Creepy - Beneath the Powerline

Episode Date: December 8, 2025

Beneath the Powerline***Written by: Jesse Pullins***Bunker Days***Written by: Daniel Letz, and Narrated by Nichole Goodnight***There is a Reason Why You Should Not Burn Witches***Written by: The Librarian Chick and Narrated by Rissa Montanez***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. Time flies. It's funny to think I've only been working here at the radio station about a month.

Maybe it's just a matter of getting older. Remember when you were a kid, or maybe currently are, in which case I would refer you to our disclaimer in the intro music? And the wait until Halloween or Christmas or your birthday or summer vacation was the longest amount of time that anyone had ever had to wait for anything? Maybe you're old enough to remember appointment television. just the way it was, not because some streaming service decided to stagger a season release. I like to think that the concept of patience was ingrained in us just by living.

But still, life took its time. Then you get older, and that same amount of time takes a little less and a little less. Heck, how many times recently have you said to a friend or a significant other that you can't believe it's blank already? I mean, it's been almost six years since quarantine. Six years. Six years. Time just feels different now, doesn't it? All jumble together.

Easy to get. To get. A call on the studio line. Looks like Owen stopped chasing squirrels. One sec. Hello? Hi, Dad. Sunset?

Why are you calling me? Is everything okay? Yeah, everything's fine. Why aren't you in class? Dad, it's nine at night. Nine at night? No, that can't be. Holy crap. I've been here almost ten hours. Are you okay?

Yeah, yeah, sunset. I just... Nothing. It's just funny, I was just talking about how fast time flies. Anyway, what's up? Is everything okay at home? Yeah, I just wanted to know when you were going to be home. Mom said you were supposed to be home already. I'll be home soon. I just need to finish up some story intros and I'll head out. Okay.

Are you okay, Dad? Yeah, yeah, Sunset. I just... I just got distracted with work. Are you all alone there? Yeah. Does it get scary? Sometimes a little, but you always make me feel better. You know why that is, right?

Ugh, come on, Dad, I'm too old to say that. That's okay. You don't have to say that. We can talk about something else, maybe six- Stop! Okay, okay. Just once. Why do I call you sunset?

Because sunsets bring darkness. And why is that important? Because we need to remember that dark. Darkness isn't hiding monsters. What's it hiding? The things were afraid to see, but need to see. That's right. You made me see. What were you afraid to see, Dad?

We'll talk about that some other time. I'll be home soon. Have Mom text me if she needs me to pick up anything on the way. Okay, wait. You aren't recording this. Are you? Oops, gotta go. Dad! Okay, well, I've definitely been here. here way too long today. So let's get right to the stories. First up, a factory worker's quiet smoke breaks turned terrifying after glimpsing what he can only describe as a skinned man

beneath a rural power line. From writer Jesse Pullins, creepy presents beneath the power line. Every day I drive to a local gas station and smoke cigarettes on my lunch break. I work in assembly on a clean campus and there's no smoking on the premise. Luckily, the gas station isn't far, and I get to have about 20 minutes a piece and quiet and decompress. I do the same thing every time, meticulously watching the clock on the dash while my lunch break ticks away. There's a line of parallel parking-styled spots on the side of the building, and I pull up there,

enjoying my first smoke while I watch the corn sway in the wind, while the radio plays softly. The gas station's less than a mile away, but my car station is less than a mile away, but my car. My job is located outside of town in the country, so the space between places is filled with nothing but corn fields, trees, and a stretch of power lines running high above. It's a very peaceful, rustic get away, and oftentimes I zone out, staring off into space, watching the corn sway as my eyes wandering endlessly. Three days ago, I saw something staring back at me. I don't know how long you've been standing there before I'm.

I noticed it. At first I acknowledged it like one would notice a tree that hadn't seen before. Suddenly becoming aware of an existence, it didn't matter. Except this tree was humanoid in shape, and by the looks of it, didn't have any skin. It was a few hundred feet away, but there was no denying the fact that something was terribly wrong with it. An icy chill immediately ran up my back, triggering all of my nerves while I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it, but everyone was just going about their business, pumping gas or hurriedly leaving their car to head inside. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, swearing it had just been a trick of the light. Not only was it still there, it had moved closer,

and it had drifted out of the corn slightly, leaning against the lag of the tall power line it was under. I could see the slight deviation of movement while it stood there. like it was breathing heavily and stopping to catch its breath. Even from so far away I could see the specks of white for eyes staring at me and an overwhelming feeling of foreboding tunneling towards me. It felt like I was going to get hit by a car or a plane would crash on top of me. It's hard to explain. I just stood there, staring at me.

As the seconds melted into minutes, I snubbed. out my smoke and did what every other rational person would do. I grabbed my phone and tried to take a picture of it. It stood there while I opened the app for my camera, holding the same stare as I tried to get the camera to focus. It finally did, and I slowly zoomed in to try and get a decent view of it. But just as my thumb tapped the button to capture it, it disappeared.

Not like I looked away and then it was gone. It just vanished into thin air, like it's... ceased to exist. I sat there for a time afterwards, unable to shake the feeling that something was very wrong. The longer I sat, the more I wondered if I'd just imagined it. Maybe the days of lack of sleep, fatigue, and stress were piling up, and I was starting to daydream.

