. No seams, no hinges, no frame. Just a smooth expanse of wall as though the door had never existed. I blinked hard and stepped closer, when I had a gloved hand across the surface. The plaster was cold, slightly grainy, without any hint that had been applied recently.

It had the same texture as the rest of the wall. I pressed my palm harder, then desperately slapped my open hand against it and heard the dull vibration of a solid structure behind it. I stepped back, heart pounding. I told myself my mind was playing tricks that I had mistaken the location at the door. But I had walked past it when I had cased the place.

I'd seen the wreath hanging on it from the outside. I'd been there. Oh, it wasn't. What I saw in the outside, fake? Fuck it, I crawled into. The hallway seemed narrower than before. The light dimmer, the air even heavier. I forced myself to turn toward the living room again.

The family still said exactly where I'd seen him. Though for a moment, I thought the girl's head had tilted slightly to the right. Of course I couldn't be sure. My nerves tightened. I felt sweat beating on my lower back. I needed another exit. I walked quickly, nearly jogging toward the kitchen again.

The window I had climbed through would still be there. I could lift it and slide out before anyone knew any different. But as soon as I reached the kitchen, the sight of the window made me see. stopped short. The frame remained, but where the window had been was now a sheet of plaster identical to the one in the hallway. No latch, no glass, no way out, only the suggestion of where a window should have been. Now it raced entirely. I felt the pressure of the house closing around me, not physically, but psychologically, as if the walls had grown aware of me

and decided I was supposed to stay. I backed away slowly, listening for any sound that might indicate the family had changed their positions. Silence held everything in place. I counted the steps back to the living room, pacing carefully, trying to maintain the same route. This space seemed to shift again. The air drawing tighter as if in anticipation.

I reached the living room doorway. The family was no longer seated in their original arrangement. The father now stood with his back to the window. His head slightly angled forward. The mother had turned her body toward the hallway. Hands still folded, but her posture was altered. The children remained seated, but their heads were no longer facing forward. Both were turned in my direction.

Their eyes fixed on me with a dull, glossy focus that made my stomach drop. I told myself they'd moved silently without breaking the rigid positions of their limbs. But I'd never seen anyone move like that before. There was no natural transition in their postures. They looked as though they'd been lifted physically and placed in new positions by some unseen hand. The thought made the room shrink around me with no way out. The family had begun to rise from their frozen states. not in sudden jerks or fluid motions, but in small incremental shifts that barely registered.

Like the movement of shadows on a cloudy day, I stepped backwards and felt the floorboard's shift beneath my weight. Not in a structural sense, but in texture. The wood no longer felt smooth beneath my boots, but slightly uneven, almost soft in places. I looked down and saw patterns forming in the grain. Faint depressions, shape, like footprints or handprints. They were shallow enough that I might have imagined them if my mind hadn't already been stretched by the impossibility of the walls sealing themselves. I turned back to the living room and saw the mother's feet touch the floor with a sound

that did not resemble footsteps. It was closer to the soft thump of fabric landing on carpet. The father began walking toward me, or at least something that resembled walking. His legs moved one at a time, but his knees didn't bend. His arms hung stiffly at his sides, and his neck remained at an unnatural angle, as if it couldn't support the full weight of his head. Despite the awkwardness of his gait, he advanced quickly, each movement closing the distance between us faster than seemed possible.

The children shifted behind him, their bodies adjusting in slow, disjointed motions reminiscent of Mary. bayonets being manipulated by uncertain hands. The entire family advanced in a terrible orderly progression that felt rehearsed and practiced for an audience that never showed up unless I was the audience. I stepped back into the hallway, but it had changed again. The plastered walls seemed even narrower. The shadow was deeper.

The house no longer felt like a structure but a clockworked. machine adjusting itself around me. There was no open path except for the living room, and the family was filling that space with the same silent intention that they had held when I first saw them. Panic pushed at my throat, but I forced myself to stay aware, to stay present. Fear wouldn't help me. Fear would get me caught, or worse. I ducked past the father's reaching arm and moved into what I took for the dining.

room. It was as pristine as the rest of the house. The table set with plates and silverware arranged with geometric precision. The chairs were pushed in at perfect angles, not a single one misaligned. The room felt untouched as if someone had prepared it for an event that never took place. I checked the walls, the corners, the baseboards, looking for any sign of an opening. The entire room was sealed. No windows. no vents, not even gaps around the trim where the floor met the wall. Everything looked crafted from a single continuous piece of material rather than assembled from parts.

