Creepy - Back to Work

Episode Date: December 1, 2025

Back to Work***Written by: Daniel Parish and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Nighttime Visitor***Written by: Bikram Mann and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Cedar Cell***Written by: Joel Rex***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. Everyone's had a good holiday weekend. Maybe you got some good deals on presents for yourselves and others,

and generally just spend a total lump and done your best to ignore all the things you have to do or just think you have to do. Ah, the dream. But speaking of things to do, I need to thank our new patrons at patreon.com slash creepypod. Jay, Blackwatch, Tom Lawrence, Danny Mays, Jerry Ailer, Scott Rogers, and M. Sunier. I'll keep things short and sweet today as... As, um... Sorry.

Looks like there's a call coming in on the station phone line. Not really sure if I should leave it or not, but I guess it's probably the station manager checking in about something. One sec. Let's see if I can put it on for you to hear. Hello? Hello? Dude, grow up and slide into my DMs like everyone else.

Anyway, sorry about that, everyone. Like I was... Oh, come on. Seriously? One sec. Hello? Hello? Hello? Who's this?

Who's this? Wait, Owen? John? Dude, what are you doing calling the radio station? How'd you even get this phone number? Dude, come on. You know I got skills. Who do you think it was that had a recurring guest psychic spot on the Montel Williams show? Owen. That was Sylvia Brown.

And she was widely discredited. Yeah. Owen. What's up? How did you get this number? It was on the job posting. What job posting? The one on LinkedIn for a digitizing special.

It says a radio station is looking for someone to go through old archival audio and digitize them. Oh, and that's what I'm doing. They probably just had a post set for paperwork. Oh, that's weird. But then, why does it say that the position will be available on January 1st, 2026, if you're doing it now? I don't know. Maybe the station manager likes what I'm doing and is going to make it a full-time position. That's not how I read it.

What's the actual job posting say? One second. Um, yeah, okay, here it is. Quote, the station anticipates a vacancy in the new year and invites inquiries 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. Applicants should be able to be able to be. be comfortable working alone for extended periods and be able to remain focused despite intermittent background noise reported in the transfer room. Facilities is aware, no action required. End quote. Okay, so? Well, the last part of the post made it sound like anyone could apply. Quote, this posting is for future reference only, as the current digitizer continues to fulfill duties through December 2025. Perspective applicants are asked,

to inquire about the circumstances of the upcoming vacancy. End quote. What? There's no way it says that. Owen. Can you... Sorry, John, I gotta go. The squirrels outsider taunting me again.

Bye ye! Owen? Owen? And that, dear listeners, sums up just about every conversation between Owen and myself. Anyway, I don't even remember what I was talking about at this point. But I think I need to talk with the station manager. about that post.

In the meantime, let's get to the actual stories this week. First up, after years of working remotely, a woman returns to her company's half-empty office, only discover the new monitoring system, doesn't just track productivity. It controls it. Written by Daniel Parrish and narrated by Danielle Hewitt, creepy presents, back to work.

I hadn't been in the office since COVID started. It only took a pandemic to prove the point, but it turned out that Simmons Consolidated Industries could function without all of us sitting in our cubicles each day, hoping that Gloria wouldn't bring in leftover salmon to microwave, that Keisha wouldn't deliver a detailed commentary on last night's Bachelor, and that Sanjay wouldn't stop by at 450 to see if we could take care of this one small thing. Okay, I didn't mind the occasional Bachelor recap, but still. From home, we could just get our work done.

And with all the time saved from not having to commute or deal with miscellaneous office nonsense, we could do more important things, like watch cat videos. Everything went great for the first few years. At a firm-wide Zoom meeting several weeks ago, however, management announced that productivity has been trending downward over the past two quarters. We were losing our cohesiveness, they said. We needed to rebuild our espri decor, our dedication to the team, our accountability to SCI and to one another.

One supervisor let it slip they'd been monitoring our computer activity. It wasn't clear if it was keyboard, strokes, or cameras, and realized how little work some people were doing. Although, those were probably the same ones who never did anything anyway. If you ask me, the whole thing had more to do with management needing to exercise control and justify itself than any real productivity issues. But hey, I just work here. So what do I know?

The end result was the same. Everyone had to go back into the office at least one day per week. No exceptions. There was grumbling in our unofficial chats, especially from those who had taken the opportunity to relocate to nicer places by the shore or in the mountains. The grumbling stopped when we realized some suck-up was snitching, copying some of our supervisors on these online bitch sessions.

So much for the resistance. I decided that Fridays would be my day. I was already scheduled for a vacation day the first week of this new regime, so I didn't have to go in until the 10th working day. At least the wrinkles in the system would be ironed out by then. So that's why I found myself, pulling into the office parking lot on a gray and dreary Friday at 8.45 a.m. I don't recall the details of the commute that morning.