Maybe I'd dozed off and didn't notice it. The days had felt so much shorter since daylight savings time. Maybe it was just a case of the seasonal I was picking away at my brain. I kept thinking of scenarios to justify such a thing. Even as I pulled out in my parking spot and headed back to work. I kept looking back to the empty spot

and the corn under the power line, expecting to see it again, but I saw nothing. After I punched back in, I asked some people on the same line as me, ones I knew it also go and smoke during the allotted lunchtime. I wasn't the only regular there, but I was the only person who saw it.

Most told me I needed to get some sleep and stop staying up so late. Others suggested that maybe it was just a deer or perhaps someone who lived out in the boonies, trying to go viral by scaring people in the corn. I laughed it off. But throughout the day I was unable to shake the feeling, stricken by what I saw. The dread continued to stay with me, even after I punched out for the day and had it home. It persisted through the night and it made me paranoid when I hung out at home even as I crawled into bed. I tossed in turn for a while, thinking of the red humanoid shape lingering

in the distance. I kept waking up and looking at the doorway, expecting to see it. Each time, nothing. But the feeling of unease persisted, even as I felt myself succumbing to sleep. That night I dreamt of walking through the cornfield. Chilly wind tossing my hair and whipping at my clothes. The corn swayed in the gust, a steady dance that moved across the crops as far as I could see. It was peaceful, but engulfing, an intimidating embrace that made me feel small in the vast expanse of it. Dried husks crackled under my feet, and the mud tried to steal my shoes, and I start to feel the swaying stocks close in on me. Above, the power line reaches towards the sky, looming over me

like a sinister lighthouse. I look away from the swirling gray overcast, following the legs of the power line. I squint through the stocks to sea, and I see a dark crevice in the ground ahead. Beneath the power line, there's a cellar door hanging open, beckoning me. I wake to the sound of my alarm, drenched in sweat. A fog swirls in my head, oddly hung over. from a sober sleep. I look at the doorway in my bedroom and find it empty. The sense of dread continues to loom. I get ready for work and head in.

Lots of corn in the cellar door racing through my mind. I can't shake the thought of it, and it proceeds to pester me through the beginning of my shift. I try to busy my mind and focus on work, tightening fasteners on the brackets of air compressors and running rubber hoses as the clock ticks away. Even as my hands work monotonously, I feel the weight of eyes on me. I constantly look over my shoulder, but there's never anyone there.

On my lunch break, I decided to return to the gas station. I convinced myself that I'm just being crazy, that there's no reason not to go and enjoy my daily smokes on my break. Just the thought of them sounds so nice. I pull into my usual spot and light up, feeling the weight easy. off my shoulders after the first drag. I sink into my seat, keeping my eyes closed,

and I ignore the cornfield next to me, telling myself over and over, there is nothing there. I gather the courage to open them, and I look at the cornfield. The power line stands defiantly in the corn, and I feel myself sweating as I trace the length of the spire to the ground.

Beneath the tall strife, structure? There's nothing. I breathe a sigh of relief and laugh at myself, nearly coughing as I wiped a sweat from my brow. There is no skinned man, only corn swaying in the wind. I feel better having conquered the fear. I turn my music on, and a familiar song crackles over heavy static. I try to tune the dial, but the distortion only grows the more I tamper with it. In the end, I turn the volume all the way down and decide I'm going to go run into the gas station and buy an energy drink. I suddenly feel parched and the feeling of ice-cold, electric carbonation sounds too good to pass up. I shut off my car, get out of the car and stop.

This skinned man is standing near the gas pumps peeking out at me. His eyes are bright white and beady. His stare freezing me to my core. His limbs twitch and he takes a step out from behind the pump. A bloody trail smearing the pavement with his footstep. I break out of my fear and look around to see if anyone else sees him. But nobody does. It's like he's not even there.

Even as he takes another step towards me, a woman in a hatchback pulls past him, nearly grazing him. His skin is completely gone. Steam radiates from exposed bloody mussels. Steady drips of red trickling down his arms and legs. He appears genderless, but his build is masculine. As a woman next to him gets out of the car and starts fueling, his mouth slowly hangs open, and he starts to scream.

A scream that nobody can hear but me. I get into my car and I leave, pair of squealings I turn around in the lot. I keep watching him, terrified he's going to suddenly give chase and rip me out of the car. But he only reaches for me slowly, like he can barely move. When I haul ass down the road, I watch for him in the rearview mirror. He lowers his hands and vanishes. Nobody believed me when I got back to work. I talked about the man with no skin and his scream that no one could hear.

The reactions were less entertained than the day before. Those who didn't laugh excused themselves awkwardly. Those that didn't either just looked at me like I was crazy. My shift crawled for the rest of the day. I was incredibly anxious, a cold sweat dampening my forehead as I looked around cautiously. Everywhere I looked, I swore I saw the skinned man, but only to see an empty aisle or a part rack instead. People tiptoed around me or avoided me.

me entirely, not wanting to draw attention to my increasing paranoia. I kept hearing his scream, the dry cry of an out-of-tune orchestra, just thinking of it and seeing his open mouth made my skin crawl. Once my shift concluded, I punched out and left work without a word. On the way home, I kept looking around, still unable to shake the feeling of someone watching. I kept feeling someone staring at me from the back seat, breathing on my neck. Each time I'd turn to look, there'd be nothing. Once home, I stayed inside for the rest of the day.

