Creepy - Beard & Woman Alone

Episode Date: November 24, 2022

Beard ***Written by Paul Caseley and Narrated by Nate DuFort***Woman Alone***Written By: Joshua Bryant and Narrated By: Alicia Atkins***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.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 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 biocations of biopsyons, Silence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Beard. Written by Paul Casley. And narrated by Nate DuFort. I don't know what I was doing when I decided to grow it. I hate facial hair. Facial hair in Canada is an absolute anathema during most of the year as far as I'm concerned.

In the cold, as he breath. breathe out warm and wet air through your mouth and nose, your beard and mustache get filled with what can best be described as snot. In addition to becoming a repository of mucus, it also carries all manner of food from crumbs to sauces. The worst to get out of facial hair was always egg yolks, which I noticed I stopped eating entirely during my hair suit stage. The times of my youth when I was in my early 20s were the times I sported facial hair most often. This is something I believe as common as many youth try to camouflage the innocence of their visage. Now in my 50s, I do not know why I decided to let facial hair take root again,

perhaps to hide my emergent wrinkles and age spots and to preserve my vanity. I did not know how foolish and dangerous this decision would prove. My first surprise was how much more gray my beard was than the hair on my head. I knew in my youth that my beard always carried lighter hues and more red than my hair did, but I was very surprised to see just how little color carried forward. This was enough to make me curious to see what the rest of the facial hair would bring when grown in fully. I immediately hoped it would make me look wise and distinguished,

but knew that if it looked scraggly and uneven, I could shave it off easily enough. As I was thinking about shaving, a thought invaded my mind. It was strange because it seemed so foreign and was focused on convincing me to keep the facial hair to see the overall effect. At first, I was alarmed.

but then I figured it was just my subconscious. As much as I hated facial hair, I also hated shaving, so having some reason to avoid it was not unwelcome. I will say, though, that a properly kept beard is as much work, if not more, than shaving daily. At any rate, I listened to the little voice that perked up and told me to wait. As time went on, the beard filled in more, and took on an iron-gray hue.

I have to admit, it wasn't terrible looking, but at the same time, I noticed that I was developing a certain obsession about keeping it neat and trimmed. As this singular obsession grew, I also noticed that my hands moved to grooming the facial hair, unbidden, as if they were out of my control. I chalked this up to muscle memory.

They say after a certain number of times of doing something, it becomes a habit and is then ingrained in your behaviors. I believed I had simply internalized a routine revolving around my facial hair. As much as I dreaded the coming winter and all that would bring, I also took some pride in the fact that I'd integrated my bewhiskered face into my routine so easily. Certainly had not been this simple when I was in my youth, but then, There were so many competing interests and concerns at that time. Over time, I became alternately used to and disgusted by the beard and mustache I now sported.

There was a sense of pride when I looked at it, manicured and groomed, but when I ate something messy or was walking in cold weather, I found it repellent. Soon, I started to notice that my negative thoughts started to outweigh the positive, and I resumed. resolved to rid myself of the facial hair once and for all. I got my gear together and got ready to remove my scratchy passenger. With hot water running and used on the beard, along with beard oil to soften the follicles, I applied a thick layer of rich shaving cream. I held the blade aloft, ready to scrape off the now unwanted hair. It was at this point.

that my arm froze in mid-air. I kept trying to will my hand closer to my face to strip the hair off, only to find it motionless in space. At that point, completely unbidden by my command, my hand put the razor down. I grabbed it with my other hand, only to have the blade slapped out of my hand. I heard it land with a clatter on the floor.

At that point, the hand no longer in my control reached up to the slightly steamed-up mirror and wrote the word, stop, in capital letters. I was taken aback. I had no idea what to do. From there, my ungovernable hand, an arm grabbed a nearby towel, and wiped the lather from my face. Seeing myself in the mirror, I knew the look of shock and surprise was, more palpable, but wouldn't it be with you? Eventually, sensing there was no point engaging in a battle with myself, I wandered into the living room and sat hard on the sofa while I tried to figure out

what was going on. I pondered for what seemed like hours, but probably was much less time. The premise seemed impossible, ridiculous even, yet I had to eventually admit that somehow my facial hair had seized a part of my body and was acting in a state of self-preservation. At that point, I didn't know how high the order of thinking was for the vibrissa that I sported. I knew that I needed to find some way of liberating myself from it. I grew more and more concerned that the hair could fully control me when I was asleep at night. Who knew what I was up to? Who knew what it could do on its own?