Even after more than two years, removed from the last time I'd made the track, it was still a drive I did on autopilot. The one difference was that rather than turn on the radio to listen to the banter of Jackie and Johnny in the morning fun time gang, or to whatever new horror and PR might be trying to calmly explain. I was now in the habit of avoiding such unnecessary distraction from, or connection to, the outside world. Instead, I simply listened on my phone to music curated just for me by some billionaire's algorithm, so I could stay encased in my cocoon for just a little bit longer. I easily found a space near the entrance. Before the pandemic, the lot would have been much more full on the normal

morning, and I would have had to park maybe 50 yards away. Consequently, I didn't get too wet from the drizzle falling from the overcast sky. I walked into the building, the tinted glass doors parting with a whoosh at my approach just like old times. I swiped my keycard at the security entrance, and bumped through the turnstiles. The guard on duty was focused on a phone and never looked up at me. The black service cap sloped down over his or her face, meant I couldn't see who it was. That was a relief, actually,

since I'd forgotten the guard's names and didn't want to deal with that embarrassment. Like probably everyone else, I was out of practice in social interactions. I rode the elevator alone, the familiar faint ping sounding, as it leveled off at my floor. I stumbled out, but rather than go straight to my cubicle, I made for the kitchen.

If I was going to deal with the hassles of office life again, I was going to do so, caffeinated. Lo and behold, an almost full pot of coffee was waiting. For a brief shining moment, I felt glad to be back in a world where people occasionally looked out for one another. I found a mug in a cabinet, a special one, it turned out, that had been awarded to the world. world's greatest aunt. I'd forgotten I worked among such celebrities. I rinsed it out and poured myself a cup. I took a sip, gagged, and spit it out into the sink. The coffee was cold and bitter. So much for generous co-workers. On the contrary, it seemed that those who had been in yesterday couldn't be bothered to clean up after themselves. I dumped the pot and looked for another bag of coffee. But

no one had thought to stock refills. Were we supposed to come in without even that little perk? More likely, no one considered that people being in the office meant accommodating real people who tend to do things like eat and drink. If I wanted anything, I'd probably have to trek to the coffee shop and the next trip mall down, assuming it was still in business. And that venture would probably take at least 15 minutes. I checked the time. 8.56. They'd probably be checking in on me to log in by nine, so the coffee run would have to wait. Statistically, one would have expected about a fifth of my colleagues to be in with me.

But there were surprisingly few people about. My floor alone, if you include everyone from the top of the food chain to the bottom, used to accommodate about 75 pre-COVID. Yet I saw one other fellow cubicle dweller. Carol Christmas. Yes, that's her real name. which is why I remembered it. And some guy I didn't recognize who was wandering robotically from workstation to workstation,

and who I assumed was from IT. I guess people were still avoiding Fridays. I found my familiar old cubicle and sat down. Yellow sticky notes reminding me of various to-dos were scattered around my monitor. As they included one from Gerald, asking for a printout of the Inotech review on his desk by five, I guess most were expired requests. Gerald, you see, died from COVID at the beginning of the pandemic. He'd ignored the precautions against the fake virus.

Until we'd heard, he succumbed alone in an ICU bed while desperately gasping for air. I threw them all away. At 8.59, I took a breath and announced to no one in particular. that it was time to work. Turned on my computer and I logged in. The screen flashed the SCI logo and welcomed me back into the office. A pop-up then appeared, and I was instructed to watch a video about new in-office protocols. I clicked, and the video began. Stock instrumental music played while graphics flew around the screen. As the intro rolled,

I stood up to look around and see if Carol really was the only other person here. After a few seconds of scanning the empty office. I realized the video had paused. Still standing, I maneuvered the mouse and clicked on the start button again. But nothing happened. Perplexed, I sat down, stared at the computer, and again clicked start. This time, a young woman appeared on the screen to explain that the video would only play while I was looking at it. I sighed. As of reading my reaction the woman continued. This is only to ensure you are taking in all necessary information, Allison. I watched this chirpy woman prattle on about teamwork in the SCI way, while scenes of people I didn't recognize by name, although their faces seemed familiar, performed a facelomy of office

work on what seemed to be this very floor. I imagined they'd filmed it before bringing everyone back in and had used actors, which is why I thought I had seen them previously. Although the reason for spending money on these kinds of shots when we were supposed to be economizing and streamlining was beyond me. I guess HR had to spend its budget on something. So far as I could tell, the video finished, without saying anything, the least bit practical. It was only when the computer was restored to my control that it hit me that the woman in the video had addressed me by name.

I sent a team's message about it to my boss. I should probably clarify that I meant Keith, my immediate boss, as there were any number of people above him, who also claimed a minion over my work product. He replied that he wasn't sure, although he didn't think someone was monitoring us live. In any event, so long as I stayed at my desk and I did my work, I'd be fine.

Sure enough, about a minute later, another pop-up appeared on my screen. After the same flashy intro, the same chirpy woman explained that SCI was now running a work community enhancement protocol called SCI for all and all for SCI. This program would oversee all interactions in the communal and interactive workspace with the aim of maximizing employee satisfaction and efficiency. The use of names, she explained, was merely to let each of us know that we were important to SCI's individuals. Moreover, if I had any further questions, SAAAS, or as we like to call it, SASS, we'll be happy to answer them. There's no need, Allison, to bother your coworkers about it since they are busy with their own work. So we were being monitored. Welcome to the police state.