I locked the doors and preoccupied my mind with watching TV, hopping restlessly from one streaming service to the next in search of something to draw my attention. I'd occasionally peek out the window in my apartment to make sure he wasn't there, but would only see the occasional passing car. Everywhere I looked, I saw those damned eyes staring at me. That night I fell asleep on the couch, the muffled drone of an anime playing from the television. I don't remember when I dozed off, but I soon found my tired paranoia easing into a restless slumber.

In my dream, I returned to the corn. I was looking at the power line, watching it power above me. But my feet was the open cellar, an echoing wind whispering from the dark opening in the muddy earth. Above the sky swirls gray, and I look down just to see myself jumping in. I fall for a long time, plummeting through darkness silently. There seems to be no end. In the darkness below I see a faint red glow, a glimmering of light approaching me. I reach for it.

hoping it'll stop what it was transpiring. As the light drifts closer, the darkness explodes with sound, the sound of an out-of-tune orchestra. I wake up covering my ears. It sounds brutal and deafening now that I'm awake. My apartment shakes under it and I look around to find the source, only to end up screaming. The skinned man is on my balcony. His mouth opened wide and his silent, tortured screaming. He places his hands on the glass of the slider leaning in to see me.

The feeling of primal fear swallows me, and I fight the urge to cry. Vomit churns in the confines in my stomach. As suddenly as my dream ended, the skinned man vanished, once again leaving an empty space in his wake. I spent the rest of the night cowering in my room, hiding under the blankets and flinching at every sound. I slept restlessly, plagued by thoughts of being burned alive, my screams echoing over the field of corn. Today I woke up to my alarms, flinching over the thought of the out-of-tune orchestra. I crawled out to bed slowly, my limbs aching from my restless sleep. The thought of getting ready for work fled my mind, and I only thought of the power line in the cornfield.

I looked outside and saw the sky was unusually gloomy. My skin crawled with goosebumps that refused to leave, and my hair stood on end. Even in my groggy state, the feeling of being watched refused to leave. I looked everywhere for this skinned man, begging this to stop. It has to stop. I can't keep doing this. Today I got dressed and headed to work, but called off in the process. I followed the same route in my car, but instead of turning into my work site, I kept going until I found the nearby gas station.

I pulled into my usual spot, shakily inhaling the smoke as I looked at the field of corn surrounding it. The power line stood tall, almost menacing in the dark swirl of gloom in the sky. It has to stop. I snubbed out my cigarette and exited my car, feeling the chilly wind to salt me as I closed the door behind me. I thought to call him the police, but I didn't know what to tell them. Every scenario I imagined ended with me just being called crazy. My feet moved on their own, and I swallowed hard as I started walking in the direction I'd watched so many times on my lunch break.

The grass faded, and the corn began. I made my way into the deafening sea of husks ahead. The stalks were loud and cracked under my feet, and the mud sucked at my toes. I tripped and stumbled on the uneasy ground, and I grabbed the stocks in an attempt to keep myself balanced. My legs burned, and the crop scratched and whipped at me. Soon I felt lost in the corn, every step closing me off from the outside world. The corn stalks were taller the more you went in, until eventually I felt like I was being

swallowed by it. I kept my eyes on the power line above. I decided I would look there, and if I had to be able to be able. I found nothing, I'd turn back and go back home. Maybe then I would get help. Just as I was getting used to the crunch of my footsteps, the ground started to even out, and I found myself in a small clearing. Four large metal posts stood on each side, posted each corner of the clearing.

I could hear the creak of metal swaying in the wind, and I felt myself shrink as I looked up. I was standing underneath the power line now, next to the leg. where I'd first seen the skinned man a few days ago. It was eerily quiet and cold in the clearing, moss and dead grass covering the churned mountains left behind by excavation. I felt a strong urge to run back to my car, but every time I closed my eyes, I was reminded by the same piercing stare and scream.

If I went back home, I'd just go back to hiding in my apartment. I'd looked for disturbed dirt, for a grave. For a body. What I found was nothing but cold dirt and dried husks, with the occasional rock jutting from the earth. I didn't know what I expected to find, but I found no skinned man or signs of there ever being one.

The corn swayed in the circle around the clearing, and it felt foolish for wandering out here by myself. The wind picked up, and above the power line creaked. I watched the electrical lines sway in the sky, and I felt small and out of my depth. What was I hoping to find here? A skeleton laying in the grass. Stupid, I thought to myself.

Walking all the way out here, but not even as much as a shovel. My hands started to ache from the cold, and I found myself shivering. There was nothing to be found here. Maybe I did need help after all. I turned around to leave. My cheeks burning with frustration. I felt my eyes water, the helpless draw of tears, ready to further my own embarrassment. There is no skinned man.

