Creepy - Alone with the Fire & What's Broken Can Not Always Be Fixed

Episode Date: June 30, 2022

Alone with the Fire***Written by: Grand_Theft_Motto and Narrated by: Nate DuFort  ***What's Broken Can Not Always Be Fixed***Written By: Colourblindness and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the Bloody Disgusting Network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Alone with the fire. Written by Grand Theft motto. And narrated by Nate DuFort. After the mess last fall, I decided to take a few months for myself to go camping in February. It'd be the first time I'd been out in the back country since even I got together. I set out on a clean, clear morning, backpacking up river with everything I'd need and maybe a bit more.

I was a little rusty and didn't want to get caught in a bad spot. The sun was up and warm by the time I set off with my pack. I had everything I needed inside of the bag, tent and sleeping bag, a knife, food, water, fire starters, phone and power bank, first aid kit, clothes and some other useful things. I took my time that morning, watching the shadows of fish under the iced over river, and the birds darting between bare branches.

Those hours I spent hiking looking for a good spot to set camp were the most peaceful I'd experienced in four years. The only sound was the crunch of snow, a few birds, and my own breathing. I went on farther than I usually would have back in the days when I went out regularly, Eventually, I found a grove not far from the shoreline.

I rolled out a tarp over the snow for the tent. It took me about an hour to get everything set up the way I liked it. I was definitely out of practice. By the end of the hour, though, I had a tent pitched and a stove set up inside. It was a new tent, a splurged purchase. The thing was like a tall teepee made of canvas and fitted with a socket for a stovepipe. The plan was to stoke a small fire in the burner inside the tent, so I'd stay warm and dry all night. Before I got the stove running, though, I'd need some wood.

I spent most of the rest of the morning gathering fallen limbs from the trees around the clearing. Once I had a stately little pile of tender, I took the hatchet from my pack and went to work chopping down and splitting a pair of saplings. The wood wasn't going to be ideal for burning. It was wet and young and would produce a lot of smoke. Luckily, since I was using it in a wood stove of the chimney, everything should be vented out cleanly. I lined all of my wood up in a neat pile inside the tent and stretched until my back popped. There were clouds above, but no fresh snow was falling. I decided to explore my neck of the woods.

The land was steep and covered in brush. It was perfect exercise, a story-bush. book hike. I felt warm sunlight catch me as it came through the trees. My boots were new but fit well and the first few miles fell away behind me like change from a pocket with a hole. I was getting ready to stop for lunch when I saw the tracks. The snow had been unbroken other than the odd deer marking, but I immediately recognized the new sign as different. It was a long, winding line, roughly a yard wide. Predators moved like that.

I didn't recognize the prince, but they were too large to be a fox or coyote. I followed them through the trees until they broke through into a large clearing. The trail led to the center of the field and stopped at the church. The church shouldn't have been there. There was no practical reason for the squat white building that deep in the forest. The only creatures around to worship were the birds and badgers. I saw that the white paint was fading terribly. The wood rain stripped and sun bleached. There was no sound in the clearing. The bird song I'd been humming along to all morning was gone. I felt cold, standing there in the

shadow of the church, and I considered dropping my pack and running for some reason. Then, Instead, I approached the building slowly, like you would approach an unfamiliar dog that wasn't providing any signs of its intentions. The church had a small wooden door in front. There was no knob, only an empty socket. I pressed gently, and the door swung open into a single large room. It was dark in the church. I could make out the silhouettes of pews and the altar from dulcester.

sunlight that spilled in through a single cracked stained glass window. I wanted to step into the room, but I was having a difficult time convincing my legs to cross the threshold. A smell drifted out of the open door, stale and old and bitter. It reminded me a little of incense and a little of wine with quite a bit of dust mixed in. Hello? I called out to the shadows in the church. They didn't respond.

I took a deep breath of the incense air and walked through the door, pulled out a flashlight from my pocket, then clicked it alive. I swept the beam around the room. The space was small, almost claustrophobic. Some snow had blown in recently and lay as fine powder on the floor. There were two rows of wooden pews covered in dust and uncomfortably large spiderwebs. The pews marched up to a slim altar.

Unlike the benches, the altar was surprisingly clear and draped with a clean white cloth. A rough cross rose up behind the table. It looked like it was carved from some dark wood, maybe mahogany, and the carving was not done well. The cross was twisted and uneven. I didn't like looking at it.

and found my eyes darting to anywhere else in the church. I walked down the aisle toward the altar, light moving back and forth. The room was maybe 30 feet by 30 feet, and I didn't see doors leading to other sections of the church. There wasn't anything on the old wooden walls either. The only break in the surface was the partially shattered stained glass window. It was too fragmented to tell what the scene was. All I could make out was a scattershot of dark blues and pale green. But just like the cross, something about the glass made me feel unwell.