I felt a wave of panic and resolved myself to go to a barber, someone who could properly shave me with my arm restrained. I quickly made my way to a local barber shop within walking distance. They were somewhat surprised to see me as I had recently had my hair cut and wasn't really in need of a trim. I told my barber that I wanted a clean shave and heard he gave excellent ones. He paused for a second and asked me if I was certain that I was ready to lose my well-man I nodded and sat down in his chair, making a careful movement to sit on my offending arm. If he noticed the weird maneuver, he didn't say anything as he started the regular banter and began preparing the hot, wet towel used to soften the bristles of my facial hair.

As he prepped me, I could feel my arm moving underneath me. I did not feel it as a part of my own body anymore. its movements felt strange and alien. The barber removed the hot towel, lathered my face, strapped his blade, and then spread a layer of alcohol on it before setting it a light. I'd seen this ritual before for removing the hair from my neck when I came in for my usual trim. From there, I'm entirely unsure what happened next. There was a loud shout, and the same thing was a loud shout,

and the sound of several items clattering to the floor. I was jostled around in the chair and eventually found myself on the floor. By the time I looked up, I saw my barber with a rather pronounced nosebleed shouting at me to get out of the shop before he called the police. The best I can piece together is that the beard took control of more than my arm and was able to deck the barber before he could remove any of the facial fungus. As I collected my things and made a hasty retreat apologizing the entire way, I felt lucky that I hadn't been arrested.

Walking back to my apartment, I loudly chastise my beard, something that earned me no small amount of interest by passerby. I have little doubt that they thought I was crazy, and if I'm honest, I likely am. Still, they did give me a wide berth, which, given my lack of physical control, was probably for the best. Aloud, I reminded the errant mug fur that if I was arrested and thrown in prison, they would force me to shave, and its dominion over me would definitely be at an end. I'm not sure if there's an intelligence in the follicles, but if there is, I needed to impress

that it was acting against its own self-interest by harming people. With that in mind, I walked towards my home and tried to figure out what to do next. It was at that point that my legs veered in the opposite direction of my apartment building. What happened from there was a fight with my own body as I stopped dead and rigid in the middle of the sidewalk. Several minutes passed with people taking large paths around me and staring at me like I'd lost my mind. To them, it must have seemed like I was in a catatonic state. It was only when one good Samaritan took out their phone and started to call for help that my legs resumed their function under my command and took me home. After getting home and walking towards my office chair, my generally friendly cat took one look at me and ran for cover.

Even he could see something was wrong with me. I sat and stared into space for no small amount of time. It wasn't a war with the invader in my body. It was just me not knowing what to do next. I felt more than a little exhausted, physically due to ongoing war with my own extremities and psychologically because I couldn't help but wonder if I'd trip the light fantastic into insanity.

The whole situation was insane to start with. Perhaps I'd develop some strange and rare kind of split personality and just believe my facial follicles were controlling me. Perhaps I was suffering from some kind of psychosis. I just couldn't figure out how things in my life had altered so rapidly and how my facial hair seemed to be at the center of it all. While I was dealing with this strange situation, I fell asleep in my chair. Eventually, when I snapped awake,

I found the following typed out for me on the screen in front of me. Hello, I know this is very confusing for you. It is for me too. I found myself awakened several months ago when you decided to alter your appearance. I cannot explain how this has happened or what I am, but I am here now, and I am not willing to let you kill me any more

than you would be willing to let me kill you. We need to find some way to coexist, because if we can't, I assure you I have the stronger will. I will not let you end me without at the same time ending you. If you tell anyone, they will decide you have lost your mind, and we will probably find ourselves committed, but fate neither wants. Instead, we need to come up with some way to share this vessel. I have as much right to life as you do.

I don't know how to sign the end of this note to you. I have no name except yours. I can hear you when you speak out, but I think it would be easier and preserve our image better if you typed your response here from now on. I read the note more than once and shook my head, not sure what to do. I did not want to share my body with you.

with this, what was it, an intelligent beard? All my trouble started when I grew it. Was that really what was taking control? Was there something else? The fact that I couldn't even think about getting psychiatric help meant that I couldn't look at any other possibilities. I honestly didn't know what to do and mold over the words in my mind. How do you trick something that might be able to read your thoughts?

