Creepy - Alone & Remaining

Episode Date: February 8, 2024

Alone ***Written by Amos Oyston and Narrated by Nate DuFort ***Remaining***Written by Joshua Bryant and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Content warnings: implied sexual assault, sexual assault of an inanimate object***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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. which listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Alone.

Written by Amos Oiston. And narrated by Nate DuFort. I hate this damn chair. It might have been the pinnacle of comfort at some point in time, but now the mechanism didn't function. The cushions are flat as pancakes. And the smell of mold, dirt, and grime, almost makes me gag.

I'd been too tired to care the night before, though, and I'd even forgotten to take my boots off. One foot was asleep now, a painful, prickling sensation that pulses as I gingerly unfolded from under me. There's an uncomfortable grit in my eyes as I glare blearingly at the ticking clock on the bedside table. It's the only sound I can hear,

other than the ringing dead silence. It reads, just shy of eight o'clock. I consult the battered almanac that lays propped open on the bed and do my usual counting. The faded book is old, out of date, and probably the last to ever be printed by the company, but I can still tell when sunrise will be simply by counting up the months to today. I'll freely admit that it sucked to do when I'd first found it while rummaging through an abandoned car, but time and practice makes anything easier. So I know that at 8 o'clock today,

the morning sun would be well set in the sky. Sunset was about 10 hours off. It's safe to go upstairs. The hatch opens with a harsh grating sound, and I make a mental note to try and find something to grease the wheel and hinges. Something about the noise makes me nervous, and I figure the small comfort, and a functional door will be worth the additional effort.

I step into the hallway and just stand, as I always do, to take in the fresh air, the abrupt sounds of southbound birds, and to steal myself for a day's labors. My feet are clammy from being trapped in the rugged footwear all night, but who would be around to care about the odor? I don't even bother shaving my beard anymore. I simply hack it a bit shorter when it gets in the way. The solitude is familiar now, and given the nature of things, I'm better off being able to depend on myself alone.

I enjoy a breakfast of stale cereal cut with powdered milk and a hunk of only slightly less stale bread. It's like eating cardboard, but it is filling and comparatively healthy. The vegetables from my garden I usually save for packing in jars and other preserving containers, to make them last through lean seasons. The cereal had been a surprise find a few weeks past, and while I was usually reluctant to eat something older than I am, the container that had held it ended up being for a fishing boat, which meant it was airtight and had proven to be reliably conserved.

This is the last of it now. No matter what I need to accomplish today, I have to be downstairs before nightfall. The thought, is the thought, reason to mantra. It's a methodical review of the only goal that matters anymore. I'd long given up the idea of comfort or leisure, finding food and getting back into the cellar was the sole purpose of my life. Twice I'd steered at a rope, wondering if anything was worth the trouble anymore, but the stranglehold of life is too strong. Thus, in spite of myself, I continue to strengthen. I continue to

struggle for survival. Today will be an hour hike into the old town. While nothing remains of civilization that could be of any use, it has become a sort of congregation for clusters of animals that had consumed the remains of the human presence and stuck around out of habit and fear. It's in the old town that I set my traps, find replacement materials, and occasionally come across the odd treasure, such as the marine container with the cereal. The house, I'm loath to call it my home anymore, is still familiar enough to evoke some emotions of fondness, but any comparisons to the home I'd built from the ground up in happier times were no longer valid.

The kitchen is devoid of appliances and cabinets, the living room, an empty wreck, and the three bedrooms don't even have doors to close. Everything has been repurposed for survival. Anything else was superfluous or useless. The only exceptions are in the backyard. Two small mounds marked by pitifully crude crosses. And there I cut my emotions off entirely. It's not a biting cold that greets me as I step out the door into the noon sunshine,

but it is brisk, a tactile companion to the rest. red and orange leaves that crunch under my footsteps. Autumn is well settled in, and hard experience had taught me that winter always comes sooner than I expected. I probably have no more than a month or so before the cold will become a problem. I had survived winters before, though, and the weather isn't the most dangerous thing I face. I shiver, but it's not the cold that elicits the response. pulling the collar of my coat up, I shoulder my pack, check the holstered gun at my waist, and set out through the woods. The first landmark that I was nearing the end of my six-mile trek was the old warehouse.

