Creepy - Born of Waste

Episode Date: June 2, 2025

Born of Waste***Written by: Some Unholy Obscenity***Momentary Brightness***Written by: Robert Helfst and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Keep Them Fed***Written by: Tim Brown and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Merch shop at creepypod.com/store or creepypod.printify.com***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.

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Listener discretion is advised. For our first story this evening, when a small town's careless littering begins to result in strange changes to the local river, One local teams up with a man who claims to know what's going on, to try and stop what's about to happen again. Creepy presents, born of waste, written by someone wholly obscenity. The river here has seen better days. Everyone's perfectly fine with throwing all their garbage into it. Despite all the scientific warnings we get to stop pollution. Nothing that anyone of repute said about it or even neighborly requests got through to anyone.

It took that thing appearing before anyone started considering it a problem. Most people didn't believe it at first. You know how it goes. A local legend gets talked about a bunch, but no one takes it that seriously. It's more or less just used to scare children or more gullible or superstitious. adults. They came around. Everyone did after it took Jonathan. The waste thrown into the river can be traced back to the Industrial Revolution. It's an undeniable fact that they were doing it because back then they were blissfully unaware of the consequences. Mutated fish, illness,

abysmal drinking water, all the things that came to generations beyond their own. I'm no conservationist myself. I'm guilty of love. I'm guilty of littering and polluting as much as the next guy. But I'm trying to take accountability for it nowadays. Do what I can to be better. Nowadays, it isn't any one company or individual that's the problem. It's a collective. The parties that get thrown on the bare bones beaches will leave behind an incomprehensible amount

of garbage for how long they were there. Humans nowadays are just wasteful. especially in the United States, because we're constantly being told about how much there is. I watched a grown man throw away an entire thing of mashed potatoes into the garbage before. You'd think that the consequences of these actions would be enough to deter people from continuing to do it, but no, except here, except in my little town. Here, something was born from the waste that people threw away. and no one can deny its existence any longer.

I live in one of those towns you'll never remember the name of. The ones that are passed throughs to bigger, more well-known places. You'll drive past our town on your way to your holidays and vacations, maybe stopping to check out the one diner we have. The one that I work at. The one with the polluted river right behind it. People think just because you're in a smaller town means there will be zero pollution. Well, in the grand scheme of things, it's tremendously less. It certainly isn't

devoid of it. And with there being nothing for the six to seven thousand people to do, they end up spending their time at the river drinking. One beer can becomes ten, and so on and so forth. I know I'm beating that horse hard, but you need to understand something. We had warning. We had a huge amount of time to revert this. This wouldn't have happened. If we had a whole it just listened at all, then we wouldn't be dealing with this. People wouldn't still be making up stories about what happened to Jonathan

when they know exactly what happened but refused to acknowledge it. Acknowledgement makes it real. No one wants us to be real. The trash was getting truly out of control about a year ago. Once the pandemic lifted, people were ever so happy to leave their house and do anything and everything. Our town even became a destination spot for a brief while in the summer. Between the visitors and the careless locals, the river just didn't stand a chance. Fourth of July was when I first noticed it.

Working at a diner near the river has its perks. I can take off and go get some sun if the weather permits it. It also invites people to come get a cooked meal from yours truly. And I love seeing people enjoy simple things in that vein. We try to make our food as close to home-cooked meals as possible. While we aren't the healthiest spot in the state, I know for a fact that it tastes incredible. I also get to see my friends every other.

day when they come in for a bite. It isn't a very busy place, so I'm able to visit and chat pretty often. The downside to working beside the river is seeing everything sketchy that goes on there. Sometimes I'll work late and see people getting into fights at the beach side. I even saw a real brawl once. Four on four guys. It was wild. But mainly I get to see how much people dumped their garbage into it. I haven't always cared, like I said. But nowadays, I actively try to dissuade people from doing it. I've barked at a group of teenagers or two. Unfortunately, my attempts are not often backed up by anyone,

and they're ultimately meaningless. That summer was when I noticed the color change, though. The Fourth of July did what it always did. It was loud as hell, and it created a tremendous amount of litter that drunk people just left about the place. Before my shift on the fifth, I went to the river to check on the damage. It was, as expected, incredibly bad. Not only that, but the water was shifting color dramatically.