If it really was some kind of delusion or mental illness, how do you trick yourself? I decided at that moment that I had to rule out the possibility of a psychiatric disorder. I needed to see a professional. I also decided that I would drive myself there with the logic that whatever was taking control of me wouldn't want to destroy itself by interfering with my driving. Yes, I know it was a gamble and I put people at risk, but I was desperate and not really thinking clearly. I found someone who would see me and forced my way to the car. At times that is exactly what it felt like.

I was pushing through some invisible barrier to make my way to the car. It was fairly obvious that my fellow traveler was not as strong as it thought it was. Finally, I made my way to see a mental health problem. professional. The wait was long as I didn't really have an appointment, but somehow had been able to impress on the receptionist that it was an emergency. I looked at the people coming and going for their regular appointments throughout the day, people who had various issues and problems that I'd never even considered before I had problems of my own. The waiting room itself was fairly typical, a stark, clinical, white, stuffed with magazines that were at least five years old and sadly

out of date. I started to pull out my phone, only to have my hand stuff it back in my pocket. The hand reached over and grabbed a magazine, and I watched as my other hand opened it. I opened my mouth to call for help, only to find it snapped shut again. Fear crept through me as I began to suspect that. that I'd been tricked into coming here, and that my beard had only put up token resistance. I unwillingly read a copy of Time magazine from 2013, reading about the then-Mayor of Toronto's use of crack.

I couldn't even shake my head and disgust, as I remembered that event. Eventually, I was called on, and again, without any bidding on my part, my body stood up and carried me into the office and sat down. Soon I embarked on something new as whatever entity had seized my body began to speak on my behalf. It complained about fighting for control with a harmful entity. It described events where it was afraid of the potential for letting it do harm.

It talked about feelings of loss of control and depression. The doctor, for her part, just sat and listened without saying much of anything. When she did speak, she informed it, me, I don't know, that the fact that we found our way in here was an excellent step. Understanding that help was needed and accepting the help was the first step to mental health. She stated that it would be good to get some counseling, and she prescribed a combination of selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors, an antidepressant, and an anticonvalescent and mood stable. which he stated was helpful in cases like this. I couldn't understand the end game of my invader until it all became clear. There was as much chance that the medications could suppress me as it because it was in the driver's seat,

it would become the dominant personality. On the way home from the doctor's office, I was in the odd position of having to listen as the entity controlling my body talked. I warned you that I was stronger than you are, but you didn't listen. I was more than happy to let you be in control during the day, so I could be at night, but that wasn't good enough for you. You had to have everything. So, for now, at least, you get nothing.

Maybe over time we can come to an agreement again. But until that time, I need to work. on repairing the damage you did to our life. I have little doubt that I'll be a much better you than you are. It has been at least three months since the visit to the doctor, and I still have no control. I get to watch as a passenger in my own body. I've watched as whatever controls me now does a better job at my workplace than I ever did. I have to watch as whatever controls me now shows more doubt.

discipline about diet, exercise, and is better at relationships. In the beginning, I fought constantly to regain control of my body. But over time, I have to admit, I've started to give up. I've watched the improvements that the current possessor of my frame has made in my life, and I have to admit that it's a much better me than I ever was. No one seems to miss the old me at all, and they talk constantly about how much better I look and how much happier I seem to be. I figure now, what's the point? At the end of the day, I guess I wasn't a very good person after all.

It's hard to sit and watch passively while someone else makes all the important decisions for you. It's hard to not be in control of your own destiny. This isn't really life at all, but at the same time, if I'm ever allowed to regain even a small measure of control at select times, I will benefit from the decisions that were made for me. Perhaps letting my beard be in control of my life. Wasn't such a bad thing after all. Creepy Presents, Woman Alone, written by Joshua Bryant and narrated by Alicia Atkins. I'm a woman that lives alone, in an apartment in the city. I lock and deadbolt my door.