I turned back toward the hallway and saw the mother standing just beyond the doorway. Her head had rotated slightly farther than it should. Her gaze locked on to me with a familiar glimmer of awareness that made my skin crawl. She stepped forward in a motion that felt like watching a puppet take a forced stride. The children followed, sliding in view with their arms hanging at unnatural angles. Their eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking. Their expressions never changed. I backed away until my shoulders pressed against the far wall at the dining room.

The father appeared in the doorway next, completing their formation. They stood in a tight cluster, blocking any escape through the hall. They didn't speak, breathe audibly, or react to my movements. The only advance with mechanical intent. I slid sideways along the wall, hoping to find some weakness or variation in the structure. My hands traced the smooth surface searching for imperfections. The house offered none. Every inch felt identical in texture and temperature.

The space tightened as the family moved inward, their presence pressing the air down around me like an invisible hand. I retreated into the core. corner of the room, trying to keep all four of them in view. Their movements synchronized with each other, legs lifting in unison, arms adjusting slightly at the elbows. Their eyes remained fixed on mine. The faint shine at them catching the dim light. The closer they came, the more the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Not a sudden chill, but the gradual way of basement cools as they go down the stairs. I felt eerie to shout to force some reaction from them, but my voice stayed silent. Sound felt unwelcome here. The father reached the dining room table first. His hand rose slowly, fingers rigid and rested on the back of one of the chairs. The wood shifted under his weight, creaking in a strange, muted way, almost underwater. The mother followed suit, sliding her hand across. across the polished surface of the table.

The children stepped around the chairs with movements that lacked any instinctive body awareness. None of them blinked. None of them inhaled. But their chests rose and fell like they were breathing. I edged sideways towards a cabinetry, hoping to find something heavy enough to use as a weapon. My hand brushed against the drawer handle and I pulled it open quietly. Inside, instead of utensils or...

kitchen tools. I found a row of small objects arranged in perfect order, a broken toy car missing one wheel, tattered and worn old wallet, a crushed aluminum can, a strip of fabric folded neatly, and a ring with a missing stone. Not one ounce of me thought these belonged to the family like the one standing in the doorway. These were personal items from different lives, collected and stored with care. I reached into another drawer and found more objects, photographs, watches, keychains, ticket stubs. They were all arranged with the same obsessive precision.

Somewhere deep down, I knew I wasn't the first person to see what I was seeing. These were relics of people who'd come and never left. When I turned back toward the doorway, the family had drawn closer. Their movements had grown slightly more fluid, as if they were learning how to mimic natural posture with each step. The father's shoulders adjusted, rising and falling in a motion reminiscent of breathing. The mother's head tilted as though she were studying me more carefully. The children's eyes widened slightly, their expressions shifting for the first time since I'd seen them. The changes were subtle but unmistakable.

They were becoming more aware. As much as I wanted to keep retreating, I knew there was nowhere else to go. The dining room was a dead end, and the family was blocking me on the exit. The walls seemed to lean inward, the ceiling lowering by imperceptible degrees. The pressure of the room pressed against my chest, like I dived into the deep end of a pool. My father stepped towards me with more natural stride, his legs bending at the knees this time. His head lifted to meet my gaze with a faint spark of understanding. The mother followed, her posture adjusting to resemble something closer to comfort than rigidity.

The children moved with smoother motions, their limbs no longer swinging like loose hinges. They were learning, adapting. mind, race trying to figure what was going on. What was this all happening? What had happened to this family? Had the house, as impossible and stupid as it might sound, done this to them? And was it going to do it to me? I tried to step sideways again, but the father was too close. His arm extended and his hand reached toward my face. I ducked and slid past him, feeling the brush of his sleeve against my shoulder. The contact sent a jolt through me.

Not of pain, but of disorientation, as if for just a second I'd forgotten how to exist. I raced into the hallway, desperate for any room that might contain anything resembling an exit. The house shifted again. This space stretched. The hall is elongating as I ran, legs pumping, breath-catching.