The river had a mossy green tone to it for a long time. After that day, though, it began to mash with a violet that didn't seem like it grew naturally. I have no idea if it did or not, but I knew there. river wasn't that color a day ago. I didn't pay enough attention to it at the time as I was far more pissed about the fact that people had just tossed their fireworks remains into the already suffering water. I did a bit of clean up while I was there, but made no real headway. I went to work and decided to worry about it the next day. On that next day, in less than a 24-hour span, the violet had deepened, was beginning to overtake the green at the green at the same. It was beginning to overtake the green

at such a rapid rate that it looked as if a disease was spreading across the water. Upon seeing this, I knew that something was beyond wrong. A conservationist or naturalist would need to look at this to determine what exactly was happening. I tried to look up a few things online, but didn't find a single result regarding this kind of issue. My worry for the river really sparked then. I had no idea what was occurring in the water, nor did I know at all how to compare. at such a change. I talked to a few people around town about it, and while some seemed concerned, none knew

what it meant or how to deal with it. Some people even thought it was a pretty change of scenery, which annoyed me to no end. The reality is it just got worse from there. I wasn't able to find anyone to check it out, and so no measures were taken against it. I did what I could in regards to trash removal, but I hate to admit this. I didn't want to touch that water. When I looked at it now, I got such an ominous feeling. Peering at it gave me the feeling that I was being watched.

My thoughts were becoming consumed by the idea of the river becoming a poisonous cesspool. Without any ideas on how to proceed, I had pretty much given up on everything except for ordering. a giant net that I could safely fish garbage out with. When I was on the precipice of defeat was when he showed up. When Jonathan showed up. Jonathan wasn't a naturalist or a conservationist, but he was concerned like I was. Despite how small the town is, there are still a few people I haven't met. Until that day he came into my diner, I'd never met Jonathan.

He was a frail-looking man. in his early 60s and clearly beaten by the weather of life. He asked for me by name when he came in, stating that he caught wind of my attempts to do something about the river. Jonathan told me he'd seen this change in a body of water before, that a lake in his hometown went through the same thing and that it needed to be addressed immediately. When I inquired about why it was such an urgent matter, he said that the color meant that something was growing in the water.

I figured it was a dangerous algae or some sort of bacteria. But that's not what Jonathan said. He said something big was manifesting in it. A creature, I disregarded the notion at first. It was impossible that an animal of some sort could be birthed from waste. But he begged me to believe him. I've never seen desperation on a man. hands face like I did on Jonathan's. I decided the means justified the ends and lied about believing

him so we could get started on fixing the issue. Jonathan had access to a tremendous amount of sanitary utilities so he could safely remove waste from the river. He also had a pistol that he carried on his hip. I thought about asking about its necessity, but I figured it was better not to. He didn't seem the type to do anything rash with it, and he was in full belief that something was going to be waiting for us in the river. The first day when we went out was what I would consider a resounding success. We cleaned up a pretty huge area of the river, but the color wasn't reverting. After about three hours, we were getting tired, so we called it for now. While we were getting packed up, I kept looking back at the water. I was stupefied that we'd let it get so bad. It felt gross

to have at one point been part of such a contemptible problem. I stared at the violet areas of the water intently, and I swear I saw it ripple. Not in a normal way that water ripples as it travels, but in a way that suggests a hand had swayed through it. I pointed it out to Jonathan and instantly regretted doing so. He unholstered his gun so fast I had to assume he was ex-military. He aimed it at the water as I grew frantic from the act of him pulling a loaded gun out. I yelled at him to put it away.

I told him it must have been my imagination and exhaustion manifesting something in the water. He shook his head stating that he'd already told me what was happening there, that there was a monster growing in our river. I was getting angry at this point. He was old enough to stop believing in fairy tales. and so this bravado and weapon brandishing was really making me rethink coming out with this stranger at all. I told him to put it away or I'd report him to the police for endangering me. He looked at me with equal anger, holstering his weapon, he began to leave the beach and seemed to care little about all the supplies he was leaving behind.