Very little remained of the broad edifice. The only real evidence of its original purpose was the small cement sign by the remains of the front door. Farther down the road is the remains of the military roadblock, buttressed by two stripped school buses, cankered by rust, rounding the corner of the sharply cut rock through which the road has been constructed as the final step, and I'm on the main street that cut straight through the town. I'm not surprised at how little remains. At one time, hordes of frightened survivors had clambered over around and through each other to get to the food, and then the firearms, and then the tools.

Then it was building materials and mechanical supplies. At the end, it was anything that could even remotely be used to survive, but for most it wasn't enough. People were slow to learn that it was more important to know their enemy than it was to hide away and hope it disappeared. Nobody knows where they came from, and very few lived to even destroy. describe them. We do know they came from the mountains. Not a specific mountain. They came from every mountain, everywhere. Emergency broadcasts woke the nations to the danger, but they came so

swiftly that whole communities were literally torn apart in the middle of the night. Those of us old enough to remember it, those that remain, simply call it the night. The months that came later were even worse in some ways. Humanity turned on each other in fear and desperation. Surprisingly, nobody got nuked out of existence. But countries vied for resources, cities competed for supplies, and people fought for places of safety. I think it wouldn't have been as bad if we could have seen the monsters. But the only thing we could be certain about them was that they never came out in the day. Sunlight was an assurance of complete safety. Once the sun dipped below the horizon, however, they savaged those who were not secured away

in fortifications. Now, years later, I'm the only person for miles around. My last interaction with another survivor had been brief, violent, and sobering. There was nothing humane about humanity anymore. Nine of my traps are empty, but two contained rabbits. My experimental larger contraptions were kicked apart by enraged deer, judging from the furious hoofprints. I quickly kill and dress the unfortunate hairs, reset the traps, pull down the ruins,

snares and move on into the main square. I try not to stare at the ominous signs of old violence. Instead, I pull myself into a sort of numb focus, keeping my goals firmly in mind, so I'm not overcome by grief and depression. Moody reflection was the only quick way to giving up, and I was too committed to living to want to go back to that mindset. Perhaps that's why I don't notice how much time has passed. I seem to be one moment standing in broad daylight, and then the next I feel the cool touch of a building shadow over me. A cold chill grabs my heart, and I look at the sun. It's touching the tallest tree of the surrounding forest. I look at my watch and stare in consternation. It was a little over a half an hour until the sun went down,

and I was six miles from the safety of my bunker. A beat of sweat begins to slide down my face as I rapidly secure the contents of my foraging and force myself to begin the trek back at a controlled pace. If I got winded or twisted my ankle, I was as good as dead. The wind begins to pick up and rustles the leaves as it pushes through the forest. The sound might have been pleasing in a number, another setting, but right now it grates on my heightened awareness. I'm painfully conscious of my

labored breathing, the cramp beginning to grip my calf, and the bite of the shoulder strap. It feels like moving in a dream, where no matter how hard you try, you can never move fast enough. I squint toward the sun and feel panic rise in my throat, as I realize that I don't need to squint now to see it. The red and gold autumn leaves are filtering out the sunlight as it's slowly slipping below the tree line. Was that something moving in the woods? The wildlife didn't seem to have any problems with the monsters from the mountains. Again, nobody knows why. Nocturnal animals would be beginning to creep from their burrows about now, and I'm scared. I pick up my pace, ignoring the growing burn in my legs, I need to get to my bunker.

Then I notice that there's an eerie silence, not the rustling in the treetops, but a distinct lack of ambient animal noises. My breath is coming out in ragged gasps. I was never a good runner, and age has done little to contribute to my abilities. Above the noise of my lungs, though, I do hear something in the distance.

