Creepy - Beware the Icky Stairs

Episode Date: June 14, 2021

If you ever get that feeling you are being watched...***Written by Sum Gigh***Bonus episode: "PawPaw's Basket" Written by DeathByProxy and narrated by Nichole Goodnight***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Beware the Icky Stairs Written by some guy Protected under Creative Commons license C.C. by N.C. And produced by Steve Blizzin. The moniker of the Icky Stairs,

as unimposing as it may seem to the uninitiated, doesn't appear until 2018. Yet this is the name that stuck with people who've seen them. and done the smart thing stayed away intrepid digital investigators have found that mention of the icky stairs or at least their description can be traced back as far as fourteenth century europe then described in a single transcribed passages a decrepit and foreboding both in sight and smell series of steps that demands children in and of itself this description is both ominous and and confusing. Without context, this single sentence could just as easily have been lost in the wake of time. As the publication it was found in was a compendium of stories and accounts of the bubonic plague that would go down in history as the Black Death, the pandemic that ravaged

Europe in parts of Africa from 1346 to 1353 AD, causing fatalities in the range of 75 to 200 million. Given the time, the squalid conditions, and the lack of explanation, a foreboding set of stairs would not have seemed so out of place. But it's the mention of children that links this first mention to the phenomena that would be known as icky stairs. While there hasn't been any specific link to children, and these so-called stairs that seem to mysteriously appear and disappear around the world. Children are the ones who seem most apt to notice their presence. Simply doing an internet search for a term such as random stairs will provide results

for any number of wooden or stone stairs in odd places, usually forests or overgrown parts of the world, places where these stairs may have once held a purpose. Some seem too out of place to be ruins, and are most often shrugged off as artistic experience. expression, Photoshop hoaxes, or even elaborate pranks. The term icky stairs first originated on a popular internet forum. The original post was an open-ended question regarding the presence of haunted locations. The following is the direct quote from one of the replies. I used to live in a haunted house.

I don't know a better way to describe it, even though it's not what I would have thought of. There weren't any ghosts or anything like that, but sometimes, Sometimes, the house was just wrong. I was alone watching my brother. I was in high school and he was two, I think. He must have been since he only used a couple words to describe things. Most of the time he just said no to everything and would giggle like a tiny crazy person. My dad used to call him happy-go-lucky.

He was easy to watch too, never complained or through tantrums, which is why I remember this one night. so much, even all these years later. So we were playing in his bedroom, like all the lights in the house were on. I was like 16, but I still didn't really like being alone in the house at night when my parents were out, especially when my brother was there. He's running around, telling me no when I say it's bath time, just having a blast and doing this deep belly laugh. When he freezes at the child gate at the top of our stairs, I ask him what's wrong and

he takes a step back from the gate and points his chubby little. little finger at the gate and says, icky stairs. I think these almost spilled something on the stairs, so I rush over, freak that my parents are going to be pissed at me. And that's when I see that the lights are off downstairs. It's hard to explain, but our stairs are sort of their own hallway,

more like a tunnel between floors, surrounded by walls except for the last three steps, which had a banister with slats. So it can look pretty dark, at least in the middle, even when the lights are on at both ends. But it wasn't that the lights were off that scared me. Still scares me.

It's that I could see just at the bottom of the stairs, on the other side of the banister. Something was staring at us. In the dark, I couldn't make out a shape, but I could see what I can only describe as hands holding the slats of the rail, like a prisoner staring out of a jail cell. I was overpowered by this horrible smell, like a skunk had been hit by a truck and left a bake on the pavement. I swear I can still smell it now.

Maybe I'll smell it for the rest of my life. I screamed because what the fuck else would I do? Grabbed my brother and locked his boat in the room and called 911. When the cops got there, followed soon after by my completely pissed off parents, the lights were on at the bottom of the stairs. The cops had to break the door down because I refused to leave the room with my brother. They didn't find anything, but they said that they smelled something like a rat had died inside the walls. It wasn't a fucking rat.

I tried to explain it to my parents, but they did what parents do. They didn't believe any of it. Grilled me about being high. It turned into this thing my brother and I would say to each other when something was really bad, but we didn't want to talk about it. Just a code word between us. How was your day? Icky stares. This story was followed by ten other commentators describing moments when they couldn't bring themselves to use a particular set of stairs that they had used before.