He mouthed something along the lines of, if no one's going to believe me, I'll deal with it myself. Suffice to say I was shaken by the encounter. I didn't mean to bring a gun-toting maniac with me to clean the river, let alone make him so angry he tried to shoot nature itself. There was something bothering me about the whole interaction, though. Jonathan just didn't back down for one moment about what he said he saw. He had so much sincerity in the way he spoke about it. And not to mention that he was fully prepared to deal with a river clean-up.

I didn't go back to the river for a couple of days after that. I didn't speak with Jonathan either. He came in hot and burned out bright from my life. I couldn't avoid it entirely as I worked right next to the damn thing. But I made no attempts to go back and do any cleaning myself. I was too freaked out and wildly under-equipped. In those few days, I'd see Jonathan through the window going by himself and cleaning what he could. I felt guilty having just abandoned him like that after I was the one who'd initiated to begin with.

But he waved a gun by my head. I wasn't just going to forgive that. He was lucky I didn't do anything legal about it. One of these nights was my night to close up and make sure all the till's and safe matched what they were supposed to. If you've ever worked with money, retail or otherwise, I'm sure you understand the headache that can be. Being a much busier summer, the counts were higher than normal, so I'd made it a habit of counting several times. I was exceptionally tired that day and repeatedly messed up the count. It was taking me about an hour longer than normal to get through it, while for the sake of being thorough.

It gets dark when I leave normally, so now I would be leaving at peak darkness, a decision that I would come to swiftly regret. I leave out the back, as we locked the front door's first thing when the dive. diner closes. This means I pop right out in view of the river the moment I step outside. I couldn't help but look at it every day now when I left. Not that I've been having to deal with it so heavily, it was still one of the foremost thoughts in my head. From the corner of the lamp light by the diner, I swore to God I could see someone at the edge of the beach. It was only their silhouette, but I could make out a human shape at the beginning of the water. While I couldn't see any detail, It looked like they were looking straight at me.

If it weren't for the things that Jonathan had said to me, I would have likely waved and asked who it was, as there was a high chance I'd know him. Tonight I just wanted to go home. I was tired from overthinking and counting money eight times over. I turned away to walk to my car when I first heard rapid footsteps pick up behind me. It was as if whoever had been down there was waiting for me to turn around before they made their advance. I did not want to look back, but instead sprinted to full speed in my car. There's a small lot, so it took me mere seconds to reach my car, but I fumbled with my keys as I tried to get in the car. I looked over the hood to see who was trying to attack me in the darker night.

In what I saw, I cannot comprehend to this day. The shape of the creature was certainly human. It had two arms, two legs, and something that resembled a head. The only thing was that it appeared to be made entirely of sludge and mold. There were no eyes or a mouth. It made absolutely no sound besides it sloshing wet footsteps against the concrete. I screamed at the sight of the violet black monstrosity that charged at me like an oncoming train. I got into my car and quickly locked up.

all my doors. But it barely did me any good. The thing threw its entire body against the side of my car. The way it moved was sickening, how limbs would move without bones, but somehow remaining as stiff. My mind was failing to understand what was going on and I needed to flee immediately. I threw my car into reverse and slammed on the gas. I didn't see the thing that it gripped onto my wheel. When I drove a breakneck speed backwards, the monster was dragged across the parking lot and raked all-fashioned. The moldy muck it was made of splattered across the concrete until it was little more than a large, purplish stain on the ground. I stopped speeding away as the chaos came to an end and tried to catch my breath while I squeezed the hell out of my steering wheel. My eyes scanned the gory scene in complete bafflement.

There was no way what just took place actually had. happened. I couldn't convince myself that it was anything but a dream. That wasn't given very long to contemplate. The paste that was the creature started to crawl towards its scattered pieces. I watched as the thing born from waste reassembled itself into a vague humanoid shape. At that point, I drove away. I did not sleep a wink that night. I'd called Jonathan maybe a dozen times over the course of five hours in the dead of night. I needed to be told that I wasn't crazy for what I just experienced. Jonathan said there was a creature being born in that infected river.