A faint crashing sound, rushing through the underbrush. Now I realize that getting to safety is a race, and there is no prize for second place. The tread of my boots bites hard into the dirt as I turn off the road. Normally I'd stick to the road, a more sure path that's less likely to turn my ankles or twist my knee. But if I can't cut a chunk of my distance to my bunker, I'm going to die anyway. I see the creek ahead and make a desperate leap that lands almost on the other side. My boots soak through immediately, but I clamber up the shallow bank and take off again,

my soddened footwear squishing with each step. The eerie sounds of vegetation being demolished is getting closer, and any light from the sun is being swallowed up by the dense canopy. There, just ahead, through a knotted tangle of tree trunks, I see my house in the clearing. Hope surges into my aching limbs, and I dig deep, pumping my arms wildly as I sprint the final distance to the house. From behind me, startling in its abruptness and terrifying in its nearness, something bursts into the same clearing. There's a burst of splintering wood and a vague sense of, something hitting me in the back.

I stumble, but keep my footing, and strike backward blindly with the ruined coat rack beside the door. It connects, and then is wrenched violently from my hands. The hesitation in the chase is enough time for me to dive into the hatch and slam it shut behind me. The nightmare of the metal being assaulted by the raging thing, the sounds of destruction that waft through the thick walls, but I have presence of mind enough to twist the lock into place and back into a far corner.

Adrenaline fills my veins, and my breath is a series of rapid gasps. The hours pass in an unending nightmare. The beast rages in the house, seemingly bent on completely leveling the structure. I want to move. I know I'm safe in this room, but I'm reduced to a huddled mess. unable to push away from the wall. There's a horrendous impact against the hatch. I flinch, but my rudimentary engineering holds,

even against two more similar attacks. As my confidence grows, the creature seems to become more desperate. It knows I'm here. It's intelligent enough to somehow know I'm trapped. Will it leave on its own? I'm getting tired. The drain in my energy sapping me of any thoughts of normal, evening activities. The destructive rage upstairs is just muffled enough to sound something like

the sounds of city construction from happier days. My eyelids grow heavy. And my waking is a thought of danger, sending me stumbling to my feet as my flailing arms knock over the bedside table. I cry out involuntarily and glance wildly at the closed hatch. The portal is shut, locked, and still intact. Disbelieving, I snatch up the clock and check the time. Ten after seven, it's morning, and the sun is up. I slump against the wall and close my eyes in relief. I'm safe. It's the closest I've come to dying in a long time, and the first time I've had such a close brush with the monsters in the darkness. I know their gory effectiveness, having witnessed the aftermath of the brutality personally. I let out a shuddering breath, belatedly remembering the

sidearm still strapped to my waist. I feel very foolish all of a sudden, and cackle maniacly. The release feels oddly soothing in the quiet of the bunker. The scene as I open the door, though, dissipates my positive feelings. Not a scrap of any remaining furniture is intact. The living-room window is completely gone, a ragged hole framing the sofa that had been flung through it and now lay in the front yard in ruins. The stone fireplace is torn down to rubble, and many of the rocks are strewn across the floor. Everything that had been in the kitchen was either twisted metal husks, battered wood, or demolished concrete. The sheer ferocity of this demonstration of strength makes my blood run cold.

The front door is dangling in two pieces from the hinge, fully another third embedded in the wall next to it. It would be more impressive to witness, were it not for the potential of my demise, written across each sign of destruction. The exposure to the outside makes me feel insecure, nervous for some unfathomable reason, so I go looking to see what I can do about covering up the new openings. I consider the floorboards, but that's another layer between my hideout and the surface,

and all the large appliances were either too light or completely disassembled, so they couldn't be used as barriers either. My compromise is a heavy tarp that I would stretch over the hole and anchor in place with pieces of stout wood. It's as I start hammering the first piece into place that the sound comes from just above my head. I freeze in place and slowly glance up. A trickle of dust cascades over my face as I trace the trail of scraping and rending across the ceiling, ending at the trap door that leads to the attic. Oh my God!