In every instance, the lights had been turned off. A powerful smell overwhelmed them. And people either saw or felt like something was watching them just beyond their clear range of vision. The original commenter went on in reply to the other stories, seeing that he believed it had happened two more times before finally moving away to college, but he couldn't be sure. Both times he locked himself and his brother in his room, and didn't come out until morning. One commenter of note left the following message, the only message to appear on a newly created account. Good move, O.P. There is no end of those stairs.

The person who posted said comment didn't respond to any additional questions. It was from this story that the moniker of icky stairs first started to appear. First in comment responses to a story, then beyond. The history of the icky stairs is a bit more complex, as there is no common name appearing prior to 2018. It's only through common descriptions and accounts that the icky stairs are attributed as a resulting phenomena. For example, from the resignation letter of a master carpenter in Boston, Massachusetts, 1999, posted on an internet form devoted to strange hiring and firing experiences. Dear Mr. Fisher, I'll cut to the chase. I've been doing this job for 22 years. I'm done. Those steps aren't right. I built them, I should know. They aren't right. They fucking stink and they're wrong. Get better security around here.

This isn't funny. You said Greg quit, but I haven't heard from him since three nights ago. I quit. This may be the most specific example of someone indirectly providing details of the icky stairs, but it's far from the only example of related stories. The most disturbing part of the so-called icky stairs is that there's no identifiable pattern to when or where they'll appear. By a peer, it isn't to give the impression that the stairs themselves look any different.

In fact, by all accounts, there is no physical change beyond the lack of lighting. One commonality between all documented incidents is that it only appears to happen in the case of wooden stairs. It may be in a place of work, a public space, or even a personal residence. The phenomena have rarely been linked to the same place more. than once, and never having lasted for more than a few hours. It only appears to happen to people who are alone, or in the presence of young children, who seem to have a heightened sense for its appearance and will not approach them, breaking down in tantrums when forced.

The most common thread among stories believed to relate to this phenomena are, not remembering or believing that you've left a light on at the top or bottom of the stairs, which is no longer on. A smell, ranging from mild to severe that's out of place. Some have described it as rotten flowers. Others is closer to natural gas. Still others, as the smell of death. A strange creaking in the stairs from those who have attempted to use them.

A muffled whispering sound can be heard the further down the person descends. Note, the people who have shared there are stories that claim to have gone down the steps have never gone more than six steps before stopping, feeling something wrong, or that they were being watched before returning to their starting point. No one who has ever descended or ascended their stairs in this set of circumstances has ever shared their story. In recent years, one online account going by the handle, Stairblazer, has gone to their own lengths to document and track down stories of mysterious stairs, creating a now-defunct

blog about locations and circumstances of the stairs' appearances through shared first-hand accounts. Prior to their blog being closed, Stairblazer came to have verified that no less than 23 cases were true, debunking at least 100 others as just random creaking stairs. From a screenshot of Stairblazers now deleted blog homepage, three rules will save your life. Don't use the stairs in the dark. Don't shrug off any creaking that sounds out of place. And if you feel like you're being watched, you are. Efforts to reveal why the blog ended have only suggested that the payment had lapsed,

and the domain closed. No posts from Stereblazer have appeared on internet forums since the blog closure. Unfortunately, the only thing that remains of Stairblazer's work exists in a smattering of screenshots across the internet, left a passing. speculation, vague memories, and more often, mockery. To date, five entries of Stairblazers' blog have been recovered in screenshots, the first of which, also the original blog entry, was found on Tumblr. The entry is dated December 1, 2018.

When I was a kid, I used to imagine I was a ninja. When my parents would go to bed and I wanted to watch TV, I'd wait until their lights turned off under their door and I'd ease my bedroom door open. I found there was a trick where if I pressed my hand against the door as I'd turn the handle, the lock wouldn't click open. Then it was just a matter of walking past their door and down the stairs. I'd imagine the carpet was rice paper and stepped so gently as to not leave a single mark like cane and kung fu.

I knew where to step and how so the floor wouldn't creak. I knew the angle to go down the stairs just right so there wouldn't be a single, sound. Cable TV with promises of nudity was my reward. Don't judge, I was 14. One night I was on my way, like I'd done a dozen times before. But this time it was different. Mom used to put a nightlight in the kitchen in case anyone had to get up.

