Creepy - Always Hunt Alone

Episode Date: August 12, 2020

Be careful out there...***Written by HotCupOfNo and narrated by Mike Dent***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko 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.

This is the bloody disgusting podcast 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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Always hunt alone. Written and narrate it. But Mike. I've been a strict vegetarian for years now. To the extent that I feel ill just watching someone prepare meat. It's not necessarily because I feel bad for the animals. I've just had no good come out of my past disregard for them.

I grew up fishing and hunting, as they were the things my grandfather loved to do and wanted to include me in. It was always an enjoyable experience, accompanying him on his boat or out into the woods. I was a curious child who hung on my grandpa's every word, and saw him as something akin to the most knowledgeable man on earth. He knew how to pluck the feathers from a goose as he felt. efficiently as possible. His wrinkled hands making quick work to remove even the toughest pin feathers. When a hook would get stuck in the mouth of a fish too small to keep. So deeply that it appeared

removing it would surely leave the fish mangled. My grandpa would use a pair of pliers to effortlessly wiggle the piece of metal out with minimal damage. I looked up to him as a hero of sorts. That's why it hit me so hard when he died. That and the fact that I killed him. No one knows that I killed my grandpa. It didn't look as though I had, but deep down I know that I was responsible for his death. When I review what I can remember of the events that came before and after it, that's the conclusion that I always come to. I frequently bring to memory the first time I caught a fish that was large enough to bring home to eat.

I remember the pride on my grandpa's face when he watched me frantically reeled in my line. And the smile that overtook him once the fish was netted and in the boat. That's a keeper, he had stated, mirth present in his crinkled eyes. Seven-year-old me had never felt so accomplished. When we got back to my grandparents' house that afternoon, I was anxious to see my grandfather cut into my fish. He was out in the driveway and working over a table made from pieces of plywood. His expression focused, as he maneuvered his knife through the bodies of the fish that he had caught earlier. I wasn't allowed to stand nearby and watch, because it was a very sharp knife,

and I was apparently too fidgety to trust to maintain a safe distance. So I had to watch from the window. My grandma was in the kitchen, cutting up vegetables for a salad when she called over to me. Rowan, can you do me a favor? What is it? I asked, taking advantage of how slippery my socks were on the tile to slide into the kitchen. Careful, you could slip. My grandma wasn't impressed with a lot of my antics.

Can you please take this plate out to your grandpa for me? Yes! I excitedly grabbed the plate she was holding and rushed out to see what my grandpa was doing. my grandmother's shouting after me to him not run in the house. My grandpa was still hunched over the table, a large pail to his right now quite full of fish entered, and some freshly cleaned fillets strewn about on the table's surface. His face lit up when he saw me approaching.

Rowan, come see! Now my curiosity was piqued, and I made it over to him in a matter of seconds so I could see whatever it was he wanted to show me. Layed out on the table was a fish that he had already sliced open. One side of its body flipped outwards and exposing its insides. This is your fish, he said, playfully bumping me on the nose with the back of his wrist, so as not to get fish guts on me.

And look here, it was actually pregnant. See, it has all these eggs inside it that would have been baby fish. He poked around in the fish, trying to show me where the eggs were. When I looked more closely, I couldn't see what he was talking about. All I could see were... Fingers Human fingers Inside the fish

I was young at the time But I know that's what I saw Long fingers Severed at the base And ending in nails That seemed as if they were recently manicured They were unmistakable Grandpa

Did the fish eat someone? I was horrified I didn't know that fish had a taste for fingers How was I supposed to ever swim in the lake again. My grandfather reassured me that fish do not, in fact, eat people. What? No, silly.

These are fish eggs. And it didn't eat them. They're not in its stomach. But why does it have fingers? He laughed. They're not fingers. They're fins. Are they teaching you anything at that school of yours?

Before I could answer, we were interrupted by shouting coming from the house. Shit! Oh my God! Yari! Son of a bitch! I'd never heard my grandma swear like that before. My grandpa dropped everything and raced into the house. I remained frozen where I was,

unsure if I was meant to go with him. A few moments passed while I just stood there, clutching the plate to my chest and trying to hear what was going on. I could just make out the sound of my grandma crying. And the fragments of the things that my grandpa was saying, I'm getting ice, wrapped this around it.

It's going to be okay. Soon they were exiting the house, and once I saw my grandma, it became clear to me what had happened. Her hand was wrapped in a tea towel, blood seeping through the pale yellow linen. Rowan, getting the car, we're going to the hospital, she said,

voice hoarse, but still forceful. It was on the way to the hospital that they explained to me that my grandma had a little accident, chopping vegetables. She had caught two of her fingers clean off. All I could think about when they told me was the fish ate her fingers. Even though my grandparents had the foresight to bring my grandma's detached digits to the hospital, they weren't able to reattach them.

My grandma now has three fingers on her left hand, but it doesn't seem to have hindered her much at all. I'm certain that what I saw on the fish and what happened to my grandma were entirely related. The fate of my grandfather was further proof. I was 12 years old, and we were hunting for partridges. If you're not entirely familiar, they are these squat, pheasant-like birds that are a lot more delicious, from what I can remember, than they are intelligent. Sometimes you would find them so unbothered by the presence of humans. you could probably kill them with a stick.

We used rifles. My grandpa made sure to teach me all of the hunting etiquette that was necessary for safety. Make sure you're decked out in bright orange clothing so that other hunters can see you. Always keep your safety on and your gun barrel pointing away from people and never hunt alone. You never know what could happen out there, he would say. It could be something as simple as a twisted ankle from tripping over a tree brand. and then you're shit out of luck. We had been walking down a single meandering trail for a long while

before we saw any sign of our target animal. So we both almost missed it when a little rotund mass of feathers scrayed across our path, a couple of meters in front of us. My grandpa elbowed me in the side. Look, I think he went over there. Can you see it? he asked, pointing past the trees on our left to somewhere in the thick brush. I focused my eyes in the general direction he was pointing. and was able to spot distant from us now.