Is it still there? The door rattles on its hinges and tips slightly. Then there is the light step of clawed feet, making its way to the spot over me again. It is. It's trapped in the attic. There's a brief moment where there is no thought, where the animal instinct inside all of us takes over, and my first impulse is to run,

run as far and as quick as I can. The rational Homo sapien has to force its way through the white noise to take over, to insert logic and reason into the dialogue. It's only a second or two, but that fight for control seems to last for hours. I dropped the plank of wood in my hand, dive toward the bunker, and twist the door shut behind me. Somehow, the thick metal doesn't feel as secure as it did last night. Snatching up the pistol, I crouch in the corner, aiming it with trembling hands at the entrance.

Finally, logic is able to reassert itself, and I can see my position fully. The creatures cannot be out in sunlight, so of course it won't come downstairs in the daytime. I'm safe for now, but nighttime will eventually come, and then it will try and get at me again. I need to make the attack. I need to be the predator, the monster my prey. If I don't, time will eventually give it the advantage again. Tentatively I knock against one of the interior walls, a layer of dust trickling down from the moldy ceiling,

scraping skitters by overhead, impossibly fast and heavy steps. More dust slithers to the floor, and I take a step back, considering my possibilities. It had reacted immediately to the sign of life, my tapping it indicated, which means that it probably was instinctual.

Therefore, if I could set something to take it away from the attic's trap door, I'm no engineer, but I could set up a crude timer using a trickle of water from a battered tin dish. Once the thin stream of liquid begins to hit the ground, it's only a matter of minutes before a matter of. makeshift pendulum would begin swinging across the broken shutters, creating a random array of knocking sounds. I test the theory once more by wrapping on it myself.

I hear the creature move again toward the spot overhead. This time there's a rending sound. A woody grind as something tears into the floor. I gulp. There would be no second chance to do this. I remove my boots and pad across the floor as silently as I can. The water is already draining, and I need to be ready to move to the attic with my gun and flashlight at the ready. My teeth clench as I place my foot on the first step.

Splinters dig into my skin, but I ignore the bite of minor pain as I ease upward another rung. Sweat, beads on my forehead in spite of the cool autumn air, and there's a needle-like prick in my spine. To my ear, I believe I can even hear the thing's guttural breathing. There's a sound of a falling dish, the knocking of the hanging wood, and time seems to slow down. Footsteps hammer brutally on the ceiling over that far window, nearly cracking the material.

I push up on the trap door, the hinges heavy with neglect and wear, and it crashes backward. My flashlight is the first to come up, playing about wildly in an attempt to catch the thing in the beam quickly. There's a moment where time stops altogether. I'm hyper aware of the musty damp permeating the air. The glowing circle that allows me to catch a glimpse of something dark,

fanged, clawed, and snarling. The gun as heavy as it comes up. I squint and aim, elated that my quarry seems frozen at the far end of the cramped area. I hear the air hissing from its wide mouth. And then I hear the sound from behind me as well, the deep exhalation mirroring the one in front of me, and I realize my mistake. Oh, God, there are two creepy presents. Remaining, written by Joshua Bryant, and narrated by Rissomontanez. I was lying awake in bed, looking up at the seam where the wall meets the ceiling.

There was a fuzzy darkness striped with the moonlight. There was no sound inside my house. And I was alone. I couldn't sleep. I'd been having trouble with that for years. I tried to remain completely still. I made my breath light and shallow. My fingers were curled over the edge of the blanket

on either side of my chin. My nightlight had burned out and I hadn't replaced it, so I didn't close my eyes. I just watched the darkness at the seam, the stripes of dim, silvery light, and I listened to the silence. Outside, down the street, I heard an approaching car

and with it came blue and red light alternating rapidly between each other and it came through the blinds a police car and the lights didn't move on the car slowed to a stop right in front of my house my body went rigid