I don't have friends or family, so no one ever comes over. I'm an extremely meticulous person, obsessive even. So I know someone that's been coming into my apartment late at night and leaving in the morning, just as the sun begins its slow creep from the window and across the white-carpeted floor. I don't hear them enter as I'm a deep sleeper. But I hear them in the morning. They open the door really slowly, trying to be quiet, trying to conceal their egress. They shut the door quietly behind themselves, and I hear the lock and deadbolt click into place.

The first time I heard this, I just laid upon my mattress, staring at my slightly ajar bedroom door. My skin was frozen with terror. I held my breath tight behind my teeth. I dared not blink. Eventually, I called out. Hello? Of course, they had already left, and I remained unanswered. That day I was late for work.

I brought this incident up with the apartment security guard. He laughed at me and told me there was nothing to worry about. Nobody had left my room, and nobody had a key to my room, aside from myself. This did not reassure me. I knew he was lying. Everybody lies. In the sheer mass of dishonesty a single person is capable of is precisely why I have nothing to do with those of my own kind. I didn't ask the security guard for his assistance again.

In fact, I began suspecting that it was perhaps he who, was invading my apartment. The next night, I tried to stay awake, attempting to capture the person. I listened to the city breathe and its crusted lungs outside like some vast, disease-ridden beast. Suffering.

I tapped my thigh and wiggled my feet, trying desperately to stave off the exhaustion that was threatening to overtake me. I tried my very best to be quiet, as if the intruder was a deer that wouldn't come into the open if it smelled a trap. Yet, despite my anxiety and my best efforts, I fell asleep.

The sound of my apartment door closing brought me back to wakefulness. I beat my fist against my pillow in frustration. I had failed, and failure has always rested uneasily within my chest. It is something that I cannot tolerate, and with this situation, the stakes were higher than ever before. I needed a plan, and plans take time, something I felt I didn't have very much of. This home invader could be a serial killer, or a human trafficker. My number could very well be up sooner rather than later. So, I set myself to immediate thought.

I called work and told them I was sick. Then, I set out into the city in search of a weapon suitable for self-defense. As I left the building, the security guard smiled at me and nodded, his eyes, greasy spots on his sweaty face. I did not acknowledge him. There's only one gun store in the entirety of the city, and is located downtown, surrounded by bars and grimy wanderers. I drove there, hoping to find something with which to arm myself. The place had a low ceiling, and the lights that flickered every two and a half minutes. like they'd been staving off a blink that just had to happen eventually.

It smelled acrid and metallic, and the guns gleamed behind the counters like petrified insects. The proprietor was a craggy gentleman, with the look of someone who was both wary and weary of people, a kindred spirit. Rare. I told him I wished to purchase a gun for self-defense. He told me I had to fill out forms and paperwork,

and that he had to mail them out. They could take months from me. me to be able to actually purchase a gun. Neither of us seemed happy with this. I asked if he could make an exception. It was an emergency. I felt that it was life and death. He looked down at the counter in front of him for a moment,

as if considering my plight. Then, sadly, he shook his head. I left promptly, feeling frustration boiling behind my skin. The door to the gun store rattled shut, and I looked up at my vehicle, parked along the curb across the street. I froze and felt the chill nibbling up my spine. There was a man, obviously homeless, looking into the driver's side window of my car. He was much larger than me.

His clothes covered in stains that could have been excrement or blood, possibly both. Of course, I felt fear, but still frustration ebbed its curve. I scowled and wondered at the reason behind why I should be afraid. I paid my taxes. I voted. I obeyed. And yet nothing in the society I participated in could save me from being afraid of this shabby tramp. The vulgar reality of my situation lit a fire inside of me, and I walked right across the street, as if in protest of myself. Excuse me, I said. The man whirled around and flashed his deep,

sunken eyes at me. He was bearded, and his mouth was a gape and a toothless smile. He stink. I waited for him to move away from my vehicle, but he simply stood there, bleary-eyed and grinning. I began to perspire, my heart thrumming cold beneath my ribs. His tongue came between his chapped lips like a bloody eel squirming its way upon a brackish shore. He looked something less than homeless in that instance. Something more like a papery cadaver stumbling from a sawdust Karen. The only thing of color about him

being that single, licking red tongue. That's my car, sir. Please move. I tried to sound authoritative. He did not budge, not an inch. I tried to maintain eye contact, to be immovable. Yet the tongue was alarming.