She started doing it when I was a baby, so she didn't have to worry about finding a light switch for late night feedings and it stuck. The light being there actually helped me too, since it cut down on the light from the TV. on the light from the TV in case I heard anyone upstairs start to move around. I was so used to the glow of the light that I hadn't even gotten to the top of the stairs when I realized something was wrong. It didn't click right away, and even when I did, I just assumed it was a burnt out bulb. At the first step, I noticed the smell, like a dirty diaper, but so much worse.

At the second step, I felt the creaking groan from the stair beneath the carpet so strong I rippled through my bones. That step never, and I mean never, squeaked before. Of all the things in my life, I knew those stairs. I knew the sounds. I froze, terrified that my parents would wake up. I was already coming up with reasons why I'd be going downstairs when I heard the whispering. It was so fast it sounded like someone had left a faucet on.

I couldn't wrap my mind around why that would be in my. my body took another step. The next step, which did creak, but never on the side where I stepped echoed through the house. Now least that's what it felt like. And the whispering got louder. It was still fast, but I could hear pauses, the gaps between words. I just stood there in my t-shirt and swab pants staring into the darkness. I couldn't see anything, even giving my eyes time to adjust.

It was just pure and absolute darkness. And the whispering didn't stop. And there was a smell, like food left out. But mom never went to bed with dishes in the sink. I wasn't having any of it. I didn't know if my parents were pranking me, knowing what I'd been up to the entire time or what. But I hustled back to my room and close the door.

I never tried to sneak out again. Up until last week when I read a similar account, I thought it was a half-remembered dream from years prior, and maybe I could have shrugged it off to coincidence, but it was too much like my experience. And it sounds like I'm not alone. I need to know more. End of entry. The chronological second screenshot is marked as the blog's fourth post and appears to be

O.P. responding to critics of his previous posts and a theory that was posited at some point. The screenshot was found on a 4chan X forum. It's dated March 3rd, 2019. Note, stairblazer only once uses the term icky stares and adamantly argues against the usage, as the comical name undermines the severity of the occurrences. He simply refers to them as the stairs. In response to commenters who have called me all kinds of crazy names,

let me explain. I'm not saying that everyone who's ever disappeared was because of the stairs. What I'm saying is that there's no tracked statistics that I can find where the last place a person was found was at or near a set of stairs. Or more importantly, when people were in their own homes and just disappeared. These are important details that get lost and can't just be written off as someone running off or even a kidnapping. I think the stairs happen more often than anyone realizes.

I don't know how and I don't know why. But that doesn't change that it happens. People need to start respecting the reptile part of their brain that's warning them that something's wrong. The part that reacts to weird sounds at night, weird feelings that they can't explain. I think that it's an evolutionary response to danger that we don't understand. And I think that the thing in the darkness that no one can identify, that sensation of being watched, has been watching us for a very long time.

time. On the plus side, I was able to track down someone who I think knew someone who disappeared on the stairs on a cold case sub. I only talked via direct message and she refused to state a real name. I'll paste her story below and you can judge for yourself. I don't know what you want me to say. Like I said on the post, the last time I heard from my boyfriend we were talking on the phone. He was running late for a date. He'd just gotten out of the shower and I remember hearing him stomping down the stairs. He had the heaviest feet in the world. He said something about a blown fuse, and I heard him stomped down three or four stairs.

Then nothing. I looked at my phone thinking the call was dropped, but it wasn't. I said hello like three or four times and hung up. That was the last I saw him. The police didn't find any trace. No signs of forced entry. His car was still in the parking garage. The only thing's gone were whatever he was.

he would have been carrying with him like a wallet and his phone and the clothes he was wearing. He was just gone. That was three years ago. I don't believe he's dead. I can't. I didn't want to be the one to tell her. But I've never come across an instance of someone coming back from the stairs once they've committed to their descent. End entry.