The air got humid. but turning the simple act of moving into a struggle. The light dimmed behind me and the shadows crawled across the walls like dark water spilling from an unseen source. I reached a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open, spilling into a small room I hadn't seen before. The furniture here was different, older, more rustic, almost antique. A single lamp sat on a table unlit.

The window was sealed like the others. plaster smooth and unbroken. I turned toward the hall and saw the family approaching slowly. Her movements grew smoother with every step, resembling ordinary human gait more than ever. The father's shoulders rolled naturally, the mother's arms swung gently, and the children walked in unison with a rhythm of people who had done it for years.

Their expressions had shifted again, softening into something close to familiarity. Their eyes remained fixed on me, but now their gazes conveyed an emotion I couldn't immediately place. It wasn't anger or hunger or cruelty. Expectation? Inevitability? I backed away from them until I felt the wall behind me. The room felt warmer than the others, almost inviting. The furniture appeared arranged not for display but for use.

Christmas decorations hung on the walls. This room had been lived in once. Before whatever had turned them into this, the thought tightened my chest. The family stepped into the room. They moved around the furniture, positioning themselves with precision. Each one found a place that seemed predetermined, a spot they'd occupied numerous times. The father stood beside the table. The mother took a seat in the upholstered chair, and the children settled onto a small sofa.

Their faces held stillness again, but the stillness felt different from before. As they settled into place, I felt the room shift suddenly around me. The walls brightened, the shadows smoothed, and the temperature rose. The humidity dropped, no longer feeling oppressive. I moved to the far corner, keeping my eyes on the face. family. They didn't follow. They held their positions with the patience that unnerved me. The father lifted his chin slightly, and for a moment his eyes tracked upward before returning to me. Something inside me felt different. I wasn't as trapped. I felt like I was being studied, watched, and not just

by whatever these people had turned into. Something shifted again. Then the pressure behind my eyes grew sharper. Memories of my own past flickered, unbidden, fragile and disjointed. A younger version of myself sitting at my grandmother's table. The taste of gingerbread. The sound of a radio playing a holiday song I hadn't thought about in years. These images were not intrusive but coaxed, drawn out like threads being wound into something larger. All the while, the family watched silently. The lamp on the table flickered gently,

despite not being plugged in. The upholstery on the chair seemed to brighten, as though absorbing warmth from the air. The floorboards beneath the children creaked in patterns that resembled footsteps, even though no one moved. I took another step back, but the wall behind me seem softer now. When I pressed my hand against it, it yielded slightly, not like plaster, but like flesh beneath cloth. I jerked my hand away, heart hammering. The family didn't react.

They sat in their assigned positions, waiting with that same expectant stillness. I noticed the father's fingers tapped once against the table. Keeping one eye on the family I searched for any break in the structure, any weak point, any sign of an exit, but the house had sealed itself entirely. Even the cracks between the floorboards had vanished, replaced by smooth lines that seemed carved with a single stroke. I stepped into the center of the room, adrenaline burning through me. The family's eyes shifted toward the empty space beside the table, and their gazes lingered there. Did they want me to go there? Was that supposed to be my place? Is that what the house was?

wanted for me, to add to its collection? I tried to resist the pull of it, but the rooms seemed to tilt subtly, guiding me. Each step I took felt less like my own choice and more like a gentle nudge from the structure itself. The floor beneath me warmed slightly, encouraging me forward. I started to think that the house was somehow shaping the environment so there was only one choice that felt possible. When I reached the spot beside the table, the warmth spread through the floor into my legs, up into my chest.

The family's expression softened. Their stillness settling into something like contentment. The realization hit me slowly, with a kind of quiet horror that felt deeper than fear. The house was trying to build a family. It was trying to make itself into what it thought it was supposed to be. It was aware. And it was empty. It needed purpose, life.

The family wasn't a real family. They were a collection. And I wasn't being trapped to suffer. I was just being added. The warmth grew stronger, not painful, but enveloping. My limbs grew heavy. My breath slowed and my thoughts drifted. The family's faces blurred briefly and then sharpened again.