You're just crazy. You're fucking crazy. As I sulked back to the edge of the clearing, something caught my foot. I tripped and stumbled into the mud, looking back at whatever had a hold on me. It was heavy and cold, and it kicked up a line of dirt in its water. wake. It was a metal chain. I looked at it, dumbfounded. The links heavily rusted and caked with dirt. I untangled my foot, then followed the mysterious chain toward its source. I got back on my feet and gathered the slack, staring at it for a moment before tugging on it. The lead disappeared

into the earth in front of me, directly under the power line. The chain was cold to the touch, but I It wrapped around my hands and started to pull. The earth fought against me, matted weeds and mud slinging as I ripped it from the ground. I pulled and pulled, digging my heels into the ground as I yanked it free. It caught suddenly, and I put all my weight behind it, running backwards until it suddenly broke loose. In an uproar of debris, I fell flat on my ass. And in front of me, a wooden door flung open. I'll whisper cooed from underground and I climbed to my feet and walked to it.

It was the entrance to a dark pit, a crude ladder leading the way to an unseen destination. My mind begged to call the police. My body pleaded to go home. In the end I did neither, and my shoes soon found the rungs of the old forgotten ladder. The light above shows a floor of damp dirt and bones, long decaying. and hidden in the dark. The passage wasn't as long as I thought. It went down about ten feet and I expected it to open up in some grand chasm below. When the latter came to an end, I only found a corridor, a ten-by-ten room carved deep into the earth. The light from above pooled in,

cutting through the haze of dust and stagnant air. I squinted through the heavy particles and attempt to see what the light seemed to be avoiding. Once the dust began to fade, I could hear the whispers growing, a hushed chorus that called to me from the corner of the derelict hole. The walls are etched with erratic text, words toppling words and an indecipherable message. I want to read the words, but I'm drawn away. My focus pulled to the corner where the light shines the least.

In the corner is a brass chair, and sitting in it, a corpse with dozens of limbs. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. The mummified, curled hands demanding my attention. It looked like a human, its skeletal frame filling the entirety of its throne-like seat. Empty eyes and a hanging mouth, its extra bony arms fanning out like wings. A gaping hole sits in the center of its chest, like something had been ripped out. out of it. Impossibly proportioned and long dead. The being dedicated several appendages

to the object had held in its lap. A glass orb radiating the slightest shimmer of red. The whispers were coming from it. I remember being unable to lift my eyes from the orb. It drew me in. Its whisper beckoning me to the dying glow it held within. The corpse stayed frozen in place. It's decayed frame getting larger the closer I got. It wanted me to take the orb. It was offering it to me. I reached out and touched it.

A static aura tickling my fingers as they drew near the glass. I wanted the orb. I needed to hold it. Nothing else seemed to matter. My fingers hovering around the glass in anticipation and a strange heat built up from it as I prepared to lift it. I looked into the corpse's eyes, twin skeletal voids that watched from its petrified husk. Just as I grabbed the orb, the corpse's jaw clacked.

The orb exploded with red light, and with it an unimaginable heat. The red glow consumed me like a raging fire engulfing me until it covered my entire body. I tried to swipe it off me, but it started to burn. A wicked chemical boil that seeped into my arms and legs like acid. I watched in horror as my skin started to part with me, bubbling and oozing until I was left with nothing but bloody meat. It collected and twisted in front of me like paint, a writhing mass that slipped through my fingers when I tried to grab it.

My strength began to fade, and my legs no longer felt capable of holding me. I collapsed helplessly to the ground, glaring at the orb and betrayal as it shined bright and decadent. My muscles felt the pain of every speck of dirt, every piece of gravel that scraped mercilessly into my exposed flesh. The pain was unbearable, a never-ending scream across my entire body. The mass of skin contorted and flexed, stretching across the corpse and its body. many limbs. It webbed between every finger and over every dried tendon. New life-taking shape and cracking as it coated over the nightmarish husk. The arms. So many arms. Assisted in the new fitting, pulling and tugging until the garb was complete. I could only reach out in my misery

while it repaired itself. The horrible form worsening the longer I watched it mold. Joints popped life, thin eyelids blinked. Once the form was complete, the gaping chest cavity quivered in agitation. Before my unclosed eyes, the being picked up the orb with its many hands and buried it into its chest. The cavity sealed on its own, tendrils of thin skin stitching itself until the red glow was no more. While I lay helpless on the cold and painful dirt, the being rose from the chair, standing and stretching tall before hunching over on its multiple limbs. It looks at me for a moment, the emotionless clacking echoing in the chamber before it makes its way to the ladder

and climbs it like a spider. The last I see of the monstrosity is its appendages slinking into the light. Right before the door slams shut, behind it. I've been in this darkness ever since. I don't know how long I've been down here. Hours, days, weeks. All I know is my constant suffering and my inability to escape it. Despite my exposed body, I am immune to the cold, immune to the prospect of perishing.

That's not the only change. Since discovering the corpse, I can feel an extension of myself, an ethereal, that lets me move beyond my miserable form on this cold earth, some kind of drift between time and space. I don't know if it's an after effect of the orb itself or my fractured sanity in this tomb I found myself in. I can do other small things, like move grains of dirt or sway the air in one way or another, in an attempt to recollect some of my sanity I've inscribed my story on the walls of this grave. But the longer time goes on, the foggy or the memories seem to get.

I don't understand it. I can only hope what I think is transpiring as real and not a fabrication of my delusional misery. I can't go far, but each time I find I can get a little further. I can see the cornfield above my tomb. I can almost feel the air dancing across it. If I focus hard enough and see myself, I don't know why they're there, or if it's even real. But if I try hard enough, maybe I could reach them. I need to warn them and tell them to stay away from here.