The chronological third entry is marked as the blog's 12th entry and dated June 12th, 2000. and dated June 12, 2019. I wish I could just keep to looking up incidents of the stairs. It'd be easier if I could just keep my head down and do searches on the different subs to see what I can find. But the same thing just keeps coming back over and over again. Why? Why do the stairs appear at all? I guess it doesn't matter so much about how long they're around,

because I can't figure that out and known who I've linked to the stairs so far as any of the stairs, idea of what they were dealing with. I'm starting to wonder if it's random or just complicated. It could be an act of God. Genesis 2812 says, And he dreamed, and behold, there was a ladder set upon the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven, and behold, the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. Well, what if the stairs are the antithesis of the stairway to heaven? What if there's the direct path to hell, opening and closing on the whim of some deity. The Quran, as mentioned, of the ascending stairways.

Judaism has a belief that Jacob's ladder signifies in exile that Jewish people have to suffer before coming to the Jewish Messiah. Are the stairs punishment? Are the people who have disappeared on them in some kind of purgatory? Are they inherent sinners or people who need to have their faith tested? Or is it random? Did the stairs appear to everyone at some point in their lives? and it's just the unlucky ones that have ever noticed them in the first place.

By the fourth chronological entry, dated October 13th, 2019. There appears to be an evident breakdown in stair gazeder's mental state. An obsession for the stairs coupled with what seems to be a budding phobia as present. If this is a sudden occurrence or something that's been building in the four months between entry screenshots, it's not clear. I moved today. My old roommate moved out to live with his girlfriend and I couldn't afford rent anymore. I know that doesn't matter to anyone reading this, but it's important to me. I had to find a place fast and the only apartment I could find in my price range is a second

floor studio apartment across town. I've never lived alone before. That's part of the reason why I'm typing this, to keep my mind focused. I don't have any new postings or theories. I just I just wanted to talk to someone, I guess. I thought about going out to get a slice of pizza, but as soon as I got to the stairs, I stopped. I couldn't bring myself to go down them. The lights were all on, no weird smells, except for the curry that seems to be simmering in the building 24 hours a day. I just stood there until someone literally ran into me, bumping me out of the way. I didn't even notice them coming.

I think I need to take a break from this for a while. getting inside my head too much. They're just stairs. They are just stairs. End entry. The final screenshot that's been uncovered is also the last to have been recorded on the blog. Over 500 comments were left on the post prior to the site being closed down. It was dated January 12th, 2020.

People think it's random. They think it's coincidence, but it's not. I know because I can see it, because I can hear it. I just stepped out of my apartment to go meet some friends and the hallway light was out. It's never out. The stairs outside my door are dark too. There's a smell. I'm bringing my camera.

Time for proof. End entry. There are no records of Stairblazer having created a new account, or made any further comments on sites that they had previously. frequented. No one has a name or picture of Stairblazer's true identity, and while it's speculated that they're male, even that's just an assumption. For all intents and purposes, the blogger known as Stairblazer no longer exists.

All that remains are the screenshots of the work representing over two years of a person's life. Perhaps most chilling of all is the last comment left on the final blog entry. Left by an anonymous user stating, You should have listened. There's no end to those stairs. Follow by a copy-paste of the original lines of the blog. Three rules will save your life.

Don't use the stairs in the dark. Don't shrug off any creaking that sounds out of place. And if you feel like you're being watched, you are. bonus episode. Creepy presents Paw Paw's Basket written by Themiscura

and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. I never really knew my grandmother growing up. My father rarely spoke of her. While other kids were getting cookies and toys from their grandparents, I only got silence.

I'm sure my mother's parents would have made up for it had they been alive. Sadly, they were not. not. And if my father had a dad, well, I certainly never heard of him either. The only reason I know I had a grandmother is the summer I spent with her when I was 16. It was also the first and last time my father said anything about her. My mother wants you to spend the summer with her, he said, after picking me up from school, I had barely buckled my belt. I did a double take because as far as I knew, I didn't have a grandmother.

Is this like a euphemism for something? I asked eventually. You wish. He laughed, pulling out of the parking lot. She's real, and I wouldn't dream of even suggesting you go visit if it weren't for the college fund. What college fund? I asked immediately. My mom had gotten sick when I was younger. She'd gotten better by the time I was in high school, but for a long time, every cent we had went into fighting her illness. My parents were neck-deep in debt, and the likelihood was that they'd never get out in their lifetime.

Their credit was shot, too. I was applying for scholarships, but very aware that I'd probably have to take out student loans if I wanted to continue my education. And even then, it was possible college was out of my reach. Your grandmother isn't... Dad tapped the break as we rolled up on a red light. Wealthy, exactly.