My legs locked into place, not from force, but from stillness. The pressure of the room eased completely, replaced by a strange sense of belonging that I resisted with the thin thread of awareness I had left. Darkness crept in quietly at the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw was the father turning his head toward me with slow, deliberate precision. Then everything went still, as though the house had taken a long, satisfied breath and arranged at a time. new display for the holiday.

Woke up in the hospital on December 26th. My wrists bound by fur-line leather straps. The doctors said I was thrashing when they brought me in. The nurses said I kept screaming that I had to go back home. The police said they found the remains of what looked like bones covered in melted wax or plastic. They wanted to know how the fire started. I've never been arrested for burglary. but I do have a record, so they assumed I had started the fire.

I made up a lie on the spot, told them I'd stopped by the home thinking an old friend still lived there. With all the houses and the development looking the same, got lost. The last thing I remembered was knocking on the door and a family inside answering. They didn't believe a word of it, and they shouldn't. But they didn't have anything to charge me with. and there wasn't any evidence that I'd started the fire that, as it turned out, burned down the house. They said it was a miracle the firefighters were able to pull me out in time. I think that's a term I'd use.

Not for sure anyway. But I keep thinking about seeing the dad's fingers twitching. I didn't think of it much at the time, given how weird they all moved anyway. But I do remember looking at them and noticing a candle on the table. with a small pack of matches next to it. If I had to guess, I think the dad finally found a way out of the house. Merry Christmas.

Huh? And for your second story. When a mysterious window appears in a woman's home, she has no idea what to make of it. That is, until something steps through it. From writer Tim Pratt and narrated by Megan McDuffie, creepy presents, At Bay.

I have type 2 diabetes. I don't even like sweets, but crappy pancreas run in my family. So in the interests of keeping my blood sugar low and my vision intact and all my toes on my feet and so on, I try to exercise every day. And my bare minimum exercise is walking two or three miles after work. Since I work from home, 90% of the time anyway, getting out of the house is also good for my mental health. You might think walking around the same three miles. radius a few hundred days a year would get dull, but I live in Berkeley, home to a million

little side streets and residential neighborhoods, and tucked away bars and cafes, community gardens and parks, hidden murals and secret staircases, a whole university campus to explore, bars and museum windows, little free libraries and farmers markets, beer gardens and thrift stores, dinosaur lawn ornaments and weird architecture, and plazas and fowls, and fowls, and fowls, Even so, the strolls can get a little repetitive, so I keep track of my past routes with this mapping app and prioritize blocks I haven't visited yet. Today, I checked my app to plan my route and noticed a little side street up past Elmwood that I've never walked on, though the rest of that area is pretty well-traveled.

I put on my hiking boots and my Tilly Sun Hat, Canadian-made guaranteed for life, and head up that way. When I get to the block in question, I notice the dead. end and know through traffic signs and figure that's why I never went that way before. It's just a cul-de-sac a couple of hundred yards long and doesn't seem all that interesting. It's getting on toward evening and the California air is taking on a chill, even in the Bay Area. December can get a little cold. But I figure I might as well walk down and back just to fill in the street on my app.

Plus, people have been putting up holiday decorations all over, enlivening even the familiar streets on my walks. And there could always be something great down there. I walk along the cracked sidewalk, past some pretty dark and derelict-looking houses, especially considering how nice the surrounding neighborhoods are. I'm drawn toward the glowing front window of a stately old Victorian that stands tall, right where the street dead ends. The blue paint is peeling, and the tiny front yard is full of weeds, but there's a gorgeous bay window with a central pane that seems almost as wide as a movie screen.

one at the little indie theater on College Avenue anyway, if not the mega multiplex in Emoryville. I love bay windows and old Victorians, especially ones like this with a turret on the corner. Even better, there's a lavishly decorated Christmas tree right in the center of that window, a light and gleaming with ornaments. As I approach, a young dad steps into view, and then he lifts up a little girl, maybe four years old, wearing a red and green dress so she can place a star on top of the tree. Talk about perfect timing. It's like a scene from a movie, both of them beaming,

and I can glimpse people in the background, and they're clapping, and my heart grows three sizes. I'm kind of a Christmas girly anyway, so this is absolutely my sort of thing. Then I realize it might be kind of creepy for them if they look out and see a random middle-aged woman staring at them through their window, even if I am smiling like a goofball, so I turn around and head back the other way. After a few days of walking other routes, I come back, though, on the theory that people with a tree that nice might do some lawn decorations, or wreaths, or outdoor lights, too. This time I arrive earlier in the day, and there's no tree in the bay window, which is weird.