I buckled down, but after about an hour and a half of intimate engagement with several Excel spreadsheets, my head started to throb. Caffeine withdrawal, no doubt. If I were going to survive the day, I needed to find coffee. I walked over to Carol's cubicle to let her know I was going out for a coffee run and asked her if she wanted anything. She did, and it made me regret asking. She started dictating an elaborate order that I ultimately made her right down,

as there's no way I was going to remember how many pumps of vanilla and whatnot went into the coffee-adjacent cocaution she desired. I was, however, confident the order. order would endear me to the barista test to make it. I left the building, drove out of the still mostly deserted parking lot, and made it to the coffee place, which was blissfully opened and efficient. The drizzle had stopped when I left the building, but by the time I got back, a true hard rain was falling. I tried to rush from my car to the building to avoid getting soaked. Once inside, I tried to swipe my security card while still carrying the

coffees and nearly spilled them, shouting out some choice of sentity. in the process. I ultimately had to put down the container on the desk in front of the security guard, swipe, then pick it up again. As I passed through the turnstile, I realized the guard hadn't said anything to me. They hadn't even startled in response to my yelling. Rather, they were in the exact same position as when I came in.

Maybe they had the world's best pair of noise-canceling headphones? In any case, they weren't doing much to keep the building skills. here. I got up to my floor and stopped by Carol's cubicle to give her her drink. She was away from her desk. Convenient, since she hadn't paid me yet. But since, so far as I could tell, we were still the only two on the floor. She couldn't hide from me all day. As I sat back down on my own desk, the computer emitted three bright musical chimes, and the chirpy woman popped up to address me. You were very productive earlier this morning, Allison. and are to be commended for your contribution to the SCI team.

However, we noticed you were just away from your workstation for the past 23 minutes and 17 seconds, and were not registered on any other workstation during that time. There is nothing wrong with taking a pause to refresh, but it will be recorded against your break time. The same three-note sting played, as the image dissolved. I stared at the screen and shook my head. This is bullshit. I'm not here to be monitored like some prisoner or toddler.

Who really thought this would be a good idea? I resolved to keep my head down, finish today's work, and maybe start looking for another job over the weekend. I stayed at my desk straight, until about one before stopping for lunch. On the way to the break room, I walked over to Carol's cubicle to see if she wanted to join me,

and to pay for the coffee. But she still wasn't there. So I ate my tuna sandwich alone while scrolling through my phone. Thus far, there was nothing I'd done I couldn't have done at home. There was no team here to build with. I hope someone was getting something out of this. Carol was still AWOL when I passed by her desk on the way back to mine.

Since there was no one else around, I just yelled out her name. Carol? Echoed through the empty space. The drink I'd brought her seemed to be in the same place where I'd set it down. and when I picked the cup up, it felt full, untouched. Where the hell was she? If she found a way to just leave, I wish she'd let me in on the secret. I also noticed, as I glanced out the window, that a bright, powder-blue tow truck was loading a green minivan in the lot near where I parked.

That was odd. This wasn't exactly prime parking that needed monitoring. Carol drove a minivan that was in keeping a carol. with her surname, either green or red, I couldn't remember which. Maybe she was out dealing with car trouble. Watching the truck pull away, it occurred to me that the two cars I'd parked next to this morning were also gone. In fact, although the scattering of cars was sparse when I arrived, the lot was now even

more empty. I sat down and logged in. Again, the woman popped up to wish me a happy and productive afternoon, and to tell me I had just been on break for 31 minutes and three seconds and was entitled to an additional 40 seconds for the rest of the day. And of course, Allison, you don't want to go over that. I started working on my summary of the spreadsheets when my phone rang. It was from my mom, which meant either that something awful had happened, or that she had seen my fourth grade teacher in the supermarket and had to tell me about it right away. I tried to answer but missed

the call, which went to voicemail. It could probably wait, but then I'd hear about how I ignored her. Worse, I'd feel eternally guilty if it really was an emergency. So I called mom back. No one had died. Rather, she had run into the mother of one of my playmates from kindergarten, Haley, who'd just had a new baby, an adorable boy named Joshua. I let mom ramble on for a few minutes before hanging up telling her I needed to get back to work.

My screen had locked by the time I finished the call. after I entered my password, the SaaS woman appeared to tell me that I was now two minutes and 43 seconds past my allotted break time, and should avoid distraction from any further personal matters until my work was completed. Was that a guess? Or were they really monitoring me that closely? I sent another message to Keith asking about this, and he replied instantaneously that I should not disturb him, but just continue to do my work. work and refer any questions to SAS? Did he have that as an automatic message? I had what I thought was his personal selling called him. The message said the number was no longer in service. I labored on for another 30 minutes when a sudden loud thud shook the ceiling. The thud was followed by what sounded like a muffled scream. The floor above was also SCIs. And if it was as sparsely populated as mine was, I thought someone might have fallen.

If they were hurt, they might also be alone. I ran to the elevator bank where one was waiting open, and I wrote it up. I dashed out to the area that I guessed would be above my desk where the noise came from. The floor, identical and layout to mine, was almost but not quite as deserted. Four people who looked somewhat familiar, but none of whom I knew by name, sat scattered in their cubicles, all just staring at their screens and typing. If they noticed my approach, they were paying at no heed. Is everything okay?