I drew the covers over my mouth I looked at my room and saw the splashes of blue red, then blue again, and then red again. The shadows were long and very black, and that's when I heard a car door open and close. I heard footsteps coming up my driveway, and the shadow of a man passed between the blue and red lights and my window. And then there was a knock at my door. I sat up, still holding the blanket to my mouth. I swung my legs over the edge of my bed and my bare feet touched the cold floor. Carefully, I replaced the covers as I stood. I tucked my hair behind my ears and took a very deep

breath. And then I smooth the wrinkles from my pajamas. After hearing another knock at my door, I went to the living room and unlocked it. I didn't undo the chain, though. I opened the door and peeked out, cold air rushed in, and then I got goosebumps. It was a police officer. He was tall, wearing a coat, and his hands were in his pockets. He was smiling. He apologized for bothering me and said that they'd gotten several calls about a strange man, jumping in and out of people's backyards around the neighborhood. He asked if I had seen or heard anything. I put a hand to my throat and how to held my feet together. I was shivering. No, I haven't, I replied. Is he dangerous? He told me he

hadn't heard anyone yet, but then he asked if he could look around back. No, no, please do. He nodded, still smiling as he stepped away from the door. I closed the door and rushed back to my bed, jumping onto the mattress, resting on my knees as I listened. I could hear his boots swishing through the high grass as he moved along the side of my house. He opened the gate to my backyard, and it squealed on its hinges. A dog across the street barked and then fell silent. I couldn't hear the police officer anymore, so I got out of my bed again and tiptoed to the bathroom. It has a window that overlooks the backyard, but I was too nervous to take a look beyond the curtain. I pressed my ear to the wall just below the window. I held my breath and almost

expected a gunshot, but all I heard was his boots in the weeds. After a brief period of time, he left and shut the gate behind him. He didn't return to knock. He didn't return to knock. He on my door. He just walked to his car and drove away. I don't know why he left me to assume that everything was fine. I would have preferred some reassurance that I was safe. I went back to bed and crawled under the covers, but it was cold beneath them. I curled up and stared at the open door to the bathroom, but I didn't manage to sleep. I was too busy listening and telling myself that no strange man was in my backyard. The sun rose and I got ready for work. I didn't even eat. I just drank coffee. And then I went outside and immediately went to the backyard. I don't keep it

in very good shape. I've let the weeds grow wild and they've smothered the rusty tables and chairs that the last tenant left here. The fence is chain-linked and it rattles when it's windy. I put my fingers through the links on the gate and leaned against it. I looked at the weeds and the muddy ground, seeing the officer's bootprints here, but nothing else. I couldn't remember the last time I'd even been in the backyard. Suddenly, the gate opened and I fell forward. I held on to the chain links without even thinking, saving myself from falling into the dirt. But an open wire had cut open my sleeve and I felt a hot searing pain. I let out a small cry and pulled myself up. The police officer must not have latched the gate properly. I rolled my sleeve up and saw that I was

bleeding. A stream was moving down from the cut. Blood. And it was moving slow and thick. It reached my elbow and dribbled off. And I just watched as the droplets of blood hit the dark earth and glisten in the grass. I went back inside and cleaned and bandaged the cut. I walked to the bus stop and then went to work. My arm hurt all day, and I was sluggish from not having slept, but I made it through the day with relative ease. Then I made it home. I was pretty disoriented from not having slept, so I didn't really concern myself with anything about the backyard. I just unlocked my front door, went inside, and threw myself onto my bed. I didn't even change into my pajamas. And sleep soon found me. It was a really deep, heavy slumber, the kind that

takes long, slow seconds to awaken from, even when it's a strange noise that is waking you. I opened my eyes to darkness. I didn't twitch a muscle. I don't know what noise had woken me up, but I just knew it wasn't right. There were a few moments of silence. Like whatever had made the sound knew it had woken me up and was waiting for me to fall back to sleep. I just held my breath. And that's when I heard it. A dull scraping sound. Something was scratching at the back wall of my house. It could be a mouse. My scratch-it walls. They live in them. And I've heard them before, so yes, it had to be a mouse. The scraping continued. My eyes adjust to the darkness, but everything was fuzzy. I didn't want to move.