Why take it down when it's not even Christmas for another two weeks? Without the giant tree in the way, I can see more of the room beyond the window now, including one of those big Sputnik chandeliers. There are two people standing under it, a man and a woman, maybe in their late twenties, both holding martini glasses, both gesturing so wildly that they must be spilling gin or whatever everywhere, and both shouting so loudly their faces are red, though I can't hear them. The window must be double-pained and better insulated than that. they usually are around here.

The guy isn't the dad I saw the other night, and this is a much less pleasant moment in someone else's life. So I turn around and decide to walk up the hill behind the Claremont Hotel, so I can take in the Bay of Views instead. I can't stop thinking about that house and its residence over the next week, though. Why take down the Christmas tree? Who were those people arguing? So I go back, drawn by curiosity, and it all.

uncharacteristic streak of voyeurism. The next time I walk past those empty houses to the one living residence on the street, I'm baffled because the interior is totally different now. That Sputnik chandelier is gone, replaced by one that looks like a cluster of antlers painted white, and there are six people standing beneath it, dressed in white, hooded robes, heads bowed, all holding red candles. It seems like they should be chanting, but if they are, I can't hear it. Then one of the figure's turns and approaches the window and stares right at me. It's wearing a mask that looks like it's made of a piece of tree bark with crude eye holes, slightly misaligned. After a moment of meeting my gaze, I assume, though I can't see their eyes, they pull on a cord and a set of Venetian blinds rattle down to cover my view.

Well, after that, I'm obsessed. I look up the house. online, guessing at its address based on the numbers of the houses on either side, since it doesn't display a number itself. But there's no listing at the rent board or any of the real estate sites, which is weird. I walk by the house every day for the next week, and every day I see something different. On three of those days, all I see are closed drapes, but those window coverings range from a plush purple velvet to yellowing old white to actual blackout curtains, and I don't see horizontal blinds again. At other times the window is clear and my view unobstructed, though I don't get much in the way of clarity. Once I look in on a fancy party

with everyone wearing tuxedos and pretty gowns and caterers circulating with trays of canopays, but there are no cars parked on the street and no one going in or out the front door. Another time there's some kind of metal band playing on a small stage, the lead singer with white face paint and blood-colored running eye makeup, and two guitarists and a drummer. But even though they are thrashing wildly before a small crowd, I don't hear a sound or feel any vibrations, and no insulation is that good. That's when I start to think it's some kind of art installation. a high-tech 3D television sort of thing, displaying hyper-realistic images, creating the illusion of a portal to different rooms. It's a neat idea for an art project, right? But I can find no mention of such an exhibit anywhere online, not on neighborhood forums or social media.

I'm mostly ignored except for one person with a username that's mostly numbers, who tells me they live near there, and the street I'm talking about doesn't exist. But I figure they're just trolling. Whenever I walk by, there's no audience, only me. The next night the window is an aquarium. I kid you not. That big bay window is full of flashing tropical fish, coral stones and enemies and crabs. And while I stare, my mouth gaping open, I swear a tiger shark goes flitting past, scattering the smaller fish before it, and then vanishing from sight.

I pick up my phone and try to take a picture, not for the first time, and just like every other attempt, I end up with a photo of a window as reflective as a mirror, the only thing to be seen in the glass, the shape of me, holding up my phone. I watched the aquarium for a long time and walk home in the dark and dream of being inside that house, hunted by sleek predators. The next time I go, the room beyond the window is bare,

and gray like a cell, with unsettling stains and dangling shapes that might be chains on the rear wall. That's when I see the long man. He steps into frame from the side of the window, dressed in a dirty white shirt and dirty black pants, and everything about him is long. His hair, hanging limp to the floor, his face, equine and narrow, his body spindly and lank, his arms dangling past his knees. His fingers stretched with too many joints and his black fingernails, as I see when he reaches up to tap, tap, tap on the glass while he stares at me. When he opens his mouth and smiles, his teeth are long too. I turn around and I am not a runner, but I run home.