I asked, not quite yelling but speaking louder than normal to try to get their attention. I heard a crash from downstairs. I came up to check on you guys. The four slowly looked away from their screens and up at me. In unison, in a dull monotone, they answered, We are fine. We need to keep working and stay productive. They held their glazed eyes on me for a long second

before returning their gazes to their respective monitors and started clicking away again. I surveyed the room as they typed, looking from one to the next. They seemed dazed, as if drugged or shell-shocked. I started to say to them that something was off, to ask them what the hell was going on. Instead, I held my tongue and backed away until I again reached the elevator bank.

Where the same elevator I'd ridden up, was still open. I'd seen enough strangeness that I considered getting out of Dodge right then and there, but my car keys and phone were back at my desk. So I pressed the button for my floor rather than the lobby. The doors slid closed, and then stillness. The elevator just sat there. My heart dropped into my stomach. Had I just made a fatal mistake not taking the stairs. I jammed on the floor button several times. Praying for the elevator to move while we're flexibly holding my breath. It finally awakened and descended, but I didn't exhale until it pinged and released me to my floor. While I hurried back to my desk, I caught a glimpse of another powder blue tow truck out the window removing yet another car.

That clinched it. I picked up my phone and bent down at my desk to grab my purse out of the drawer. As I did, the woman appeared on the screen. Allison, you have now used 10 minutes and 16 seconds of unallotted personal time. This time will have to be made up. Remember the SCI way, and get back to work. Screw that. Now paranoid about the elevator, I went for the stairs and raced down to the lobby, several times nearly losing my footing and tumbling down.

I pushed at the fire door at the bottom, half expecting it might set off an alarm or worse. Not open. neither fear came true. That same security guard was still sitting there. I walked quickly past and through the turnstile, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible while my heart pounded in my chest. Again, the guard did not so much as look up at me,

and nothing stopped me as I left the building. Once outside, I gave up on any pretense of caution, ran to my car, and sped out of that parking lot. My phone buzzed and buzzed and bowed. buzzed with text notifications as I drove away. I waited until I got home to check them. There were 23, all from my various bosses at SCI. Keith, Wilma, Devante, Alex, Juanita,

each one higher up in the organization. All demanding me to check in and that I needed to return to work immediately. I didn't respond. Instead, I blocked the numbers. Within a few minutes of doing that, I started getting emails from them and others at SCI about returning. I blocked all of those too. In a final act of liberation, I took the company laptop I had at home out to the street.

And, using an old aluminum bat that I'd kept from my softball days for just such an opportunity, I went postal on its ass. I took the weekend off to decompress. Not wealthy enough to take more time, I started my job search by Monday. By Tuesday, I had an online interview with Richard Financial Corporation, for a position that would be quite similar to what I'd done with SCI, and with a slight pay cut. But this was the key.

It was completely remote. When the interviewer who introduced herself as Bree asked for references, I hesitated, telling her that I'd had a slight falling out with my last place of employment preferred not to say. Without skipping a beat, Brie asked whether the place had been SCI. Even on a Zoom interview, she must have been able to read my miserable attempt at a poker face, because she told me not to worry that this happens all the time. And that rather than reach out to Simmons, they'd confirm my fitness for the job by having me do a test analysis on case,

if that were okay with me. Of course it would be okay, I said, and agreed to do it the following morning at 9 a.m. Bree told me I would receive detailed login instructions by email just before I was to start, but she gave me her number in case there were any clitches. She also told me not to worry that this exam was really just a formality they had to follow. She knew I was right for the job. I woke up at 8 a.m. to the sounds of birds singing.

The sky was a brilliant blue, unsullied by a single cloud. All good omens for sure. I set my computer up so I could see this beautiful day as I worked. By 8.30, however, I still hadn't received the email. When it still hadn't arrived by 8.50, I started to feel uneasy. my stomach nodding ever so slightly. Were they ghosting me? I texted Bree to let her know.

She replied that I should check my email. And sure enough, there it was. I followed the link and logged in. A blood-red welcome to RFC flashed on a white background on my screen. Below it appeared a button that said press here to start. I obliged, in a split screen with an Excel spreadsheet above and text instructions on how they wanted me to analyze it below. Scanning the top of the document,

the categories and numbers seem very familiar, almost identical to what I had done at SCI. This would be easy. As I started to read the details, I heard a honking outside. I stood up to see what was causing the commotion. There was a powder blue tow truck blocking the traffic just in front of my house,

not letting anyone else drive down or turn on to my street. It looked identical to the ones I'd seen at work last week. Still standing, I heard the familiar chirpy voice coming from my computer. Hello, Allison. Please take a seat. We're glad to have you back and give you the opportunity to make up the time you stole from SCI. We will of course expect you to work some additional time, as a fair and appropriate compensation for your theft and disruptive actions.