I couldn't believe you was right. At around 6 a.m., I couldn't do it anymore. I crashed from pure exhaustion on my couch. I woke up to aggressive knocking at my front door at around noon. Lurching from my uncomfortable sleeping position, I answered the door. And in no surprise, I saw Jonathan standing in my archway. I let him inside and asked him to please explain further as to what was happening. I don't have much to explain, since Jonathan didn't have many answers.

The gist of what he told me was that in his hometown he went through the same thing we are here. People started partying way too hard at the lake and they became careless about cleaning up. He and a couple of his friends tried to remedy it by cleaning out the trash, but most of it was too deep down by then. He eventually called it quits due to the difficulty. One night, they all went back to try and do what they could one last time, and that's when Jonathan saw it. He said it was standing in the middle of the lake, like you see ghosts doing movies. But it wasn't floating. It was running after him and his friends.

They tried to get away from it, but it was just too fast for most of them. Jonathan told me I didn't know how lucky I was to have evaded it. He had watched what happened when it got hold of his friends. The thing absorbed them. He said it was like watching a person disappear behind bubbles in a bathtub. All three of his friends met the same fate in their bodies were never recovered. Whatever it had done to them? It did not leave an ounce of them behind.

I didn't know how to react to Jonathan's story. It sounded so far-fetched. But I'd seen exactly what he was talking about. There was no denying it. My town had a swamp monster. We talked about what to do in regards to dealing with the thing. Jonathan said he thought it had to be organic, so it should theoretically be killable.

He left last time out of fear. but wasn't about to let another one of these things ruin another town. I explained to him that it had splattered itself, that I'd basically run it down with my car, and it didn't die. We brainstormed for a while about how to deal with an actual monster while we knew virtually nothing about it. The conclusion we came to was cliche. Fire.

It made the most sense. If it was organic, and made of moss or mold or whatever, it probably ceased the function of burned. The problem was luring it out and making sure it wasn't near anyone else, meaning we would likely have to do it at night again. We set a date and began to physically and mentally prepare

for fighting a swamp monster. Neither of us expected what happened next. It was still summer. People were still going to the river despite the discoloration and obvious pollution it had suffered. And they started talking about it. Visitors, locals, everyone everywhere began to talk about seeing a creature made entirely out of sludge beneath the water. The legend of the river ghost began then.

The sightings were oftentimes scattered, but sometimes in huge clumps. I'd have five or six people a day tell me they saw it, or repeat growing rumors to me. The creature developed a backstory. It went from a drowned local boy to a vengeful spirit of Mother Earth. What made no sense amid all the buzz was that it hadn't even tried to attack a single person. It saw me turn my back and immediately tried to kill me, but no one had so much as seen it move. Me and Jonathan had no idea what to make of any of it. We still had our plans to get rid of the thing, and that was that.

Whatever people wanted to make of it would die off into obscurity after we killed it. That fateful day came. Me and Jonathan met behind the diner around midnight. We parked as far from the river as we could and feared that it would see us before we saw it. Jonathan had a flare gun with him, furthering my belief that he was ex-military. Not sure where we was getting all his supplies otherwise. All I had with me was a rag on a stick that I soaked in gasoline. A jerry-rigged piece of junk in comparison to the literal fire gun that Jonathan had.

I grabbed my lighter and we both walked towards the river in silence. Thinking back, neither of us knew that this would work at all. We just felt useless sitting on our hands and watching hordes of people idolize this creature as if it were some fairy tale. It was very real, very dangerous. I wish I could have predicted how unprepared we were, how much we'd underestimated the intelligence of the creature, calling it a mold severely undercut what it was capable of. The deviousness it held within its sludge-covered heart.

It was as if it knew. It somehow knew we were coming. When we reached the bank of the river, we fully expected to see it standing on or near the water. Instead, we saw nothing. Even shining light on the water didn't reveal it to be under the surface like so many who claimed it would be. I have to wonder if that was its plan the whole time.