I need to warn them of the monster I set free. I don't know what it wants or why it was down here, but I fear for the life I left behind above ground. Maybe someone can stop it. Maybe I can stop it in my shattered mind. I remember where I used to work, where I used to live. If I can find them at the right time, maybe I can warn them. Maybe I can save them from a demise such as this. Two sisters are survivors multiple times over in an old fallout bunker, but sometimes,

Surviving becomes its own nightmare. From writer Daniel Lutz, I narrated by Nicole Goodnight, creepy presents, Bunker Days. What do you do when finding a mess like this? Daddy, with his brains turned to wet oatmeal, mankind sloughing off the world's gangrene appendages,

and my sister mumbling to the god she still believes into, please let Mommy still be out there, please? You do what you can do. Write it out. So Julie and I take turns tidying up the bunker for starters. Daddy based it on sort of a man cave. Leather chairs, a television stacked with bundles of CDs, caches of canned food and water,

blow up mattresses on the floor and whiskey, lots of whiskey. Anything a man might need at the end of his life. Except not. Well, not anymore, at least. With the help of our big girl muscles, the chairs end up in front of the big metal doors. Just in case, zombies, monsters, ghouls, ghosts, the ground is our kingdom.

The television stays, so do the horror movie CDs, a form of coping, per se. Canned food and water were all daddy stored. That couldn't afford to be thrown, so we gagged down the veggies when needed. And for a time, life is normal. The black skies stay a long while, a perpetual night. Something that sounds like rain pelts the windows. It could be ash. We mourn our parents, friends, past, but we move forward.

We have no choice. The mournful one show up not long after. Julie finds Daddy in the living room of the bunker, keeled over the couch late at night. We hear the blast and assume it's more hellfire and brimstone. Julie screams, runs to me and tells me Daddy went to see Mommy. Indeed, he did, I suppose, when I see his brains painted on the carpet and hardwood. There is no note, no sign, or warning. Maybe he didn't believe what he preached.

Maybe he couldn't get over the guilt or grief. A shame leaving his two daughters behind to find the mess he made for us in our lives, though. Julie is too young to understand why Daddy had locked Mommy in the room for hours at a time, or why he came home late smelling like gasoline. Like a sickness passing down from generation to generation, Daddy carried it on like the men before him. What a righteous old stone. Maybe he thought the bunker would save him, that the end times would relieve him of his long-due

punishment. Either way, that didn't work. So he finished the job. Julie shakes my arm. It's frantic and painful. The way she grips my skin is slippery. Her voice is just above a whisper. I can't make it out just yet.

Then I understand that she's telling me that they're outside. I turn to the side and roll over and up out of her mattress, finding my face. Finding my glasses, I slip them on and hold Julie. Ask her what she means and she tells me it's the mournful ones, sounding like she might cry. I sigh. They're back again. Time to get to work. I sling my trusty pickaxe Lucy over my shoulder and trudged through the dark hallway that leads to the bunker doors.

Sealed so very long ago. Dust and dirt cover most of the outside window, save for a few patches of space that provide generous glimpses to the dead world. Although there is not much to see. The sky mostly is a dull gray, just enough to see through to the world. Trees in the far distance, a mountain. The house above us gone now, save for a few remaining foundations, stretching towards an endless corridor. Outside, I hear a low moan, and then a woman's voice.

The voice is pleading as she calls me honey and says I'm her baby. Ah, well, they always know what cards to play first, but I haven't expected this. Usually, it's daddy. usually sometimes they go with my grandparents friends even neighbors all long gone by now this is new though i'm surprised to remember mommy's voice we don't know how it happened let alone why one day daddy saw the sky turn black and ushered us to the basement mommy was still at the grocery store so daddy gave her a call it went to voicemail he had no time to cry not in front of us at least He slammed the metal doors shut, a void of silence forming in the darkness with only our heavy breathing to comfort. Daddy held us close. The earth shuddered and settled in its shell. In the distance, screams came and went, fires burned and licked the fields. All was well in the land of Eden.

The sun never came out again. Not for a long time. Daddy said this was it, the end of times. The countdown had begun and blocky orange letters across the sky. My sister and I believed it then. Mommy was with him. Our daddy reassured us. In a better place until we would meet again. We didn't know where. I didn't like to think about that. I watched Mommy stumbling through the charred remains of our house outside.

The flesh of her right arm dangling from yellowed bone. Her face is intact, but it's not on right. A Halloween mask slightly askew. She limps, stops, limps, limps, comes up to the barred doors, placing a cold hand on the thick glass she smiles with no teeth and whispers to me that, I've gotten so big. I grip Lucy in my hands, squeeze her tight. Hey, Mom. She smiles a big old smile enough to swallow me whole. Behind her I glimpse shadows outlining the gray film of evening. They fade in and out, swaying this way and that again.