If you choose not to comply, We will be forced to seek other more punitive remedies. I grabbed my phone to dial 911. Nothing. It wouldn't unlock in response to my fingerprint or passcode. The voice continued. You have previously demonstrated an inability to separate work from private life, Allison. Accordingly, we will manage that aspect of your existence,

using artificially generated responses. Any and all direct contact by you with, others through any form of communication will be blocked until you have completed your obligations to SCI. Any attempt to leave your home or breach that quarantine before full restitution has been made will result in final termination. Remember, it's SCI for all and all for SCI. I'm on my allotted break now. I'm allowed 10 minutes every four hours. By the counter that's running on the computer, assuming I remain in compliance, I should be finished in about 5,268 hours, 11 minutes, and 33 seconds. A father wakes to find a hooded stranger standing at his gate in the rain, but he doesn't stay outside for long.

Written by Bickram Man and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer, Creepy Presents, Nighttime Visitor. I woke up shivering. A thick layer of sweat coated my body like an oily second skin, stretching over muscles tighter than a clenched fist. The memory of the nightmare that had reduced me to this state had already slipped from my grasp. All I could remember were odd silhouettes, flitting about in the darkness. It must have been horrifying, though.

Else my heart wouldn't be beating against my chest with such tremendous force. The ceiling fan whirled slowly above me, letting out the odd creak as it struggled to cool my body down. Beyond time, I fixed that thing, I thought, as I sucked in a couple of deep breaths to calm my heartbeat, before turning my neck sideways to work out the tension knots in my shoulders. Rain drops drummed against the glass window on the wall to my right. I checked my phone 1.45 a.m. It was drizzling

and the angry, swollen clouds that had blotted out the sun and tarnished the sky, mackerel gray, were still refusing to release the pressure pent up inside them. Shit weather had forced me to stay home. He even made me cancel

my schedule visit to the grocery store. However, the torrential rain I feared just never came. I swung my legs and rolled out of Ben, furiously blinking as my vision shrank behind what looked like a swarm of glittering diamonds. The fact that a sudden movement was all it took to make me see stars was all but a humiliating reminder of my advancing age. Rolling my shoulders, I stepped towards the window. A fresh scent of moist wood and wet mud wafed towards me through the gaps in the window frame.

The sky was pitch black. No fish-hook moon, no stars. No flashing lights of passing aircrafts. Nothing. Just dark clouds that grumble and wept at the earth. My eyes drifted downwards. Towards the dark red brick wall and painted sash window, my son's bedroom

down to the floor to ceiling glass of the living room then onto the cobblestone pathway that led to a small iron gate at the edge of the property a solitary street lamp shed a wash of yellow light at the wet metal of the gate making it gleam a hooded figure stood next to it my heart he was standing with his back towards me

facing the gate he was inside the property motionless head bowed he seemed to stare at the gate as water flowed down the folds of his coat

dripping on the ground below I felt a sudden tightening in my chest on what's he doing here was he lost in need of help and neglected Alzheimer's patient.

Didn't look like it. Didn't feel like it. I couldn't see him. But something about him. His straight posture, his broad shoulders, made me think he wasn't elderly. What else? Was he a home invader?

Then why was he just standing there? The lack of... of active malice in his presence made me all the more unnerved. There was a certain wrongness about this man that I just couldn't put my finger on. I deliberated calling the cops. To tell them what exactly? I shook my head. No.

There was no need to escalate things to such an extent. I would look really foolish if all this turned out to be a misunderstanding. Yeah. Better try and talk to this man. After all, if in any point I felt like I was in danger, I could always just run back and slam the door shut and call the police like I had been intending all along. I need to be scared.

The decision filled me with the shaky confidence that made my scalp tingle. I turned around, grabbed. my phone off the bed and marched out of the room, my breath trembling with nervous excitement. The rain sounded louder in the hallway outside my bedroom as it pattered on the skylight. Moonlight would usually filter in through the broad glass panel adorning the sloping section of the cement roof. Not tonight, though. The water splashed and spilled in the dark, almost opaque glass. I shot a glance at my son's room. The door was open. Heavy blue curtains pulled to the sign. He was sound asleep on his large bed. His body is oddly contorted as it usually gets when he's

sleeping. I moved to the stairwell. Grabbing the polished handrail, I begin my descent. Whincing as the steps bent and creaked under my weight. Why exactly was I so nervous? It's almost as if I was afraid of the man outside knowing that I was approaching him. It was ridiculous. I was going out to try and talk to him anyway, wasn't I? So why wouldn't I want him to notice me? Besides, there's no way he could possibly hear me from all the way out here.

Right? A flash of lightning lit up the stairwell. through my shadow on the wall in front of me. A shadow that twitched, swooned at the sudden fright. My fingers tightened around the wooden handrail as I cursed myself for being so jumpy. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I continued climbing down the stairs, hastening at the last three steps. Ahead of me was the front door. Two long windows fixed to its sides.

Thin white curtains were draped over the wind. windows obscuring the view outside. I considered switching the lights on, but then decided against it. Something about the light splashing out of the windows and alerting the man outside that I was here, scared me. I rushed forward, calves tense, head locked straight, eyes fixed on the door. Shadows pulled around the furniture in the living room to my left, but I dare to not risk a peek.

The prospect of seeing something that shouldn't be there was too frightening to consider. I jolted to a halt, about a hair's breath away from the door, almost crashing into it. That would have hurt, made a lot of noise. Noise that the man outside would stop that. Stop. I gently rested my head against the door. Thought the cool wood on my skin. My heart was racing in my chest.