She's frugal. She contacted me last week to know she'd set up a college fund for you. I've seen the numbers. It's real. I just... He stopped talking when the light changed. It gave me a minute to process. So what's wrong with her?

Is she like an axe murderer or something? I was joking. At the ripe old age of 16, I never could have imagined what was wrong with my grandmother in her home. No, it's just that she's not a very very... agreeable woman. Not dangerous, not as far as I know, just very, very selfish and eccentric. I assumed Dad had no idea just how eccentric grandma really was. Although, in fairness, it wasn't really all eccentricity at all. Either way, I'm sure he never would have let me stay there if he had known.

He just wanted the best for me. I thought about it for a few hours and eventually agree. A couple of months with the relative I'd never met before wasn't the ideal way to spend my summer, but all of my friends were going away to camp anyway, so I figured it wasn't a huge loss, especially since my family couldn't afford camp. Grandma didn't seem particularly excited to see me, but she was even less excited to see Dad. She didn't even acknowledge him when he dropped me off, looked right through him as if he didn't exist. me she didn't bother to introduce herself to she just turned towards the house and waddled up the steps the end of her faded floral nightgown swaying around her knobby knees your room is the back one on the left guest bedroom is guest bathroom is across the hall you'll go to town to pick up dinner at five i'll leave directions she paused just before she entered the house and gave me a beady-eyed little look you can drive can't you

she croaked. Uh, yeah, I replied, following her up the steps and into the house. It was ancient but clean enough. The wallpaper was yellowed and the whole place smelled musty, but there was no mildew or clutter or anything that I could see. Good, lights out at eight. You can do whatever you want as long as you stay in your room. I don't want to hear a peep out of you until morning, clear?

She dropped into an overstuffed chair by the TV and reached for the remote. frizzy hair standing out all around her head. I stared at her speechless for a little bit, wondering why the hell she'd want me to come if she didn't want to hear a peep from me. What the hell did she expect me to do while she ignored me all summer? I stood there for an awkward minute,

at least hoping she'd explain why it was she'd summoned me to this podunk town in the ass end of the country, a place even the grass was running away from, judging by the looks of the lawns we'd passed on the way in, but her eyes remained locked on the TV. I don't know what she found so riveting about an ancient rerun of unsolved mysteries, but I also wasn't knocking on Eady's door, so.

I reminded myself of the money and took my bag upstairs to see what rustic comfort I'd be enjoying for the next two months. The hallway was narrow and felt at least two inches shorter than any other hallway in existence. I had to duck the light fixtures on my way to the last room on the left. On the way, I passed what I presumed to be the master bedroom and the guest bedroom. The door to the room across from mine was a jar. I peeked in, leaning at an awkward angle to do it, and caught a glimpse of a big bed with a flannel duvet, and a basket.

It sat on the foot of the bed, wicker, big, about the size of a chest, looked like it had seen better days. The top was a natural weedish color of reeds or dried grass, but the bottom had been stained a deep mahogany color that I associated with rust and oil. Weird. But dad had warned me, so I shrugged it off and shouldered my way into my personal abode for the near future.

It was dusty. That was about all I could say for it. The bed looked like it had been old in the 70s, and the blankets were the thin, stiff kind. Not even a comforter. No posters, no pictures, just a lamp, the bed, and the dresser. I dropped my suitcase on the top of the dresser and dragged all the coverings off the bed. looked like Grandma hadn't even bothered to clean before demanding my presents, so I spent my first evening in that house doing laundry in a pea-soup green washing machine.

There was no dryer. I had to hang it from some satellite dish-looking deal. Thankfully, it was pretty hot outside. I was able to go to bed without suffering damp sheets and humid blankets. Grandma didn't say two words to me the whole time, not even when I brought dinner back. She ate hers in front of the TV. I ate mine alone in the kitchen and then went to bed.

That was when shit got really weird. I assume it was about nine or ten, way earlier than my usual bedtime going by the fall of the moonlight across the room. The window faced east, so I knew it couldn't have been too late yet. I wasn't sure what had awoken me at first, but as I laid in the dark watching the square of moonlight creep across the floor, I heard it. A shuffling, rasping sound.

as if something were being dragged. I sat up in bed, listening to a get closer and closer until I could swear it was right outside my door. Grandma? I called softly, passing the covers off. Are you okay? In my groggy state, my first thought was that the old woman had fallen and she was trying to get help. I was halfway to the door when I heard a voice from the other end of the hall yell.