If enough people say something's true, you'll believe it too. Even if it's just subconsciously, we looked in a place that we'd never seen a creature before, and it punished us for that mystic. It was far too late when we heard its footsteps from behind us. It ran at us with such fervor that Jonathan didn't even have the time to aim his flare gun at the thing. He got a shot off, but it flew clear over the diner, which I would come to learn woke up a good deal of people. When it grabbed him, I couldn't make myself move.

I was frozen in place by terror. I watched helplessly as the monster assimilated Jonathan into its body as if it were being worn. All that fell from the creature were Jonathan's clothes and his belongings. It ate him whole with its entire body as its mouth. He didn't even have the opportunity to scream. I ran as I had before. I don't know how close I was being devoured as well, but it was too close. A congregation of several people went to the river that night.

No one else was eaten. Jonathan is still considered a missing person. I know what happened, and the town knows what happened too. They won't acknowledge it because they didn't see it. But they saw it. I know they did. They wouldn't stop talking about seeing it. I've tried for a long time to piece together.

what that thing is exactly. Vengeful spirit of Mother Earth still feels the closest to correct to me. The river grew tired of being poisoned. And so it took from us. I still work at the diner in front of that river. I no longer go to the river,

but I advocate heavily for cleaning up in your local areas. Small things, if you can. And some nights when I'm closing, I look out the rear window to see a humanoid shape standing at the edge of the river. I don't leave the diner when this happens. I outran it twice, but I'm not a lucky person by nature. And nothing bothers me more than how similar the creature's shape resembles Jonathan's now.

For our second story this evening, a grieving man's late-night encounter with a mysterious child on a deserted road, unravels buried trauma, blurring the line between guilt and redemption in a haunting tale of loss, memory, and fleeting hope. Creepy presents momentary brightness, written by Robert Helft and narrated by Nate Dufort. The night is cold and clear as Ray Ellis moves his telescope gingerly across the sky, monitoring the blaze star for an overdue nova when it happens. A flash of white gold light in the dark pierces the heavens,

a needle slicing from infinity down to his eye. Ray recoils from the fat cylinder of the telescope, grabbing at his face as he arcs backward, and he feels his heels brush the back of his head. He hears what sounds like a child's shriek, and he realizes it is his own voice. Then he begins to twitch in the frost-covered grass. His face is wet, and his head is on fire, throbbing out from his left eye in a burning pulse that feels like it's splitting his skull.

The lens shattered, he thinks through the burning haze, a shard somewhere in my eye. His fingers are twitching, and one nail catches on the hem of his shirt. The frost is melting against his right eye, and he savors the chill. but wishes his burning left wasn't pointed skyward. He tries to fix its gaze dead ahead to ignore the beautifully wheeling colors above him. Fearing the shard he feels may bury itself deeper if he moves too much. This fear battles for control against his hind brain

and has set his body to twitch and lose. He can feel the same ache deep inside his right eye and wonders why his brain is doubling the pain in some misguided quest for symmetry. The sliding door on the other side of the fence creaks open. Ed Mailer's camel-soaked voice breaks the night's silence, asking who was there. Ray tries to call out, but it catches in his throat. He feels a low gurgle, but can't force any noise out. The uncut grass tickles his nose.

Ed croaks again. asking if it was Ray. Ray can hear his porch creek as the old man crosses. He can hear him on the other side of the fence, peering between the gaps and the privacy fence. The old man mutters something about fucking telescope, and the porch creaks once more, before the sliding door squeals shut.