When was the last time I had been this terrifying? All because of a strange man in a black coat standing with his back to the house. I felt my bone shiver as the image of the man standing in the rain flashed through my head. Was he even still there? All I had to do was open the door and I'd know. I had been so full of confidence back up in my room, but now that I was actually here, with just a thin wooden door between the two of us,

all the courage had fled from my body. The thought of going closer to him filled my heart with an irrational dread. Why was I doing this at all? What was the point of trying to talk to him? It wasn't exactly a threat, right? He's just standing there, minding his own business. On my property. I bowled my hand up into a fist,

brought it up to my mouth and bit the knuckles, then exhaled. Right. He was on my property, but he wasn't doing anything, was he? What was the point in messing with him? Seemed far more reasonable to forget about all this and go back to bed. Whatever it was, I was sure that it would be over in the morning.

Things that went bump in the night dissipated like the fog under the warm rays of the sun, didn't they? I couldn't. I just couldn't. I had to at least see whether he was still there or not. Or else the thought of him would keep nagging at the back of my mind, like a pebble stuck in my shoe. I reached for the white curtain drawn down, over the window to my left. I pulled it aside, craned my neck, and looked outside. The glass was speckled with raindrops, and it was dark in the lawn, with the only source of light being the street lamb. But it was enough. He wasn't there anymore. Relief flooded through my body, warming it up. I forced myself to chuckle. I foolish I had been.

to be so scared of phantoms in the dark. It was like I was eight years old again, reduced to whimpers by the thought of something hiding under the bed, scratching the wooden slots with its long fingernails. Ridiculous. Then almost as if to reassert my dominance as the master of the house, I unlocked the door and pulled it open, and he was there at the threshold of the door.

mere inches from my face. His head was bound, like it was looking at his boots. Tangle of matted seaweed-like hair burst out of the hood of his coat and fell down the sides of his face. A face that was old, wrinkled, with numerous folds of skin drooping and festooning in his jowls. He was still smelled like the dead things that rot at the same. bottom of the sea, slammed the door shut, made sure every lock in the damn thing was in place,

pounded in my chest, sending blood pumping through my body. My cheeks burned with fear, as had not swelled up in my throat. Alarm bells were ringing deafeningly loud in my head, an animalistic instinct that was warning me that my very survival. I had to call the cops. My hand shook as I tried to unlock my phone. My fingers, oily with sweat, slipped on the screen. After a couple of ten seconds, it flared to life. I punched the numbers in and waited for the call to connect. Wrist another peek outside through the window.

I couldn't see him from that angle. There wasn't enough light. And he had been standing too close to the door. Too fucking close. A shudder ran through me. What the fuck was he even doing? Strained my ears. That sound.

It was coming from somewhere close to me. Dripping water. Louder and closer than what I had been hearing until then. Droplets dripping on the floor. Wooden floor. Tears of horror and helplessness prickled my eyes. He was inside the house. Taking a measured step back, I turned my neck, slowly, ever so slowly, not wanting to materialize my fear by looking at it.

My blood froze as my eyes drifted over to the unlit space to my left. I didn't even have to use my phone's flashlight. Living room was illuminated by enough traces of moonlight to outline the silhouette of the man standing behind the hand-carved sofa. I stumbled, hit my back against the wall. Drip. I had heard about people becoming paralyzed

after coming face to face with the predator in the forest. Never quite understood how or why that happened. Until that moment, an intense primal terror washed over me, seeped into my very bones. I wanted to run, to shout. My body just wouldn't obey my desperate commands. For a couple of unimaginably long moments,

I stood rooted to that spot, just staring at the black silhouette of the man. And then there was a sharp intake of breath. It was hoarse, raspy, like it was pulled through a wet plastic sheet jammed into a tight throat. Before being stuffed in the lungs full of holes. My body shivered.

My knees turning so weak I was afraid I had collapsed right there. But the spell was broken. And move I did. I bolted toward it. the stairs, my bare feet thudding on the hardwood floor. I could hear him following me. Squishing of wet shoes, splashing of water on the floor, rustling of the moisture-laden coat.

I jumped up two steps at a time, doing my hardest to increase the distance between us. The man's shadow loom large on the wall, letting me know that I wasn't quite succeeding. Three steps away from the landing of the first floor I faltered. My foot instead of finding hardwood sank into the darkness. I fell face first, my skull making a sickening crack as it bounced off the handrail. Before my flailing hands inadvertently and thankfully, cushioned it down on the floor.

Needles of sharp pain stabbed my head, only to be overwhelmed by burning agony, my twisted right foot. The man's footsteps boomed like gunshots on the floor behind me. I bit my cheek and reached for the vertical iron bar supporting the handrail. My hands wrapped tight around the cold metal as I began pulling myself up. The movement intensified the pain in my leg, causing tears to stream down my face. Yet, with gritted teeth and strained arm muscles. I kept on heaving myself up.