Shut up. I froze with my hand in the air looking at the door in quiet disbelief. Whatever it was, it was right outside my door. I was torn between ripping it open and confronting whatever was out there and diving back into my bed. My hand shot out, but instead of opening it, I jammed the knob in and twisted it, locking the door. I retreated to bed afterwards, watching the door until the wee hours when I heard the shuffling and dragging retreat back down the hall. I confronted Grandma the next morning. She was already downstairs flipping some eggs in a griddle that looked like it predated the house.

What the hell was that last night? I demanded. The old woman refused to answer me. The only response I got from her was, I told you not to make a peep. You better listen tonight. I nearly called my dad to pick me up then and there, but I wasn't sure what was going on yet.

If I was in danger, if it was something simple and explainable that I'd laugh at myself over later. Just because I couldn't fathom what yet didn't mean there wasn't a rational explanation for everything. I spent the day in town picking through one tear-down record store and trying to meet some folks. I wasn't having much luck with the people, and it was getting towards the time to pick up Grandma's dinner, so I decided to head back a little early.

On my way home, I passed a ramshackle building slightly larger than most of the ones in town, and spied a bronze plaque beside the doors. Boredom and curiosity compelled me to go read it. Civil War Museum, it said, right beneath the town's name. I tried the doors, but it was locked, so I moved over to a door. one of the windows and peered in. Through the grime, I saw what looked like some kind of weird canoe with a window in the top in a bunch of similar-looking baskets to the one in Grandma's house and clustered together. There was a table across the way with a weird saw and some ice-pick-looking

things on it. If there was a plaque or explanation, I didn't see one at the time, and after a minute or two of looking, I gave up and continued on my way home. Once again, Grandma didn't deign to greet me when I came through the door. It had only been a day, but I was already getting used to her odd behavior. Used enough to it that I started talking to her without really expecting a response. Not much to do in town, I remarked, crouching to inspect a collection of records lined up neatly beneath an old cabinet. Everyone sure does seem to be into these, though.

I wondered if any of them had been my dads while I ran my fingers over them. I pulled one out at random and put it back when I didn't recognize the artist. I saw the museum today. It was closed, but I looked in one of the windows. I saw a basket that kind of looks like the one upstairs. Pawpaw's basket. She interrupted me with a croak. That's Pawpaw's basket.

I looked at her over my shoulder, startled that she'd even deigned to speak to me. Like Dad's Dad? I question. She gave me a look of pure disgust, but at least she looked at me, for all of ten seconds before she went back to her episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Dumbass kids these days don't know nothing, she grumbled. I sighed and threw up my hands. Okay, Grandma, I muttered, wandering into the kitchen to grab the old truck keys.

I'm just going to go pick up dinner then. I rattled into the parking lot of what appeared to be the only dining establishment in town about five minutes later. I probably didn't even need the truck. I could have walked just fine, but it would have been a half hour longer, and I wasn't sure how the old bat would react if her dinner was late. I hopped out leaving the keys on the dash like I saw in every other car and headed inside to pick up our order. Not that she'd asked me what I wanted. The lady behind the counter was nice, though, 50-ish with curly blonde hair and a friendly smile. She had my order ready for me when I walked up.

Hey, sweetie, settling in all right? She asked as if she'd known me for my entire life. For a minute, I let myself picture what it would have been like had she been my grandmother, instead of the nasty old curmudgeon I was sharing a house with at the moment. I guess that's one word for it, I sighed. I know, not much to do in town for a kid your age, especially with all the others headed out for the summer. Must be devilish hard to stay entertained.

She smiled sympathetically at me. Yeah. It was only the second day and I was already running out of things to do. I grabbed her order and started for the door, only to stop after the thank you left my lips. I'm not sure what compelled me to ask, but I turned back to her and said, Hey, do you know what those big baskets in the museum are about? The Civil War Museum? How'd you see those? She asked, and when shrugged, she gave one back and continued.