I turned away quickly and approached the altar. It was almost like I was on autopilot. The closer I got to the black cross, the less I liked it. The thing was ill-made, wide on one side and narrow on the other. Neither access was level. Still, I felt a growing need to touch the wood. The old floorboards groaned as I reached the altar. I pulled off one glove, then reached out.

The wood was warm, like it was alive. I felt the knots and whirls and notches in the carving. What happened next? I still don't understand. There was a pain sharp and sudden. It was like the cross bit me. I jerked my hand back, bloodlashed the altar, squirting from my palm and staining the white sheet. As I watched clutching my hand, the red spots soaked in, then disappeared.

It was as if the material absorbed the blood, drank it even. I pulled a first aid kit from one of the pockets of my hiking pants. The wound was long but shallow. It was in the shape of an oval. I held my flashlight between my teeth as I sanitized and wrapped the cut. I didn't think it would need stitches, but it would leave a scar for sure. It might have been my imagination, but I noticed that the temperature seemed to be dropping inside of the church. I glanced up at the altar and the twisted cross.

Was the effigy larger than it was a moment ago? More bent? It appeared to be a perfect time to end my hike. I gathered my first aid kit and started backing out of the church. I wasn't thrilled by the idea of turning my back to the altar. Once I got out of the door, I nearly tripped over the single crooked step between the church and the ground. I managed to catch myself and looked up. When I went into the building, I remember the sun being high.

Now it was sinking into the tree line like an egg dripping into a sink full of broken dishes. Either it was late afternoon when I reached the clearing, or I'd spent much longer in the church than I thought I did. Either way, it was getting dark. At least it'd be easy for me to find my way back to camp. All I had to do was follow my tracks in the snow. I glanced around the clearing. I had this nagging sense that someone,

was watching me. When I made eye contact with a creature watching me from the woods, my mind didn't process it at first. I couldn't quite register the thing as human, but it clearly wasn't an animal. It stood on two legs, had two arms, maybe five or six feet tall. It was hard to tell at the distance, but it was so pale it seemed to merge with the snow around it. The creature was naked, but blank as a manicure.

and its face was the strangest part. There was no nose, no mouth, or any other features. It had eyes in a way. I could make out two black openings where the eyes should go, but that was all. Hello? I called out. I'm not sure what I expected. It'd be tough for the thing to hear me without ears or respond without a mouth.

but maybe I was seeing things. Maybe it was a fellow hiker in some weird get-up or body suit. The creature didn't respond. I sensed motion and looked to my left to find another creature watching me from the forest. Its head was tilted at an angle like it was curious. I noticed that both of the visitors were sticking to thickly wooded parts of the forest where the shadows were heaviest. As I stood staring, more of the things began to slink out closer to the tree line.

Some emerged from the snow where they'd been so perfectly camouflaged, I might have walked over one without noticing. All of them were the same. Hollow white bodies, smooth, empty faces, broken only by a pair of dark pits. You're not real, I said. my mouth so dry the words barely scrape my teeth. You can't be real. You shouldn't be, at least.

None of the creatures replied. A few inched closer. I noticed that they were getting bolder but still seemed anchored to the long winter shadows that stretched between the evergreens. I began moving away slowly, heading towards my camp while staying in the spaces with the most light. Fading sunshine. and fell heaviest through thin trees with bare branches. It forced me to take a roundabout route back to camp,

but I managed to make progress at a gradual pace. Dusk was on my heels, though, as were the faceless things. They followed me maybe two dozen of them, darting from shadow to shadow. I was surrounded, but as long as I stayed in the light, they didn't seem willing or able to come too close. sundown had me on a timer so every step felt excruciatingly slow my palm ached from where the cross had cut me the snow seemed to grab and hold me each time my boots went down none of it felt real but i kept moving the truth was i had no idea of getting back to camp and making a fire would keep me safe it was going to be full dark soon though so the image in my mind of the stove burning and gregn't glowing kept me focused. I stumbled into camp as the last light drained down into the forest.