My stomach turned in nuts in anticipation. Any second I was going to feel cool and clammy hands on my injured leg. Any second I was going to be yanked back into the darkness. How terrified would my son be by my screams? Poor boy wasn't even aware of what was inside the house. I crawled onto the last. landing, sucking in a deep breath as I leaned against the banister. The footsteps behind me abruptly ended. Did he stop? The rank stench that clung to his body like grease seemed to

dissipate. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, shifted my body to scan the stairwell. It was empty. Like he was never even there. I squeezed. my eyes shut, groaned in frustration. Fuck. Where was he now? I couldn't see him anywhere. Not wanting to waste this momentary lull and the mind-numbing terror, I took the support of the banister and hoisted myself up to my feet, gnashing my teeth to fight through the pain.

I shifted my whole weight onto my good leg, began hobbling towards my room. flash of lightning sliced through the darkness. I saw it for the briefest of seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, he was there. Outside the house, lying face down in the skylight. The footsteps started up again. The smell returned thicker than ever, clogging my nostrils, like a rotting?

How could he be in two places at once? I darted towards my bedroom, unmindful of the pain making my entire body throb and slam the door shut behind me, knowing that the act was pretty much useless. He could appear inside my room whenever he wished it, tear me apart, limb from limb. Sweat erupted out of my pores.

It was like, it was hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I bawled like a baby. My chest quaking with the sobs. A faint voice out in the hallway wrenched me out of my self-pity. The footsteps of the man continued getting closer and closer. Dad, are you okay? Dad, where are you?

I can sighed. The footsteps were right outside my room now. What are you doing up so late at night? That's not me. That's not me. The footsteps picked up speed, drifted away from my room. My son let out a sharp gasp. My heart sank at my chest.

Then the screams, loud, shrill, full of fear, confusion, and pain. Buried beneath them, the vile. the vile sounds of breaking bones and blood spurting out of torn vessels. My mind was a mess. Guilt, fear, shame, warred endlessly. I should have done something. Rished out of the room to try and protect my son.

But I couldn't. Because, above all else, there was relief in my heart, relief that he chose my son. and not me. And finally, when two men find themselves trapped in a gym sauna, one of them quickly realizes the door isn't the only problem. Written by Joel Rex, creepy presents, Cedar Cell. Tom wasn't a slim man, nor was he truly portly. He was an office drone, a microwave meal-eating singleton.

There's a tire of soft flesh roamed his middle, and nothing remarkable to recommend him. His hairline retreated in pace with his prospects, and he nursed a quiet addiction to Lurid Turn of the Millennium Ties. But banality, baldness, and bad fashion since stayed behind in the locker on Thursday gym night. Those were his few sacred hours, all for himself, or so he liked the boast around the coffee machine at work. In truth, he was only three weeks into his membership,

and had already developed a loathing for the place. The pool, though, that was his domain. All the greats had been keen swimmers, or so he'd heard, perhaps from his GP suggesting he do more cardio. Name a stroke, and Tom would attempt it in that steady, plotting way of his. So every Thursday gym night he arrived, shed his office uniform, folding his beloved tie with care, and slid into the pool to wallow like a contented manatee.

Afterwards came the sauna. It was the ritual he cherished most, 15 minutes to sweat a week's worth of sins. It was a two-seater, tucked away in a remote corner of the men's changing room. He'd found it by accident while searching for the urinals, and thought it out of service until he peered inside. From then on, it became his sanctum. There was no one else.

No one seemed to know of its existence. The regulars preferred the communal sauna beside the pool. You could all go women in there, sure, but you couldn't get a moment's peace. His first visit had been a dream, his second, near-religious. His third visit was his last. To spice things up, Tom stowed his wet trunks and wrapped a towel around his middle before waltzing over. The concept of his nether regions exposed to the heat was a curious one. Perhaps the membership was affecting him after all. The changing room was deserted, and a bright

new poster on the wall screamed, Keep your heart fit and healthy. The sauna door was transparent. A small roller latch clicked when he pulled it open and clicked again as it closed. The instant heat felt heavier than usual, almost hostile. And then there was that sweet cedar scent that seemed to buzz up his nose. He didn't notice the other occupant until his eyes adjusted to the dim orange light, an old raggedy man entirely naked. Tom hesitated, then perched beside him. Evening. No reply. The man's skin was pale. Perhaps he just sat down. It's rude to stare, Tom chided himself. He crossed his legs and marveled at the opposite wall, concentrating on the aching bliss, the heat

soothing into his stiff muscles, the intoxicating aroma of cedar. Nothing. Tom felt nothing. Nothing except for the uneasy self-consciousness of being half naked within poking distance of another man's anatomy. And that unease bled into indignation. Tom stared at the son-a-door and pouted. His view amounted to a breezeblock wall and two lockers. He wished he'd stayed home. There was a new season of his favorite game show on the TV. Instead, he was here, sweating beside some geriatric exhibitionist.

Huh, he muttered, flinching at his own voice breaking the silence. The hourglass by the The door stood upright, but no sand fell. He wiped his brow and squinted. Perhaps it was stuck. Someone ought to report that, he decided. Tom squeezed some water into his mouth. It was lukewarm now. What he really needed was to escape the sauna, but pride held him in place.

What would the old man think if he bolted first? Pretending to adjust his towel, Tom snuck a look. If the man was going to judge him, he at least wanted to know what sort of man he was, and whether he was a sort of man Tom might find fault with, and make escaping the sauna all the more rational. What caught Tom's attention beyond the saggy balls dangling over the edge of the bench, were the man's irises. Black, or close enough that it didn't matter.