Must be her posse. It's posse. She asks me to come and see. Her faces against the glass, a full moon of decay against six inches from my teeth. I know what you are, I say, and she asks me what she is, calling me sweetie. I pause, tapping a grimy fingernail on the wooden handle. Not my mommy. Mommy's smile turns and her face melts into a visage of gore. Worms pour forth from the eyes, mouth, her nose falls and thumps against her.

the window. There is no blood. There is none left. Mommy is a butterfly multing into the purest form. Lifting an arm covered in ash, she croons that they will have me one day. Have the others, I reply. She then tells me that there are no others, and after a pause tells me that I'm all that is left. I step away from the glass and turn back to the living room. Daddy built this bunker before Julie and I were born, long before he and Mommy got married. Daddy built it with his daddy, Grandpa Owen, or so he told us. Grandpa Owen always spoke of the end times, of earth-shattering quakes and lightning strikes powerful enough to scorch skyscrapers. After all this apocalyptic hell, of course, the man himself would come, the Savior, swooping down to save the day. And so they built the

bunker in our basement, as a haven from all the evil to come. Heaven came in a blaze of golden dawn over the earth, until we were all made new. Yeah, that would have been the good ending. Instead, we have this. Mommy's last words linger in my head, tumbling about like dark stars in this horrible void. I don't tell Julie what I saw. She knows well enough the lengths they will go for us, known for a long time. We've made a game out of who we might see next. If it's not Daddy next, you get two whole cans of lima beans, I say, pinching her. She squeals and says I have to go into the lock if it is Daddy.

My stomach churns at just the thought. The lock is the bottom-most part of the bunker where Daddy kept the weapons. He knew we hated the dark, dank cellars, toiling worms and insects. So he hid them there. As punishment in the early days of our enclosure, this was the spot of our timeouts. Pure hell. Now we never go there unless it involves a game like this. We call it the lock for another big metal door that seals the decrepit space shut.

I push a plate of refried beans and grilled chicken towards my sister. If you don't finish this plate, that's going to be where you're headed. She screams the word no and chowls down as we finish our third rewatch of Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Through Technicolor, the Cardigan King is telling us about the in importance of siblings, how important it is to be there for them. I touch the back of Julie's head and feel a soft spot beneath her skull. I'm tempted to press, but I let go. I've been suspicious since the last time the lock was used. It's impossible to know how the mournful ones operate, how they become who they are. I know they tempt the living with desires, take their forms.

Perhaps it's something to do with our apocalypse at the end of the world. Maybe these are the true biblical end times. I don't recall this in Revelation. They show up a few months after Daddy dies, tapping on the glass windows, calling our names, trivial things at first. We are almost fooled a few times. When Julie sees only half of Grandma's face is when we know, it's not her, it's not her. I say as Julie balls into my arms, I am brave enough to grab Daddy's 22 and hold it the whole night. One after another they come. We adapt. evolve. There's no telling how far they go, how many nights they try to lure us out of sleep. How is it that evil knows what you want the most? How far will you go to retrieve what was stolen

from you? Who will know better? Who won't? The truth is, Julie and I only joke about the lock. Neither of us will ever go there again, not since we buried Daddy down there in the soft dirt. Not since Julie accidentally locked herself inside at some point, and I didn't find her until morning. She says she doesn't remember the entire night. So she says. So she says. I slap my sister on the arm. Her eyes are glassy, dazed.

She isn't here. This time I slap her across the face. A red welt appears, but she's looking at me with dreamy realism. She asks me what in a whispered voice. Grab his arms, I say, and point. Her hands slip on the drying blood as we haul daddy into the shallow grave. There's barely enough light in the lock, just a dusty light bulb in the center of the room surrounded by rocks and earth. It's damp and moist, smells like earthworms.

He lands face down in the hole, more blood and brains spilling out from beneath him like wet fish. I wait to see if his body shudders, and then I remember he's dead. Julie backs away from the grave and sinks to her knees. She lies on her stomach and peers over the edge at his body, reaches a tiny, hand and caresses his pant leg. She's not caressing. She has a marker and sketches a heart in black Sharpie. I wait for her to finish and tell her to grab some rocks, but she just asks me why.

Just do it. We find what we can. Small ones, big ones, two heavy ones. When I finish piling the dirt, we take the rocks and build a mound. We sprinkle dirt over top. Goodbye, Daddy. Foolish to think so, looking back now. Mommy comes back for a few more days.

Each time I go sit at the doors and watch her, but I keep my distance. Something about this one feels different, draws up the hairs on my neck. My eyes become too big. I stay there most days and nights. When sleep threatens to take over, I bite my wrist until it bleeds, and I taste pennies. This is the way it goes, but it has never gone this way before. Every other hour I check on Julie. She sits on the couch.

Naps, reads a book, stares at the ceiling. Maybe one day she will know. At some point, I can't find her until I realize she has been next to me the whole time, staring out into the world. As if she wants to be out there. Mommy is staring back at her, cooing and calling her darling. Julie, let's go, I say, taking her hand. She stays and asks Mommy where she went.

Mommy responds by telling her that they are all out there, waiting for Julie. Julie? I warn her as she steps closer to the doors and places her hand against the cool glass. Mommy places her own over top, smiling a triumphant smile. Her face begins to move, sloughing off to a lesser form. As the worms begin to crawl from her eyes, ears, nose, she whispers within our ears that they miss us. Julie smiles. I think I spot a worm on her upper lip as she responds that we miss Mommy, too. We are all worms, servants to the true gods between the cracks of the black stars, how hungry and merciful they are, performing such acts of graciousness upon the lesser. Oh, how they love me, how they love us. We worship the Red Queen as she dances in the cracks of the earth. With the lick of her tongue, we are full, we are ready. We have seen it in our true form. Oh, how we undulate in the writhing of those who deceive us.