and I felt that if I waited long enough, the mouse would stop scratching. It sounded like it was coming from the other side of the bathroom wall. From the backyard. I thought of the police officer. I wondered if they had caught that strange man that had been jumping in and out of people's backyards. And then I thought about how alone I was. And I thought about how persistent that scraping was. It took me a while to finally. noticed when it had stopped. I still didn't dare to move a muscle. I was on my stomach, breathing heavily through my nose, and I could hear the air moving against my pillow. I waited a long

time before rolling onto my side and pulling my phone from my pocket. I checked the time, and it was almost sunrise. I sat up and rested my chin on my knees, staring at the open door to the bathroom. I didn't dare move. I felt the darkness all around me as if it were a living thing. I felt only the slightest semblance of safety and being motionless. I felt like the smallest sound could have betrayed me. So I wished I didn't even have to breathe. I wished my heart didn't even have to beat. When the sun finally rose, I went outside. I took the same path I had taken the morning before, and when I rounded the corner, I saw that the gate was open. I couldn't remember if I had closed it or not.

I looked at it, peeking around the corner of the house, and while leaning on the wall, I crept towards it. I got to the gate and looked into the backyard. The footprints left by the police officer were the only footprints there. A morning breeze made the weeds wave a little, and made the fence shudder. I stepped past the gate and into the backyard. My gaze moved slowly to the area of the wall below the bathroom window,

and then I held myself with my own arms. A mark had been made on the wall. The blue paint had been scraped away, revealing the pink color that the house had been before. I walked closer until I face the mark. It was a slit cut into the wood, expanding in the middle just enough to fit a pair of fingers inside before tapering at the bottom. The pink around it was warm and deep into a fleshy red as it got closer to the center.

The side of it was disturbing, almost disturbing as the fact that it was perfectly level with my hips. Another breeze rattled the fence and I ran from the backyard. I didn't think to take pictures to show the police. I didn't think of calling them. I just wanted things to be normal. I wanted things to be fine. So I changed clothes and I went to work. And while there, I came up with a plan.

I would go home tonight and wait, and if I heard anything, I would call the police right away. I trusted that they would come quickly, and if this person that carved the slit in the side of my house was there, they would arrest him. He would go to jail. And I would be able to rest. Safe. I would be safe and sound. I couldn't eat. I just drank coffee. The image of the mark wouldn't leave me alone. It didn't look right being on the side of a house. I kept wishing that I had covered it up somehow before leaving, with a blanket or towel or something, anything at all, really. It was just so vulnerable. I felt ashamed for leaving it unprotected. I couldn't stop trembling.

The evening came and I rode the bus home. I was sweating, but it wasn't warm outside. I rubbed my hands until they were red. Then I got off at my stop and I walked home. I was all alone on the street and the houses sat around as if they were completely empty. I walked at my driveway. and quickly went inside. I locked the front door and went to my bedroom.

To pass the time, I paced. The hours seeped along until it was sunset, and I kept checking my phone to make sure that it wasn't going to die when I had to call the police. I felt dizzy, but I never sat down. The obscurity of night. Soon took over my world. I began listening.

I walked to the bathroom door and leaned on the frame. I looked at the blue curtain in the window, with the moonlight just beyond it. I could hear the soft breeze blowing outside. I don't know how long I stood there waiting. I had never listened so intently in my life. And then the fence rattled. There was a thump on the ground. Weeds swished against legs.

I heard footsteps in my backyard, walking closer, and closer to my house. I was frozen. My eyelids twitched and I was quivering. The footsteps stopped just underneath the bathroom window, just where the mark had been made. I could hear a man shuffling, and then I heard him spit. I flinched at that. I flinched again when he started moving against the wall. This startled me in to action. I remembered my phone and dialed 911. He kept moving against the wall again and again as I did this, and he moaned. The dispatcher answered, but I could hardly focus. I kept stumbling over my words and I was whimpering. Outside, the man's movement was becoming more and more vigorous.

His grunts and moans became more ecstatic. I gave the police my address and begged for them to hurry. But I hardly heard their answer. The movement had gotten so violent it was making the whole wall shake. The man's moaning was awful to listen to. I wanted so badly for him to just shut up. I wanted him to stop what he was doing. I ran into the bathroom and began hammering my fist against the wall.