My hands were shaking as I began clearing snow from the spot in front of my tent. I decided during my hike back to build a large open fire instead of relying on the wood stove. Once the first bonfire was roaring, my plan was to build a second and stay between the two until dawn. Looking back, This was a stupid idea, and was almost catastrophic. While I'd spent much of the morning gathering fuel, there was no way my small stockpile was enough to feed one mass of bonfire for an entire night, much less too. Once I had a space cleared on the ground,

I built a basic tinder bed and stacked logs and a teepee over it. I glanced back over my shoulder now and then to see if the creature's trailing me were any closer. I'd stopped counting them. There were too many. A swarm of the things paced in the shadows all around the clearing. Since I was trying to get back to nature with my trip, my dumbass didn't bring a lighter, only a fire starter. I rapidly struck steel to Flint over and over,

nurturing every little spark like it was a newborn, fresh and fragile and vulnerable. The fire finally caught, just as I heard the running footsteps. There was approximately 60 feet between my tent and the closest section of the tree line. I felt flames growing behind me as I turned to check on the footsteps. That was when the situation finally became real for me. Real and terrifying. The pale creatures actually did have mouths.

They were disguised as slits in their necks. When the monsters dropped to all fours to sprint towards me, The slits open to reveal rows and rows of dull square teeth as big as bars of soap. The running creatures made a snapping, growling sound as they approached. I fell over while scrambling closer to the fire, nearly burning myself as I reached for one of the burning branches. It didn't feel like much protection, my little torch, but I swung it back and forth in front of me. The creatures all stopped their run at the edge of my fire's light. They stood, bent on all fours, panting like dogs.

I saw that the holes where their eyes should be reflected the firelight. I put my branch back on the fire and let out a breath. Something cold landed on my cheek. It was starting to snow. The next few minutes were a mad rush, getting the wood stove burning inside the tent. Snow fell faster and faster, and with it came the wind. My original fire quickly began to sputter, casting fragmented shadows that brought the pale creatures closer. I retreated into my tent, bringing all of the wood I could fit with me.

It was warm and bright inside the canvas, but my stockpile of fuel seemed so much smaller now that it was tightly stacked. I hesitated before closing the tent. There was something out in the clearing walking through the snow. It was a shape or maybe an absence. I couldn't see the actual walker, not even a shadow, only its form outlined against the falling snow. Whatever it was, the thing was massive, much taller than any of the hollow-eyed creatures,

even when they were standing. I tied the canvas shut and backed up to the center of the tent next to the stove. The monsters outside began howling and whining. It reminded me of hyenas in a nature show going off when a lion shows up. There was a sudden silence that dragged on, punctuated only by the popping of wood in the stove. David, I'm cold. I stood up, staring at the tent flap. The voice was familiar.

I'd heard it every day for seven years before the divorce. Eve? I asked. David, can you let me in? There was something wrong in my head, an ache, almost an itch, but deep under the scalp. The sensation seemed to flutter around my skull, a moth in the gray matter. You're not, Eve, I said, shaking my head. The voice changed, still familiar, but from earlier in my life.

You're being rude, David, my mother's voice said from just a little. outside the tent. Open the door. Put out your fire. Open the door. Put out your fire. Open the door. Put out your fire. It was several voices speaking over each other now. All people I knew. Some I hadn't seen in years. Some dead. Put out the fire. Eve's voice broke through. David, it hurts. I knelt on the tarp, then slid back towards the stove. It was already burning lower than before. I added another log from the pile and pressed my head against my knees. I didn't sleep that night.

The voices continued on and off for hours. They begged and threatened and promised and laughed in an alternating cycle. Sometimes there was silence for minutes or hours, and that was somehow worse. I could hear the pale things pacing around, too, coming in a little. closer whenever the stove would burn low, then retreating, snapping, and snarling whenever I stoked the flame. It felt like dawn took years to arrive. I noticed the change in light gradually.

I restrained my hope until there was no denying the morning. The voices stopped at the first hint of the sun, though the creatures paced around a bit longer. I didn't open the tent flap until it had soaked in sunlight for over a night. hour. All told, I was down to my last three pieces of wood. My camp was a mess. The original fire pit was stomped into ashes and the snow all around my tent was churned into mush by overlapping tracks. I paced quickly, always with an eye on the forest, and immediately began hiking back to my truck. The cut on my palm healed poorly. There will always be an ugly scar, gray and sunken. I haven't been anywhere near snow since that night in the tent.