They will see in their days what the true gods mean when they light the heavens a fire. What a splendid day it shall be when the sky is turned to pitch. The worms toil in the earth. We are the true forms of everything that comes after. Taking all that we can. Making servants from dust. Fucking in the slime of our cavorting gods. They will see.

Oh yes. They will see. We are the mouth, the hungry maw, teeth squirming. A thumping noise from beneath me against my back, scuttling up my spine. I'm barely awake to notice, but I feel everything. My hand reaches out for Julie to find cold air. I reach again. Cold air. I open my eyes and find empty covers and crumbs littering the cement floor.

It's early dawn. The thumping starts again. I place my ear to the ground and listen. Moments tick. Then I hear Julie. Then I hear someone else. A muffled voice, growling, animalistic. I'm on my feet and running to the lock. I feel my way down the ladder towards the large metal door only to find it cracked.

My breathing is harsh as I stare into the dimly lit room. Daddy, black and rotten, lying on his back with his hands in the air. He's alive and moving with slow grace as if he has waited all. this time, moaning with pleasure, he hangs on to darkness. My eyes adjust and I see Julie naked and straddling him. She leans down whispering to him, caressing his face. He whispers back. Coiling mass, the worm's warmth, cooling earth, Showsuthun lay cardam. They chuckle and move in rhythm like animals toiling in the earth. I cover my mouth as my breath hitches once, twice.

They turn their heads. Black eyes bore into my own. I step back and fall to the ground beginning a crawl. My hands slip. My head cracks the concrete. And I fall into darkness. When I come to Julie stands over me. Same old Julie looking so sweet and harmless.

I'm not fooled when she cries that I didn't come. Not yet. What's going on? I lie. She goes through her story, how she missed Daddy so much last night that she went to visit him, but the door swung shut. Convinced it was me she hammered and hammered. That was what woke me. The banging.

I hold her golden hair as she whispers that it was dark and cold and Daddy was there. There's a smooth wet spot beneath her ear, a fontenelle on a newborn. My finger itches to push. deep inside. Feel around her head and see what I find behind the mask. To know what I saw wasn't a trick. Then I feel something crawling on my skin. No legs smooth surface like a snake. But it's not a snake. I know what it is. Daddy isn't here anymore, I say. She shakes her head and tells me that he's always been here. I've started to think that means something. Julie asks me, if I miss Mommy.

She is sitting in front of the doors in a chair holding her stuffed animal. Her eyes glare blue and black, a trait of our daddy. Something on her skin glistens. Mommy is there, too, leering at the edge of the glass. Her fingernails tip-tap against the window. A singular eye looms. Sometimes, I say. She wants to know why sometimes.

I sit next to her and try to hold her hand. She pulls away and places her hand to the glass again, which smears under the substance that now glows all over her skin. Looking back at Mommy, both of her eyes are peering around the corner, with the edge of her mouth turned to a smile. I'm reminded of a tiger hiding in the tall grass. Who's been doing this to you? I ask. Julie titters and asks what I mean. What happened to you in the lock? I saw it. All of it. You've been this way a while, haven't you?

When did they finally get hold of you? you. All the while I'm standing, backing away, I find Lucy against the hallway entrance and stand her up in my arms. You don't remember? Julie asks, but it's like she's underwater. Worms pour from her mouth and into her lap. They squirt from her eyes and from her nose. She might as well be a corpse long dead. She gurgled out that she's always been this way. She reaches behind her ear, sticks a finger inside, and pulls away the mask. I close my eyes. In the back of my mind I see Julie's body next to Daddy's shotgun. Her face a void of gore and sheared bone.

I see my hands reaching down and placing her next to Daddy in the soft earth into his arms. I see the worms sucking up the brown blood. I see worms. They're everywhere. All over my face, my hands, my neck in my mouth. I open my eyes. Julie kneels in front of me and holds my cold face, sticks a finger in my mouth. and pulls forth a tooth, two, three, then the eyes, then the worms.

They've missed you so much. And finally, the last witch in her covenry counts how she and her sister trapped a child-killing demon in a cave, sealing all of their fates. From writer the librarian chick, and narrated by Rissamontanaz, creepy presents, there's a reason why you should not burn witches. Let me preface by saying I have always been very honest about what I was. I've never had any shame with what I am, with what my mother was, my grandmother, and a long line of women stretching back to the seeming beginning of time.

I am a witch. I have always practiced. I have always had power. And not once have I ever. harmed another living being, not ever, despite what anyone might say. Several years ago, I saw a shirt a young lady was wearing on a rare trip to town, it said, I am the descendant of the witches you forgot to burn. That shirt made me laugh. I ended up buying one off the internet at the public library.

I don't have the internet at home, you see. I have been a self-imposed hermit for decades now. It's for the best. I made a choice, and I have to stick with it. Back in the 70s, when I was still relatively young, something dark came to our town. Even I couldn't ascertain where it had come from. not even my mother or my grandmother or any member of our small coven could understand its origin.