That night, over a rescheduled six times drinks date, I tell my friend Teresa about the window, starting with the Christmas tree, and how every time I go there are different people. She interrupts, which is her thing, and says it must be an Airbnb or something, and different people rent it. So why am I acting like it's some big mystery? I've known Teresa since first grade when she came up to me

and introduced herself by asking if I knew Santa Claus was fake, so it's no surprise that she's a skeptic. I tell her nobody puts up a Christmas tree in a rental, and she says, you never know what rich weirdos might do. Then I tell her, about the time the window was an aquarium, and she says in that case it's not really a window. It's some kind of screen that looks like a window, like an art thing, which is close enough to what I thought that it annoys me. I do convince Teresa to walk over there with me, but this time

curtains, pale blue and gauzy, are drawn across the window, so I don't get any satisfaction. She rolls her eyes at me and says she's going to knock on the door. That idea really troubles me for some reason. But Teresa is nothing, if not direct, so she walks right up the creaking steps and makes a fist and pounds hard on the door three times. But nobody answers. She turns back to me and shrugs, and I have this vision of the door swinging open and multi-jointed hands grabbing her and pulling her in. But she just walks down and tells me I need to get a better hobby. I decided to stop going to look at the window. I'm having trouble sleeping, and when I do, the dreams are bad, especially since seeing the long man. I deliberately set off in other directions when I walk, and it's very nearly Christmas,

so there are a lot of great decorations to look at, including one of those 12-foot-tall skeletons, only it's got a wreath around its neck and it's wearing a Santa hat. And then there's one yard full of a hundred different cactuses decorated with twinkling lights. That's all really nice, and I even stopped thinking about the bay window, more or less, or at least I think of it less often. Christmas Eve comes. My job is closed for the whole week, and the following day I have to drive two hours to see my cousins, but on that day I don't have to do anything. In the morning, I pour myself a glass of holiday blend coffee and stir in my favorite peppermint mocha creamer and walk into my living room. Then I drop my cup, the one shaped like Santa's

head and it sprays hot coffee all over my slippers and pajama bottoms, but I barely notice my little front windows with their mini blinds that need dusting are gone. In their place, there's a huge bay window. I walk slowly forward, my mind trying and failing to engage, like it's a bicycle chain that's slipped off the gear wheel. I look out that window and it's not my street outside. It's the lonely and desolate little cul-de-sac I visited so many times. But this time, the street isn't deserted. There's a person standing there, right there outside, wearing a blue fuzzy scarf and a tilly hat. I look at my coat rack by the door and see the same scarf and hat hanging there. I look back. It's me. It's definitely me. I am staring.

at me and she is staring back at me and both our mouths are hanging open in blank surprise. Then the long man appears, stepping into view from the side and walking up behind the other me on the street. He reaches out with one long, long arm, and I see his arm has too many joints too, a whole extra set of elbows. It curls his long fingers into a lumpy fist and knocks on my doubles shoulder three times, like he's knocking on a door. She jumps in surprise and turns around, and he opens his mouth to smile or maybe two. Someone taps me on the shoulder. Wrap, wrap, wrap, rap, three times. And finally, stranded before Christmas, a traveler on covers a horrifying secret beneath the small town inn. From writer Angie and narrative by Alicia Atkins, creepy presents,

Silent night, secret cry. I screamed. Not at anything in particular. Just into the dark woods that surrounded the desolate road I was stranded on. Of course, this would happen to me. I had the absolute worst luck. I looked at my watch. It was 10 p.m.

And I still had five hours to make it to my grandparents' house. My old clunker had finally broken down. The snow was coming down hard, and my stomach churned. Once I finally managed to get a tow, I was brought to a town that was really just a neighborhood with a couple of businesses rather than actual town. My car wasn't dropped off at a real mechanic. It was dropped off with Trent at his house. He was the town mechanic, but my hopes weren't very high. Once the towman dropped off my car, he dropped me off at the only place I could go.

I cringed as I walked up the porch. The sign announcing the bed and breakfast I had been dropped off at was a nor. annoyingly bright compared to my dark mood. The Christmas lights of the end blinked on and off, a cruel reminder that Christmas was five days away, and I might not be able to make it to my grandparents' home to celebrate with them. I walked into the B&B, brushing the snow off my jacket, and was greeted by a woman.