That's what they used to transfer the amputees back in the war. If they happened not to survive, they just pop the lid on the sucker and send them back home like that, or bury him if it was too far. Christ Almighty, I thought, despite not being very religious. Suddenly I felt a little sick. Might have had to do with the stains I was picturing on the bottom of the basket. You okay, hon? She asked, looking concerned. I'm sure I was as pale as a sheet.

I managed to nod and run out of the diner before she could ask any more questions, driving home in a phone. fog. Excentric, Dad called her. She was living with what amounted to a goddamn casket in the house, in the room across from mine. That was it. I was out. Officially done with Grandma's bullshit and her house. I decided she could keep her college fund. I parked the car in the drive and carried the food in, dropping hers on the couch beside her and heading straight into the kitchen to call my dad. Of course I'll come get you, Sam. Dad responded after I told him what was going on. Just sit tight, okay? I'll be there, see.

as soon as I can. But it occurred to me that it was a five-hour drive. Even if Dad didn't hit an ounce of traffic on the way here, he still wouldn't arrive until well after 8 p.m., grandma's curfew. I had to believe that she had a reason for setting that time, even if she wasn't going to share that reason with me. Dad, wait. I didn't want anything bad to happen to him if he happened to come into the house in the middle of the night. I took a breath and continued, Come get me in the morning, okay? I'll be all right for one more night. Are you sure? he asked.

Yeah, it's not dangerous, just really creepy. I said quickly, trying to convince myself as much as him. Okay, but if you change your mind, you call me and I'll head down immediately, okay? Dad said. I agreed, said I loved him and hung up. Grandma was standing in the kitchen doorway when I looked up. I nearly left my skin. You have a spitten image of him, you know.

She announced, louder and clearer than she'd ever been. I clapped a hand in my chest and tried to get my errant blood pressure under control. Looked just like him at that age. Who? I said after a second, kind of dreading the answer. Somehow I knew she wasn't talking about Dad. Papa, she said, shuffling back to the couch. Thanks, I thought.

Thanks for that. As if this whole thing wasn't creepy enough, she had to go and throw that out there, too. Crazy old lady. Basket case, I almost muttered to myself and then shuddered because now I knew where that phrase had come from. Fuck all that. Fuck it straight to hell. I was going to bed and I wasn't coming out until dad came to get me in the morning. I didn't even tell her good night when I went up the stairs. I locked my door and made sure everything was still in my bag and sat down on the edge of my bed to wait. The minutes felt like hours. I watched the sun disappear and the moon began to rise.

I would have waited outside if there had been anywhere to wait. Sick with dread and trembling with anticipation, I considered climbing out the window and down the tree outside. But I had no way of knowing if the ghost, and I was fully convinced this shit was haunted at this point, could leave the house, and even less interested in finding out. So I stayed put and listened to the door creak open, the floor thumb, and the dragging began,

all the way up to my door. This time there was whistling, and a smell, the stench of infection and rot. It filled the room until I had to bury myself in the blankets to shut it out. It sat out there, right outside my door, and whistled to me all night long, the same tune over and over and over, and with each refrain I heard more, whimpering at first and then sobbing, from sobbing to screaming and from that to ear-splitting explosions. I heard men crying out in guttural, wrenching anguish. Someone screamed and pleaded for their parents, another begged God to help him.

And through it all, the whistling. I still can't listen to it. To this day, Raleigh to Freedom reminds me of the putrid sense of death and decay in sweet, earthy wicker. Just hold on, I kept telling myself when I felt like I couldn't take it anymore, and the horror of what I was hearing would break me. Just hold on. "'That is coming. Dad'll be here soon. "'It was that knowledge that helped me keep my tenuous hold on my sanity until dawn,

"'when the noise and stink faded into only whistling again. "'And then the scrape of wicker on wood back across the hall. "'Dad had to come upstairs to get me. "'I was too exhausted to leave on my own. "'It felt in some ways as if I had to physically hold myself together. "'Grandma was sitting on the couch when we left. "'She barely looked up, didn't bother to say goodbye. A few months later, I received a bank notice in the mail informing me that it had been changed over into my name and I was required to sign off on the change.

I almost missed the tiny slip of paper tucked in behind the notice. A thin note that only read. Pawpaw says it was nice to meet you. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story, please see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comments, 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 story's author.

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