Ray lies there long enough to feel the dew start to re-freeze on his shirt cuffs. When he rises, everything throbs. but especially his eyes. He shuffles inside and leaves the lights off until he reaches the bathroom. He throws the switch, and the gray-green walls blind him, the light buzzing above in its outdated fixture. His face is red and wet, but free from blood. Ray is astounded by how puffy he looks,

but reminds himself it is three in the morning. His left eye is swollen and bleary, a shock of bright red behind the sun. the purpling fat lids that struggle to open. He sees no trace of blood beyond the burst vessels and wonders whether the lens shattered or not, but he can still feel something in his eyes. When he moves his left eye up and down, he feels something shifting deep within. He knows the right is free of whatever is making the left ache, but he feels a gentle pulse in it to accompany the roaring throb of the other. That feels gritty.

like the face full of sand he got in the Indiana dunes years ago, and he wonders about glass dust rather than a single shard. Ray tries to get saline into his eyes but gives up, his flesh tight and burning against the solution. He falls atop his bed and sleeps, dreaming of the arc of a golden flame along the Coroné borealis. In the late morning, he cannot see out of his left eye. shadows dance across his vision, a twisting ballet of almost their shapes that he can't quite focus on.

When he closes his left eye, a ghostly double image of them imposes across his right eyes line of sight. He lays in bed and watches them dance across the chopping blades of the fan before he returns to the bathroom. The swelling has gone down, but his left eye looks worse. Nearly all of the white is filled with bright red blood and his iris looks almost foggy, its pale brown lost beneath a gray haze. His pupil reacts to light and dark, but he feels something pressing within it as it does.

Ray pulls back his eyelid, trying to find the shard of glass he felt the night before, but finds no debris, only angry red tissue. He pours more saline, in, hoping to flush his eye and recoils as white-hot light flashes through him, a pain as intense as what he felt on the lawn. Ray resigns himself to a weekend of foggy vision on the couch, abandoning his telescope in spite of the clear skies and potential for the Nova's detonation.

Bright lights stab his head with racking pains, so he pulls the blackout curtains and leaves the houselights off. Time dilates. and Ray isn't certain of what day or time it is unless he checks the clock, dim behind the twisting dance of the shapes filling his vision. When he next wakes, he is ravenous and disappointed to find his vision as worse. It's dark in his house, but he can't tell whether it's midnight or midday when he's able to discern the 1257 from the clock. Ray stumbles to the kitchen, his stomach groaning and empty.

The sweats he's been in since Friday afternoon hold a deep funk that clots his sinuses with an almost fruited stench. He shoves the smell of molded orange peels aside and scrabbles in his fridge for a packet of bologna, handing rolled slices one by one into his mouth before the cool air. He squints against the refrigerator light, the stuttering brightness twisting into wisps as the jiggling shapes dance before his vision.

Ray attacks six slices of bologna before he stops, trying to observe the network of wrinkles on his knuckles. He can't make out the faded tattoo of the thumb's up symbol he'd inscribed on his thumb during a college bender two decades before. He holds his hands up before his eyes, and he can't see them. But as he moves his right deeper into the fridge, the V fades to a fleshy blob overlaid with dancing gray shapes. He can feel a swishing in his vision, as if the shapes are swimming through his inner eye.

Shit, Ray says, and he starts to cry, the tears burning his left eye. He spends the rest of his Sunday on the couch, listening to the birdsong outside. The Schmidt-Newtonian telescope still stands outside. A blue jay perches on its casing, examining itself in the bright reflection of the corrector plate. When he thinks it's nighttime, Ray stumbles down the hall to the bedroom. He piles the dirty clothes beside his closet sliding door, then lays on his side of the bed. His bedside table holds several half-emptied plastic water bottles.

The other is empty. Ray settles back against the pillow, staring at the undulating shapes twisting and reforming until their dance and his throbbing skull, lull him into a fitful rest. When he wakes, Ray dictates a text message to his boss. There's no way data entry would go well for him in this state. He considers who else he should text and decides not to. Ray pours coffee and burns toast while he waits to call the optometrist.

The throbbing has eased, but he thinks his vision is worse again today. The shapes are doubling across both eyes and make him dizzy when he tries to look past them. What he can see in the bathroom mirror is that the swelling around his eye has gone down. When he thumbs a flashlight, his pupils contract, but Ray sees a flash in his left, like an emerging cataract. He sets an appointment and schedules an Uber to take him to the optometrist's office. He worries that he should have gone to urgent care or his GP's office instead, but he's found no blood or sign of glass in his eyes. It must be a trauma from that flash of light, he convinces himself, worried for his retinas. Ray battles the vertigo that grips him and crosses to the sliding door.