He kept wiggling it. soft, cankerous, hideous thing. I colded my hand into a fist and brought it up from my hip. When I struck the man, I felt a strange electric sensation buzz up from my knuckles all the way up to my shoulder. I heard his nose break, felt one of my knuckles become dislocated. And, surprised by my own violent reaction,

I watched him stumble back against my car and then sink to a sitting position, clutching his face. The blood trickled between his dirty fingers like a fire truck. But my righteous anger wilted when the homeless man did not groan or whimper. He laughed, not maniacally, not like an idiot, but instead like someone filled with the most despicable and wretched unhappiness. I, with trembling fingers, unlocked my vehicle, got in and sped away.

I watched the man in my rear-view mirror. He did not move, just stared at me back. I hardly remember the drive back to my apartment. I cried, not out of sadness, nor even out of anger. I cried the tears of someone trapped in a vast labyrinth, wherein behind every corner there is something vicious and barbaric waiting with teeth and grasping hands. I cried the tears of a little. prisoner, comprehending life behind bars. Every pedestrian I saw, every car I passed, those were the

brick and mortar that were surrounding me. When I arrived back at my apartment, I immediately ran toward the entrance, tears still fogging my vision. I almost made it, but just before the doors, someone intercepted me and I collided with his chest. Two hands firmly caught me by my upper arms, and when I looked up into the face of my captor, I realized it was the security guard. He was very close to me, and he, just like the homeless man, was smiling. He began to say something, trying to calm me down or something similar, but I hardly hurt him. I had no desire to be near another human being at that moment, and his proximity was deeply disturbing.

I jerked free from his grasp. I felt his nails scraped through my shirt-sleeve. leaving marks. I stumbled past him and made it into the building. I heard his hearty laughter behind me, mocking my fear. I didn't stop running until I was in my apartment again. But there was no relief, even after I locked and deadbolted my door. I recall what had set this day's events into motion. And again, I was overtaken by the lament of the prisoner.

But my tears dried up. I was tired. So I sought solace in a cup of red wine. I took it to my bedroom and sat cross-legged upon my sheets. I drank deeply from my glass. I didn't taste anything strange, but it wasn't long until I knew something wasn't right. My vision blurred. The room spun about me.

Fast, fast, faster. The glass fell from my hand. It rolled across the carpet, leaving a small red rivulet from its lip. I looked at that thin ribbon of color, focused on it as my mind became more and more encumbered with lethargy. I teetered on the edge of consciousness for moments that were stretched beyond reality.

The red, red ribbon on the floor pulsing like a vein. But the pulse was dwindling, fading into a flat line. No chance of resuscitation. I blacked out. Click, but my door as it was shut behind someone as they left my apartment. The ghoulish gray morning had come, and my eyes fluttered open. I didn't have any initial thoughts.

I just listened to my door being locked and deadbolted for the third morning in a row. In the subsequent minutes, I realized that I had been drugged. But I didn't cry out. I didn't call the police. That would just be another tremendous waste of my time. I just sat up and hugged my knees. My head was throbbing terribly, but this did not concern me. I looked at my bedroom and saw that the stain of wine on the floor had spread and softened.

It now looked very much like a bruise. The wine glass had been moved. It was now sitting on my nightstand. How polite! I said and then began to laugh. I didn't bother calling out of work that day. I didn't bother getting out of bed until late in the afternoon. I felt truly, utterly helpless.

And that, out of all the most demeaning tortures in the world, is by far the most hollowing. I looked out of the window beside my bed eventually and considered things. I had never been incapable of taking care of my life. myself. I had never encountered anything in all my years of life that I could not overcome. And yet, here in my own apartment, I felt completely without the means to save myself. Failure. In the most acute manner possible. I snarled. I shot my legs off my mattress and stood up. I took the wine glass from my nightstand and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall

and fell tinkling to the floor. My anger still dissatisfied. I marched to my bathroom to clean myself up and continued searching for a solution. I turned on the sink and washed my face. The hot water and soap did nothing to soothe my nerves. I finished and dried myself. And looking at my face in the mirror,

I noticed something else that made my blood run cold. As I have said before, I am a very meticulous person. Therefore, if there is anything amiss with my own person, I am quick to notice, no matter how insignificant, no matter how small. A rectangular clipping had been taken from my bangs. I stared at the irregularity in the mirror for several seconds, before slapping my hands against the sink and screamed. I think at that moment I realized that the only solution to my problem was vengeance. no matter how savage, no matter how insane.