Black like wet tar to drown animals. It's the heat, Tom told him. himself. It's the dim light and the heat. Then those eyes flick toward him. Tom's inside sunk into the pit of his abdomen, piling up in a knot, leaving his heart to rattle against his ribcage and his lungs to whee's hot, dry air. "'You all right?' the old man asked. His voice was ordinary, neighborly, the sort you'd expect during an awkward chat on midnight. "'Er, good, thanks,' Tom said quickly.

He looked down, noticing he'd hoisted his towel dangerously far up his thighs. "'You?' "'Not bad.' Now that the silence was broken, Tom felt oddly competitive. Under his amiable surface, competition sparked in his chest. "'If he leaves first, I win. If I leave, I lose.' Time dragged. The heat clawed up his back. Sweat slicked his chest. He inhaled through his nose and the air singed his nostrils. The old man leant back and crossed his legs. He released a sigh. Are you a member here?

Uh-huh. Been here long. Tom did a rapid mental arithmetic of his three sessions multiplied by this man's nonchalant attitude. A little while. Stellar Club. The man replied, everything you need to keep your heart fit and healthy. Fit and healthy. Tom echoed after an uncomfortable pause.

The heat continued to press in. His deliberate breathing became short and stabbing sooner than usual. The hourglass was still stuck. Fifteen minutes had never felt so long. He drained the bottle and grimaced at the lukewarm water. That pounding in his ears, his own frenetic pulse, killed his sense of competition. He stood, clutching the towel and the bottle under one arm.

Well, he announced, assaying a tight grin. That does me. Cheers. That's when Tom pulled the door handle. It didn't move. He tried again harder. Nothing. Abandoning his grip on the towel he yanked with both hands, the latch refused to budge. Panic spiked through the delirium, the heat licked down his throat and seared his voice box. Tom coughed. It was an arid grinding cough that scraped his windpipe raw.

He shot the last of water into his mouth and nearly choked on it. Then he remembered the old man, and what a spectacle he must look. The half-way two couldn't handle the heat or open the bloody door. Tom forced a shaky laugh. Maybe I'll stay a bit longer then. He shuffled back to the bench and collapsed while his heart thudded like a trapped bird. Expectation tightened his scalp, dissipating a comment. The old man said nothing.

He sat, serene, and drank the silence. And Tom hated that. silence as much as he now hated the heat. A hot one tonight, eh? Tom said, desperation filling his voice into a reedy pitch. He thought, a heart attack, not exactly good PR. The old man didn't answer. He wasn't sweating.

His skin remained pale, unflushed, his lips stayed closed, his breathing invisible. Was he even breathing at all? Tom fixated on the man's chest and tried to count. One, two, nothing. He shook his head. Don't be ridiculous. The heat would do that to you. The pounding in his skull thickened.

He felt light-headed as if gravity had rotated and the room were spinning around him. He bit the nozzle of his bottle and squeezed. Hot air hissed out and scorched his throat. He gagged, doubling over, gasping. He stood too fast, then the sauna tilted around him. The cedar boards blurred. He stumbled into the wall, branding bright pink lines on his shoulder. He grunted a low, drunken way.

Then he lunged for the door and hit the glass. It held firm. He bounced back onto the bench, towel slipping down his hips, vision pulsing with black dots. His heart hammered behind his ribs, a frantic snare drum wrapped in fire. Tom stared at the calm old man, still motionless. Those slick black eyes glistened in the dimness. Twin pools of tar.

It's a stellar club, the old man said at last. Had he been so toneless before? Or had Tom not been paying attention? Everything you need to keep your heart. heart fit and healthy. A low wimper crawled out of Tom's throat. If he had moisture left, he'd have cried. This wasn't right.

This wasn't how Thursday gym night was supposed to go. The walls seemed to hum. He'd smudged the edges of things. He slumped sideways and felt attached, like watching himself drown from above. Then the hourglass toppled from its perch and hit the tiles with a hollow clatter. The noise jolted him. back to awareness. I must have knocked that, he thought dimly.

And then, I'm running out of time. With a horse groaned heaved himself upright, gripping the bench for balance. His towel finally surrendered to the floor. Behind the backrest, a recess section of wall revealed fat radiator pipes. Desperation cut through the numb panic. Maybe, maybe he could force them. break something make a noise his chin lulled to his chest and he observed his hands soft pink useless if i survive i win and that was all a distinct bolt of fear rammed into his brain he turned to the old man offering a manic pleading smile knowing full well he wasn't really there knowing full well he was alone knowing full well this was his last chance

and now would he should wake up from this nightmare. The man didn't move. After all, Tom thought, I only wanted to relax. He gripped the radiator pipes. The skin of his palms fused before he could scream. The scream came anyway, sharp, hoarse, final. He fell backward, landing beside the fallen horror glasses.

his heart burst. In those last seconds of heat, Tom gazed up past the old man's toes and testicles to find the old man gazing down at him, tar leaking from his black eyes. From then on, new gym members sometimes found a two-seater sauna tucked away in the back of the changing room.

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