In fact, I drove all the way to Southern California to avoid it, and I'm thinking about settling down by the shore. I dream about the creatures and the voices in the church often. Over time, I'm hopeful that will fade. I still feel that little flutter in my head from time to time. I hate it. It feels like Someone is watching me

Creepy presents What's broken cannot always be fixed Written by colorblindness And narrated by Alicia Atkins Grandma Betty was a woman of very few words But when she talked She commanded your attention The curtains need to stay closed

The moon is too bright she told me one day. Right before she died, she took me up to her husband's old office, showing off some of the wartime memorabilia that she kept on hand. That was my first encounter with the broken mirror. It was this massive thing, probably originally meant to be part of a vanity that was resting behind some dusty trench uniforms that Grandma asked me to fold for her. When I saw it, and I saw that it had three large cracks in it, forming a jagged lightning bolt-shaped

across its frame, I immediately asked if she wanted me to throw it away. That needs to stay in the family, even after I'm long gone. Just never move it was her response, as she used a sheet to cover the broken glass. Then she turned her attention to some other tasks as I looked at the mirror a bit perplexed. I didn't really think too much about the mirror after that, figuring that it must have had some sentimental value to her. Then this spring, she passed away at the ripe age of 93, and we were all called back to her house for a reading of the will.

For some reason, entering the house as an adult flooded me with nostalgia. I could see my younger self running and slipping on the wooden floors, being chased by her two dogs up and down the stairs. It was like taking a tour of my childhood. But now with her passing, these bright memories were tainted with sadness. her house a reminder of the fact that we couldn't share those stories anymore with each other. They say people grieve in different ways, and I think I saw all forms of it on display at the reading. My mom was beside herself with constant tears and handkerchiefs, hardly able to keep her eyes open from sobbing.

My brother Will was drunk, pushing his emotions aside to try and appear composed while looking a complete fool. My uncle and aunt were bickering over who gets what and when, and then there was me, quietly waiting for the family lawyer to start talking. I just felt a sense of resignation and acceptance. I wasn't sad. Grandma had lived a good life, but I did notice that there seemed to be a lot that would need to be unpacked in her will, which made me privately wonder what she felt we would deserve as a heapsake from her life. The laura began to read, and I immediately tuned out, focusing on some of the

antiques grandma had on display, especially the grandfather clock across the den. It seemed to have stopped working, and I recalled another intriguing moment from my childhood, when Will and I had been playing too roughly and the clock nearly fell on him. He had smashed some of the glass and had to go to the hospital for stitches. Mom was adamant that we fixed the clock from our allowance. But Grandma insisted it was fine. It's broken anyway. The thing is just there as a conversation piece, she insisted. Now all these years later, I noticed it still hadn't been fixed.

Was Grandma a hoarder and I hadn't paid attention? Then the lawyer said something that caught my attention. And to my granddaughter Maria, I bestow the items collected in the attic and in the foyer, all of which should be kept in their case. current condition with no repairs or reconstructions made nor sold or auctioned by any family. They may be moved to her house or residence, but must be done so separately. The lawyer commented. I felt a bit stunned. There wasn't much to speak of in here in this den,

and surely the items weren't worth anything. So why was Grandma so adamant that I keep them? The rest of the will was read off quickly, and I ignored most of it, too perplexed by the poor inheritance I'd received to wonder. Will had gotten the property, and Mom was given all her savings and other things. Uncle Mikhail and his wife were told to assist me with the movement of the antiques, which didn't sit too well with them, but we began the task that same afternoon, checking the attic to see what was there. This was when I saw the mirror again, a new crack having formed across the bottom of the reflective surface.

What a bunch of junk McIle complained as he dusted off a bunch of it and snapped What is the point of keeping any of this? Is it going up in value over the years or something? Did Betty keep accounting records? I'm not sure. I admitted timidly as I touched the mirror. It's not like we can sell it anyway.

You heard the lawyer. The living will forbid it. I said. there are some legal loopholes we can use. For example, if we refurbished it on the grounds that it would prevent Will from selling the property if we didn't, Aunt Sadie said. Will seemed to agree to the idea since the items were too heavy to really lug around without a truck. So we decided to take them all to the main den and start fixing them one by one. I figured that even though Grandma had said not to, she really had been clinging to the past for too long.

and it was time for these antiques to get a better life than being stuck in an attic. The mirror was one of the first things we hauled, the heavy frame hardly movable down the stairs. But once we did, I faced it across the den to the clock and gave it a long stare, trying to remember why Grandma had never fixed these two beautiful pieces of furniture before. It's very inspiring, I told my brother. Will had to go handle some business out of state that day, so he asked me a house set.