Regardless of where it had come from, it had come here. We first became aware of this dark thing when the first child went missing. The little boy turned up later, dead and drained and amaciated like a dried cicada husk. We were blamed first, because of course we were. If there was anything from rain to snow to someone with a bad case of acne, everyone in our town pointed a finger at us. Some did ingest, some inhabit, and some an outright malicious hatred.

Edith had been the first one. To sense the thing, I still remember that evening. We had met for tea, no witchy business at all. It had been a delightful afternoon tea. When the poor lady had clutched her pearls and gasp like she'd seen a mouse. Are you all right, Edith? Tea too hot? My mother had asked softly.

But I knew she'd. She suspected that was not the gaze. Not with the way her eyes narrowed as she looked at the middle-aged woman. No, dear heavens, something has come to our town. I felt it passed through like a cold wind down my spine. Something wicked. Tears were in her eyes as she spoke. My mother nodded and poured out her tea,

reading her tea leaves while the rest of us, looked on in anticipation. Her face was grim as she read what the bits of water log tea leaves had to say. My dear ladies, we have work to do. My mother said, standing, wiping her hands on her apron as she stood. And we got to work. Day and night, each of us using our particular talents to not only track the thing, but find a way to contain it.

Constance read her ancient tones and texts. Mary tracked the beast to its layer using her divination skills. My mother and grandmother had their spells and potions, and I helped. My skills were in dreams and their interpretation. I spent many days fast asleep in medicine-induced stupor to glean what I could about this interloper. All I could learn was that it was ancient. Perhaps at one point it was worshipped.

It had been summoned by those with less skill to do their bidding. Instead, it had killed its would-be jailers and fled into the world, finding victims and blood where it could. Do you have a name, Gretton? Without a name to bind it, our prison will not be as effective. My mother asked me, her voice filled with concern and anger, though thankfully that anger was not directed at me. No mother, no name.

It has many names. And the dreams have not revealed its true name to me. I said softly. No matter. The magic and bindings will hold, though we ourselves will be bound to it until our deaths, my grandmother explained. Her voice was old and strained after so many weeks of working magic. She seemed as frail as paper and just as thin. And what about after our deaths, Elizabeth?

What then? Mary asked, her voice sharp and worn thin of patience. Then it shall be free. Unless we can learn its true name and banish it from once it came, my grandmother said, with a tiny shrug. A price we must pay to contain it. It's been killing children, and it will. will not stop until it has gone through every innocent life in this town.

Edith said, teary-eyed. We lay our trap. It was easy. I was the willing bait for the thing. I was the youngest. And mother and grandmother had filled me with potions and tinctures to make me more appetizing to the thing. We lured it to a small cave located on our property. We needed somewhere private where prying eyes would not see us,

and more importantly, not disturbed the thing once it was captured. It came quickly, on its shadowed feet. It took no effort to hide itself. It was darkness itself. No prey escaped it once it had its eyes upon it. By this time, over a dozen children and young women had, been killed. More blame was laid at our feet. We were being threatened to our faces. Dead animals were being thrown into our yards. Bricks with threats written on them were tossed

through our windows. When I felt the thing's presence at my back, it took all the strength I had to not run. Our magic was strong, and unbeknownst to the thing it was already trapped. I could feel the panic set in when it realized it could not leave the cave. Whispered threats were uttered as it reached for me and found it could not grasp me. It writhed, it screamed and begged, and it promised all manner of worldly goods and powers if we let it go. We ignored it. We all took turns sealing the small, cave with bricks and mortar. No easy task to do in the forest on unsteady ground, but we managed. When the final brick was laid, our powers were tied to its containment, to its life,

and hopefully, eventually, death. As long as one of us lived, it would be locked behind its prison of earth and brick. But then we started to die. One by one as old age claimed us. My grandmother first, followed by my mother. Constance drowned on a trip to Florida. Edith and Mary lived to be in their 90s. But the grim reaper comes for everyone in the end.

I am the last. I am in my 80s. I have never married or had children, though it was not for lack of trying. The rumors that it had been me and my coven who had killed those innocents all those years ago never went away. They only grew. And no man wanted me. I have been friendless now for many years. I have tried to find out the true name of the thing, but to no avail.

I have looked in books. I've scoured the internet and found nothing. I've reached out to other supposed witches and been met with scammers and liars. I feel so alone. And now I am dying. The last few years, the harassment has gotten so much worse. I have not been able to safely leave my home as when I do. I am followed and stalked.

I've been threatened with death, and today it seems like they have made good on their threats. My home is on fire. The flames are creeping along my hallway, and I can see the light from the fire getting brighter. And there is smoke. So much smoke. Outside my window, I hear them screaming. Screaming the same thing people like them have screamed for centuries. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. I have fallen to the floor and I am coughing, and I am afraid. Afraid for myself and the others. There are many innocent people that live in this town now, but I can feel the thing stirring now.

I can feel its anticipation. Once I die, it will be free, and the bricks have already begun to fall away. As the flames finally reach my door, I feel pity. I have no illusions about the pain and fear this creature will unleash on the people of this town. And they are about to learn a very important lesson. One that will be written in the blood of their children. There is a reason why you shouldn't. Burn. Wiches.

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