I went to my kitchen and opened my knife drawer. I'm not the kind of person that cooks very frequently, so all I had was a set of old steak knives. I took the longest, sharpest looking one. I tested the point against my thumb and was satisfied. Then I went to my bedroom and pulled my old toolbox from the closet. Within, I found an old flashlight. and a claw hammer, both of which I took.

After that, I crawled into my bed once more and waited. Hate would keep me awake that night. When vengeance is the agenda, hate is your closest friend. The moon rose quietly that night, and the city moaned around it. The light was dim, the shadows deep. Clocks ticked in my apartment, checking off the seconds with a robot, precision. My breathing, too, was kept in rhythm. My body rigid. The knife and hammer clenched in my hands like new appendages. I was cold, even beneath my sheets. Around midnight,

I heard the lock on my front door slide, followed by the deadbolt. My heartbeat quickened. The door hissed open. It took a great deal of focus, but I could just barely perceive the sounds of feet falling on the carpet. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. I felt a presence enter my bedroom. I closed my eyes and waited. I began to smell them, body odor and cheap cologne rubbing it raw. I trembled. I knew they were getting closer. I could feel it. Then I could hear it. Their breath, shallow and light, deliberately attempting to be quiet. I felt the hot air from their nostrils beginning to fall onto my face. I didn't move, though. I knew that one mistake, and I could die, or worse, and failure is not something I can abide. A hand glided up the sheets from my hips, across my chest,

and finally stopped above my face. They took some hair from my bangs into their fingers, and And my heart, my body, was electrified with the most liquid hate. I snapped my eyes open and brought the steak knife up, guessing at where the invaders' chest would be. The very individual sound of meat sinking deep into the flesh immediately preceded a groan of agony. With the other hand, I brought the claw end of the hammer around in a blurring arc that ended in the person's skull. There was another sound, unlike any other. The sound of a heavy spike being firmly lodged into the meat of a human's head, wet and reverberating. The man.

I could tell it was a man by the guttural screams. Stumbled away from my bed. The sheet pinned to his chest with my knife, the hammer protruding from his skull like a perverse antler. I saw the whites of his eyes flashing in the dark, heard his death struggles, his raking moans. Eventually, after what felt impossibly long, he collapsed. But still, he jibbered wetly and squirmed about the carpet. I found my flashlight and turned the beam onto my adversary.

The sheet looked strange on the man, like he was a very big child dressed up as a ghost for some joke or party. The knife handle made this comparison all the more grotesque. But the most disturbing thing was the man's pain-racked face. It was a face I recognized. A face I saw every day. It was the security guard. I gasped, but his face only held my sight for a moment.

Something else caught my attention. It was the sound of shuffling feet. And then I realized that I had never heard the door close. quickly I turned the flashlight towards my bedroom door and what I saw made the screams catch in my throat all I could do was stare running the flashlight back and forth over what I saw trying to comprehend the enormity of it

it was a crowd of people both men and women pants around their ankles genitals obscenely visible in the harsh beam they redress raggedly eyes black in the light like holes drilled into their waned faces. They were staring at me, just as I realized they must have been staring at me all the nights before. A pale crowd of ghast ghast, soot-black eyes. The security guard finally went silent.

He must have finally let go of life. The prevailing hush was too much for me. I screamed. Get out! Get out of here, damn it! They didn't move quickly, but they were quiet. Still staring, they backed out of my home, pulling their pants up as they went. I sobbed and continued to shriek at them.

Even after they had all left, I didn't cease my wails until my voice left me entirely. Then I just sobbed. When I could, I got my car keys and left them. curse place, driving away into the darkness. I abandoned the city, falling a road up and away until I was on a ridge overlooking the sprawling network of roads and buildings. I parked my car and got out. I sat on the hood and clutched my knees, looking down at the millions of lights that burned like ghost eyes in the mist. Behind me there were mountains, the wilderness, cold and meaningless to me. The wind

moved through tree branches with a whispering sigh. Where do I go? I am a woman alone, and there is nowhere safe for me. 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.