He wants to check the eyepiece to see if the newt had shattered. That would give him peace of mind. It's still early, before the autumn heat has burned off the frost, and the chill of grass scraping his ankles sets Ray on edge. He chastises himself for leaving the newt out for sure. so long. It hasn't rained, but overexposure could move up his calibration schedule and create real headaches for viewing quality. So can retinal damage, he thinks, and lays his hands on the telescope body. He tries not to adjust its targeting in case his vision returns. The overdue Nova

from T. Corona Borealis is what he wants so badly to experience. He pulls the eyepiece from its housing and heads inside, loathed to try and examine it where a drop might truly shatter the glass. He hears Ed's sliding door and waves quickly before ducking in. Ray returns to the couch and holds the eyepiece to his bad eye. His breath catches in his chest, and he stares through the haze of twisting shapes, trying to focus on the glass itself rather than the limited view through it. He sighs and swaps eyes, looking for irregularly. in his field of view, anything to suggest a shard had erupted with the lenses within.

But Ray sees nothing. Finally, he presses a finger to the eyepiece, accepting that he'll have to battle the resulting smudge for weeks, but no glass bites his flesh, only the smooth coolness of the terminal lens. Ray puzzles over this on the drive to the optometrist's office. The driver, a young man whose Honda stinks of weed, is playing some form of electronic music he's never heard before, and the beat matches the pulse returning to his eyes. How could his vision have been so ruined if there was no glass to bury itself in his eye?

He thought of the flash of light and wondered if it had burned a hole in his retina. An abandoned Rally's bag crinkles beneath his feet as he shifts and considers the possibility he may be blinded and unable to see the Nova. This was a mistake, Ray says. You're not hearing me. Dr. Shaw closes the folder she's been reviewing in size. Her voice is cold and rigid, nothing like the warm greeting and smiles ten minutes before.

She tells Ray that his retinal scans are fine and that she can't find any signs of trauma to his eye. She stands and crosses the small room to the small room to the same. computer desk. Ray can hear her blurred shape clicking around the screen. Ray feels ridiculous sitting in the stiff leather exam chair, the metal apparatus full of knobs and lenses hovering just to his side. Through the twist of gray figures, he can see that she's again staring at his retinal scans. He recognizes the smear of green and yellow on the computer screen. Shaw repeats that Mr. Ellis's macula and retina are in great shape.

She goes on about his fove centralis and optic nerve and question him about his use of sunglasses during the day, his diet, and his vitamin intake. Ray tries again to press her on the light he observed and whether that could have caused the damage. But she chuckles and says that she'd only expect retinal damage if he's observing the sun with his telescope.

It's not that I can't see anything, Ray. says and clenches his teeth. It's like there's something between my eye and the world. Like I'm looking at it through a film. There's these dark gray shapes overlaid on everything, like static. He thinks he saw her nod, with the shapes around him and his low-grade dizziness made the world feel unsteady once more. Dr. Shaw mentions that some people experience issues with floaters in their vision, and a light appears in front of his face as she moves the scope from his bad eye, to his good eye. She asks him to look up, left, and right, then repeats that there is no evidence of cataracts, and he appears to be in perfect ocular health. She tells him to make sure he's getting

enough rest and drinking plenty of water before opening the door. As Ray readies himself to leave, she suggests taking a break from computer screens as well. Chuckling, Dr. Shaw watches as Ray takes a deep breath and pushes himself up from his seat. At the door, she reminds him to stop and discuss payment with the receptionist, explaining that, since he wasn't due for his annual checkup yet, VSP wouldn't cover this visit. She also mentions the need to update his emergency contact. Ray nods and staggers down the hall shapes rapidly twisting before him.