A plump bird positioned comfortably on a boulder. I see it, I whispered. It looked quite proud sitting on that rock, almost as if it was challenging us to knock it from its post. Wanted to take a shot at it, suggested my grandpa. I was intimidated by how far away the partridge was. I doubted that I would be able to hit it, and I didn't want to let him down if I missed.

he used my worry slightly by helping me line up the shot. The target wasn't moving, so we took our time to make sure that the gun was positioned perfectly, and that the crosshairs met at an ideal spot when I looked through the scope. He encouraged me to pull the trigger whenever I was ready. I put my finger on it and gently squeezed. My nerves heightening my surprise to both the sound that the gun produced and the way that it pushed back against my shoulder when it fired. My eyes were shut when my grandpa shouted.

Ha! You got him! Right at the neck! I couldn't believe that I'd done it. Upon opening my eyes, it was clear that the partridge was no longer situated on the rock, but I couldn't see where it had fallen. Go over there and get it, Rowan. You can get through those branches much easier than I can, said my grandfather. I quickly obeyed, making my way slowly through the brush to avoid getting scratched up. As I got closer to where the partridge dropped,

A sinking feeling came over me. There was no bird there. Not that I could see. But there was something in its place. Hunched against the rock, appeared to be a man, dressed in camo and blaze orange, a hunter.

I was scared to approach, so I looked back at my grandfather for support. He wasn't there. where my grandfather had been standing was a completely empty section of forest. My heart began to pound as I turned back toward the figure that was slumped where I killed the partridge. My steps toward it were slow at first, and then rapid as I recognized the face of the man that was lying there. No, there was no way that this was possible. Grandpa!

I cried out, feeling all at once delirious. I reached out a shaky hand to see if I could get a better look at him. When I removed his hat, it not only confirmed my grandfather's identity, but his head flopped sideways, revealing a bloody wound directly in the center of his throat. Petruding out of it was a branch about the diameter of a nickel, and still connected to the tree behind him. I screamed. But of course, when I was in the middle of the woods,

and there was no one there to hear me. I shuffled away from him, falling against the base of a tree, overwhelmed with horror and guilt. I did this. It didn't make any sense, but it was the explanation that my adrenaline-saturated brain came up with. I suppose it was possible that he was an accident

and that he fell into the branch. Maybe someone else was out here and had pushed him into it. But then, how did he get all of the way over by this rock? And why didn't I see or hear it happen? No, it was my fault. I shot the bird, and here my beloved grandfather was, in the location that it died with a lethal wound in the same part of his body. I knew without question he was dead,

but I didn't know what I was meant to do, so I just sat there, shaking violently as I stared at his corpse. When the tremors racking my body subsided enough for me to be able to stand, I started to shuffle my way back to the trail towards home. He was starting to get dark. And I was alone in the woods with my grandfather's body. Who knows what I would witness come to investigate his remains if I stayed putt. With every rustle of the leaves, I would snap my attention in that direction,

hoping that my grandfather was just playing a trick on me and following close behind. Of course, I was also scared that anything making sound was not my grandfather. My visibility was becoming limited, and I was aware of the fact that things were not occurring as they normally should in these woods. Fears of what if this trail never ends, and I'm stuck here forever, popped into my head. I sped down the path, jittery, and with hands so cold I couldn't feel them. I was anxious to get out. But a pit also sat in my stomach, knowing what would have to happen once I made it off the path and across the clearing to my grandparents' house. Something happened to him was what I told my grandma.

It was all that I could really say. When they found him, they figured that it was an accident, but I know that it wasn't. I took the fish out of the water, it took my grandma's fingers. I shot the bird. My grandpa died. I can be certain now that I'm responsible for these occurrences, because over the years, other strange but similar things have happened. Little things.

The same day we dissected frogs and biopause. college class, my sister had her gallbladder out. When I finally remembered to clean my fish's bowl after two months, I found out that one of my best friends at school had been living in a negligent foster home for the same amount of time. My daughter had breathing problems for the first couple of months of her life, and my wife and I were beside ourselves with worry, until I thought to switch our dog's collar for a harness. We've never had a problem since. I've acknowledged, that the way I treat other species is connected to the fate of my loved ones, and I've had to change my life in a lot of ways because of it. But for the most part, it's been manageable. The problem

is that sometimes accidents happen. The reason that I've decided to revisit all of this now is because an accident did happen. I'm currently pulled over on the side of the road. My windshield cracked and the piece of my front bumper torn off next to it, lying on the side of the road, is a dough. It's spine bent unnaturally and blood seeping into the grass around it. I only looked at once, but I know it's dead. I checked my phone and it says that I have thirteen miscalls. I can't pick it up.

All I can do is write about what led up to this moment as I shift restlessly in my seat, alternating between having my shoulders against the seat back and being hunched over the steering wheel. I'm 12 years old and sat against the base of a tree. I'm seven years old and clutching a plate to my chest. Something has happened and I don't know what I'm meant to do, but I know that it's my fault. including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast or to suggest stories for future episodes please visit us at creepy pod on Twitter Instagram and Facebook

or email us at creepypod at gmail.com all stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypod Wickega.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated. The Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network. Home of creepy. For disturbing and terrifying creepy pastas. SCP archives with full cast storytelling.

Horror queers. Genre commentary from the LGBTQ perspective. The Boo Crew. for horror-centric interviews. Listen free wherever you stream audio and at bloody disgusting.com slash podcasts.