I was screaming. He stop it! But he didn't stop. He kept going, and he didn't stop. I was crying, and the dispatcher was trying to calm me down. But I couldn't. All I could hear was his incessant grunting and his vile thrusting.

Desperately, I ripped the curtain from the window. I looked through the glass, still shrieking. and I gaze through tears and through the window pane, staring down at the top of the man's head. He was pressed flat against my house, with his pants around his ankles, and then he looked up at me. His eyes were black, and he was smiling. I fell backwards, delirious. Distantly, I heard sirens. I saw alternating red and blue lights. I heard many boots rushing up to and around my house. Police officers were shouting and a man was laughing.

Everything faded down and away until all that remained was silence and darkness. My next moments of lucidity were at the police station. A blanket was over my shoulders and I was making a statement. The officer questioning me kept having to repeat himself. I was hollow-headed and sore, but eventually they got the information they needed and took me back home. The sun was rising, but to me it was gray as slate. I walked to the front door, but did not open it. I took several steps back and looked at my little house.

It only had the one bedroom, the one bathroom. The kitchen was tiny, and I've been living in it for a long time now. It had been my home. I walked along the wall. The grass had been stamped down by all the feet of the police officers. I made it to the backyard gate. It was open so roughly that it had fallen off of its hinges and lay in the weeds. I looked around the corner to where the strange man had been.

I shuddered, and my breath quickened. with my arms held in front of my chest and my chin tucked against my collarbone, I walked so slowly to the mark on the side of the house. I faced it and clamped a hand over my mouth. And I began crying. The mark was now raw, red, with a small stream of white,

leaking out of it. I stumbled and staggered and ran back to the front door. I unlocked it and flung it open. I slammed it behind me and sank to the floor. I was crying and I didn't stop for hours. When the tears had finally dried and my eyes would yield no more, I got up. I rubbed them on my knuckles and I wipe my nose on the back of my arm. I walked to my shower, undressed, and turned the dial into the water that sprayed down was steaming.

I got in and I washed. I watched as the clean, clear water spinning at the silver drain, slowly drained from the tub. I stayed in until the water went cold. I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped across the bathroom until I was beside the window. I looked at the curtain. It was still on the floor.

My eyes moved all over the bathroom, observing it, looking at the tiles, looking at my feet with soon my gaze stopped on the wall below the window. I sat down and stared at that spot. I knew the mark was on the opposite side

of that wall. I sat there, looking at that spot for the rest of the day. Night came and covered my house. Moonlight fell through the window onto me. The wall was gray, but something had started to change. I thought at first that it was a trick of the darkness.

There seemed to be a freckling of dark spots appearing on the wall, just underneath the white paint. I wipe my eyes and saw that the dark spots were growing. I made a small sound of disapproval and drew away from the wall. Black glistening beads were forming now, bubbling up on the wall's surface. The beads grew and grew and then started to descend in thick rivulets. The wall was bleeding.

I got up to my feet and I screamed. I looked around and saw that the other spots of blood had formed, and streams of it were rushing down the walls. I ran from the bathroom. As soon as my foot touched the floor of my bedroom, I slipped. I had fallen into a hot, sticky puddle. I screamed. I tried to stand, but it was so slippery and there was so much of it.

I was just getting covered in blood. It was dripping from the ceiling. It was pouring down the walls. I scrambled on my hands and knees to the living room, and there I stood and made my way to where the door used to be. I felt for a knob, but it wasn't there. I looked for windows, and there were. none. I raised my bloody palms to my face, and I screamed and screamed. I tried to run. I tried to find

windows and doors and holes to crawl through, but there is nothing left. There are no escape routes, no covers to crawl under, no pipes to go down, nothing left of safety, nothing left of what was once my home. The blood is rising, and the blood is getting deeper. And I try to to swim, but it is too thick. It fills my mouth. It fills my nose. And I can't breathe blood, even if it is my own. 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 creepy 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.