In this area we have some break-ins from time to time, and he felt with Grandma passing, burglars might feel like they could get lucky. So I got into her old rocking chair and slept there, keeping an eye on the antiques. And just in case someone decided to test their luck, I slept with Grandpa's old hunting rifle. Somewhere through the night, fatigue got the better of me,

and I fell asleep. But it didn't last very long very, long. A loud bong hits the air around me, shaking me awake and I dropped the rifle. I looked toward the clock, realizing it was making the noise despite being broken. I checked my cell phone to see if the time matched where the hands were on the clock. 3.30 a.m. A very peculiar hour for the old thing to suddenly decide to work. At that same moment as it kept clanging through the house, I heard the sound of glass shattering. I turned toward the mirror and saw that the exact opposite was actually happening. The windows were open, and moonlight was working its way across the reflective surface,

causing the cracks to suddenly hill themselves. At first, I was certain what I saw had to be a strange dream, but as I kept watching, I realized I saw a figure in the glass, and it wasn't my own reflection. It was a younger woman, probably about mid-20s, dressed in the style of a 1950s paper boy with a cap and a bag. She looked confused and touched the glass, trying to get through. The clock kept banging, and I found myself hardly paying attention, too fascinated by this supernatural visit. Who are you? I asked. Immediately the girl set her eyes on me. But we could not hear one another, so she moved about the room on her side, until she found something to write on the reflective surface and tell me her name.

Betty. Her name was Betty. My grandma. I found myself at a loss for words, and the silence was deafening. She seemed to nod and understanding, as if my confusion made sense to her. Then she wrote another word. Trapped. She was trapped in the mirror?

I reached for a nearby item to break it, but then thought twice. If it was completely shattered, it could have dire consequences. I'm going to get help, I told her. The young girl that claimed to be my grandma waited as I moved towards the edge of the room, only to find that I couldn't go any farther. Thick black thorns the size of my arm protruded from the wall, blocking my path, and the ceiling above me I suddenly realized was actually the night sky. This wasn't the world I was familiar with.

The mirror and the clock had somehow taken me somewhere before. Grandma? What do I do? I can't seem to leave, I told the reflection. She frantically tried to search for something on her sign, the same item I had thought about picking up, and started to bang it against the glass. The crack started to form. No! You can't do that, or you'll be gone forever! I shouted.

She mawed to me that she was already gone, but I didn't want to accept it. I just saw you die. I can't bear to go through it again. There must be another way! I insisted. The thorns began to push in on the room, making me feel claustrophobic.

If I didn't find a solution soon, they would smother me. Grandma pointed to the clock, signaling something I didn't fully understand, as she kept trying to create larger cracks in the frame of the mirror. Then I saw blood began to seep out of those cracks. Her life blood. She was pushing herself through to my side. You can't do that!

These thorns will suffocate you! I told her frantically as the clock kept chiming louder and louder. But she refused to listen. I watched as she pushed her body through the cracks in the frame, her ghostly figure barely making it through as the shards of the glass cut at her. I remembered now. I had always wondered why Grandma wore long sleeves and didn't talk about the scars I saw. I was reliving these moments as she made her way to my side. Maria, I belong here.

You don't! She shouted as she made it through. Her body barely clinging to the world of her. around us as she pulled me toward her. Her embrace was warmer than I expected, and for a moment I didn't want to let go. It had been ages since we held each other like this, and it was over far too soon. She pushed me to the mirror, and I felt my body hit the glass with a resounding bang, the broken frame slashing at my own body as I fell into the real world. I turned to see my grandmother standing in the dark reflection. Now looking at the age I remembered her being.

She was old and withered, and facing the clock like it was an adversary. The one thing she could not outrun. Then I realized what I had to do, or perhaps instinct took over. I reached for the object she had used to crack the mirror, and I smashed the broken clock in the world I knew. I kept smashing it until the resounding clang stopped altogether. Then the world felt like it returned to normal. I saw the cracked mirror, and my grandmother's reflection fade.

Her expression was one of thankfulness and sadness. Then she was gone. We couldn't have had that moment together again, even if I wanted it. The next day, I focused on what to tell Will. These strange items she kept were too dangerous to be fixed, I realized. So I offered to move them to my own house, with Uncle Mikhail. I don't want them fixed. I'm honoring Grandma's wishes. And if you go against it, I will make sure you regret it. I told Mikhail. He seemed flabbergasted that I wanted to keep them broken, but I understand the significance of it. The cracks were reminders of the grief we experienced. Erasing them made the tragedy seem inconsequential, like we were forgetting the past. It's better to live with our scars and face them, I decided.

It made us stronger. I did it for Grandma. And someday, as I look towards the broken hands of time that I can't fix, I know I can be just as brave as her. 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-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.