She was small and bird-like, probably around 40 years old. Her hair added to the bird-like appearance. It looked like a nest. It was a mousy brown, with this thin strands shoved into the messiest bun I had ever seen. She strained a smile at me and hoarsely made out a welcome. I was told a simple schedule, when meals would be served mainly. I was also made aware that lights out were strict.

I could not have them on later than 11. I wondered at the mild absurdity of this request. I guess it might keep other guests from having so much light in the house. But I really didn't think there was anyone else here, so who would care? She also gave me strict instructions that I was not allowed to enter the basement. That seemed fair, especially once she told me it was just food. She handed me my key and rushed me to my room, reminding me to have my lights off by 11. I called my grandma, letting her know the situation and that I might be delayed.

She tutted about my well-being, starting to insist that I'd let them pick me up. But my grandparents are in their 90s and are among the worst drivers I'd ever met. Not to mention the snow seemed to be unrelenting. That, combined with how slow a driver my grandma was, I was pretty sure my car would have been fixed before they got here. If my grandpa had driven, I don't think they would have made it here without wrecking their car. I seriously need to tell them to sell that thing. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

I reassured her that it would be fine, hung up, and went to turn off the lights. Before I could, a screeching sound pierced my ear. It was like metal scraping across metal. And while it was muffled a good deal, it was still quite loud. I wondered what it could have been. But then I saw the innkeeper outside, dragging her metal trash can out back and realized it must have struck something on the journey. Fears assailed, I laid down to bed.

Morning came with a beautiful whiteness to it. The storm was still going, but it looked like it had at least lightened up a little bit. I walked down the stairs to the dining area. glad I had woken up early enough to get some breakfast. The innkeeper served me herself. When I commented on it, she told me she was the only one working here. That was quite a lot of work, I thought to myself. She also told me her name was Elsie. Elsie would jump at the slightest sound, and she never seemed to quite have all her thoughts in one spot. I caught her gaze drifting past me to the door to the basement quite often. What a strange little lady, I thought

to myself. Once I had finished my meal, I was off to Trent's house to visit my clunker. My heart dropped as I was told the extent of the issue, and I was told the fast as he could get the part I needed was in two days. I sighed and lamented my situation even further. It wasn't as though I had a choice, though. I spent the rest of the day walking around the tiny town. It was quite cute, and I found a couple of extra presents for my grandparents. There was some antique stores here that they would really love. Before I knew it, I was headed back to the B&B for dinner. When I looked up, I saw the blinking of the Christmas lights.

Something about the blinking seemed uniform. And as I stared, the uniformity became more and more apparent. I was certain it was Morse Code. I was quite a nerd in high school and thought knowing Morse Code would make people think I was mysterious and cool. It didn't. My heart dropped as I put the code together. Help us.

I couldn't believe it. To be certain, I watched it spell out two more times. It stopped after that. Whoever was spelling the message must have had to take a break. I had to find out where those lights were controlled from. Once I found that out, I would be able to find whoever was leaving the message. I could have called the police, but I have something of a hero complex. I was sure that someone had just gotten stuck, and all I needed to do was help.

No police were needed. I ran inside to Elsie and inquired where the lights were controlled. She regarded me with confusion, replying that there was a breaker box in the basement, but I wasn't allowed there. Without waiting for her to finish the rest of her thought, I ran to the basement door, surprised to find it unlocked. As I raced in, Elsie came sprinting behind me, yelling at me to stop. I looked all along the walls, but covered.

couldn't find the breaker. Elsie was behind me, absolutely infuriated. That's when I heard it, pounding and yelling underneath the barrels of what I assumed was food storage. Elsie and I locked eyes. My heart pounded. It was a mad dash to the barrels. Elsie stood in front of them, blabbering that I didn't know what I was doing.

It was what was best for them, she told me. And she tried shoving me away. She was surprisingly strong for such a bird-like lady. Someone was definitely doing their calisthenics. She started to claw at my face with her sharp nails, screaming like a banshee. I hated to hurt her, but I was stronger. As I pushed her aside, her head hit a shelf and a crunch permeated the air. She wasn't screaming anymore.

I stared in horror. What had I done? What had happened? It had been so quick. I needed a witness. whoever was down there would corroborate my story. I moved the barrels, which turned out to be water, and peered down at the trap door. I saw a padlock on the door in winced and frustration.

There could be a key somewhere in the end, or she could have the key, or I could break the lock. My mind drew a blank. I didn't know what to do. The adrenaline that was still coursing through me made me stronger and faster, but it also dulled my perception and ability to think as clear. clearly. I tried yanking at the lock, and was not surprised when it didn't budge. I needed to be quick. The banging had quieted considerably. It sounded so feeble. What if they were losing air? What if they were dying? I had to get down there. I looked over to Elsie's disturbingly still body. Her cardigan sure had a lot of pockets. I walked over and nudged her gently with my foot.

She didn't move. I reached into her friend. front pocket on her cardigan, nothing. I checked the other pocket, still empty. Just as I had decided I couldn't search the woman anymore, I noticed the chain around her neck had fallen from the inside of her shirt. I pulled it out all the way, and sure enough, there was a key. I sighed with relief and fumbled over myself as I tried my luck with the padlock. It opened with a satisfying click. My heart burned, and tears started well up in my eyes. An elderly couple lay on the steps of the sub-basement. It was a woman and a man, and as I started to help them,

I could tell by the woman's sharp, bird-like features that she must have been Elsie's mother. My suspicions were confirmed once I had gotten them sitting in the corner of the basement. The old woman patted my cheek and told me how, a couple of days ago, her daughter had tricked them into going into the sub-basement, only to lock them in. She told me it would all be okay. As I admitted, I wasn't sure if Elsie was alive anymore. There had been an accident. And the father did something that set alarms ringing in my head.

He smiled. He smiled, and he thanked me. He told me that this made things considerably easier for them. They both got on all fours and crawled to their daughter. The father threw his head back and bit down hard on her neck. Blood spewed out of her, gushing like water from a fire hydrant. My fighter flight had kicked in once more, but this time I was frozen to the spot. The mother joined in on the father's feasting, chomping down on one of her daughter's fingers.

Her mouth, I saw, had very few teeth, but the ones that were there were abnormally long. Her sunken eyes watched me with vigor as she continued to chew. Blood spilling down her chin, her gnarled fingers grasping her daughter's arm. She was preparing to take another bite. She seemed to grow more wizened. Her arms became more sinewy, her torso thinning and expanding all at once. Her white hair hung in greasy strands, partly covered in blood, as she bent her head down, still eating. I snapped back to myself, finally preparing to run.

The thing that may have once been Elsie's father blocked my path. While the mother had grown thinner, he had grown wider. His bulk completely blocked my exit. He commanded me to stay. He commanded me to watch. I felt hot and cold all over. My face turned to pins and needles. I watched.

I watched as he devoured and grew even larger in size. His mass barely contained in the basement. His face grew flabby, and his eyes became pinpricks in the fold of his flesh. He tore off meat from the leg of his daughter, and I heard a moan, but it wasn't from him. Elsie's eyes fluttered open, and my hand flew to my mouth. She was still alive. She looked at me, bloody and torn apart. I had no idea how she hadn't bled out or died of cancer.

pure pain. She gasped out a few words, in the forest, darkness, and not the same. I tried to piece more of her words together, but all I could come up with was that her parents had returned from the woods as these things instead of their usual selves. I didn't have any more time to come to conclusions because the mother had wrenched her thumb into Elsie's eye socket and was trying to pull the eye out. I gagged, my lunch threatening to return. A sharp look from the mother frightened me enough that the obligatory bodily response faded quickly. I watched them eat. Peace by peace.

Elsie disappeared until all that remained was the blood that spilled on the ground. She had been consumed in total, bones and all. I watched in horror as the father licked the ground, trying to get every last drop of the carnage into his stomach. He stopped to look at me. And with a voice that shook with timber, he granted me a boon for freeing him and his wife. They wouldn't eat me. He said he was mostly sated anyways. His wife cackled as she told me there would be no such promise if I returned.

They didn't have to tell me twice. I ran. I ran from the little place where I had been witnessed to something otherworldly, where I had allowed a heinous ritual to take place. where horror hid behind the sparkling of the Christmas lights. 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 Share Alight 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 story's author.