Ray hasn't left the house in weeks. The shapes have become more defined, their overlay less a blinking after image and more a gauzy overlay. Even the ghostly doubling he sees in his right eye has become bolder, the honeycomb of shapes, making each day difficult to make it through it all. His beard itches, but Ray is afraid to try shaving again. The day after his appointment he nicked his neck and it bled for hours, weeping alongside his bad eye. He's been getting by thanks to grocery deliveries,

but he knows things are going to fall apart soon. Ray's ignored calls from his data processing center for weeks, and now they've stopped calling. A stack of mail sits on his kitchen table, the text too small to read through the shapes that taunt him. Even when he closes his eyes, they continue to dance before him, shining with a neon green backlight.

At times, he tries a DIY eye patch made out of a washcloth and medical wrap, but this only makes the shapes grow bolder in what was his good eye. Psychosomatic, he mutters when he tries to turn on the faucet and accidentally punches the wall instead. It's all in your head. He stares at the mirror above the sink. Of course it's all in your head, he thinks. always been in your head. He hates what he can make out of his reflection, the dark circles beneath his eyes and unkempt beard. He thinks his exterior is finally matching who he is on the inside.

Ray can't see his own eyes clearly. They blur before his vision, and the shapes grow more active when he tries to stare back in himself. The sloshing sensation has gotten stronger as the shapes become more concentrated, and he feels off-kilter most of the time now. He knows something is really wrong with him, psychosomatic or not. He's booked an appointment with his GP, but it's weeks away, and he's fairly certain he'll end up in a psych hole at its end. The newt still stands in the backyard, but he's covered it with a tarp against the occasional rain. The grass is knee-high now, with lousy and biting flies in grass.

Hoppers. When he goes out in the daylight, Ray wears sunglasses. Bright light makes his eyes openly run with tears. He hears Ed muttering in disgust when he's in the yard, but does his best to ignore the old man. At night, Ray quietly weeps on his half of the queen-sized bed. He sets no alarms and doesn't call anyone for help. He doesn't think anyone would come. He doesn't think anyone would come. Ray dreams of the Nova, the thermonuclear detonation flashing in its small corner of the night sky, matter consumed and utterly transformed into a momentary brightness in the cosmos. The next day, something in Ray has shifted. The shapes no longer twist and dance across the ceiling, but sit fixed in their honeycombed cells. The ghostly twins in his right eye also unmoving.

He can see past them clearly for the first time in a month. His face is wet, and he realizes his own tears of relief are coming with the slow, persistent weeping he's accepted as the new normal. In the bathroom, his depth perception is returned. Ray turns the water on with his first try and then sees himself in the mirror. A gasp sticks in his throat. His left eye is transformed. A golden hexagonal grid like the compound eye of a mantis has consumed his former light brown iris. His bloodshot Sclera is gone, also covered by the geometric web.

He blinks, and his eyelids cover the grid. When he opens them, it remains. His eyelids are shot through with fine red lines branching out. into his head. One reaches across the bridge of his nose, merging into the red tissue surrounding his healthy right eye. Ray starts to breathe fast and shallow, then licks his lips and laughs through the hyperventilation. He tastes sugar water. He cries at the sweetness and panics. The shapes turn in his vision, covering his field of view, and he finally sees them for what they are. Not crystalline floaters, but a beachhead for something in the heavenly darkness,

a scouting party looking through one end of their telescope. Their fluid forms stretch in tendrils or reach in extended claw shapes, showcasing how they can transform themselves and whatever they inhabit. He is their focusing lens, and soon he feels with airy certainty. he will be their doorway to step through. The day is bright and clear. Ray enjoys the warmth of the sun, though he's wearing sunglasses and a ball cap against the brightness.

The grass scrapes his knees, and a grasshopper leaps to his shoulder and scrapes its legs together before it springs once more. He pulls the faded blue tarp from the telescope and replaces its eyepiece, previously lost among the detritory, of his half-empty home. The world still awaits TCRB to explode in its cyclical nova.

He hasn't missed it yet. Ray knows that it will be visible to the naked eye, in wonders what the eruption of light might look like to his transformed vision, how his new tenants might dance in the wash of its light. Ed croaks from the other side of the lichen-gray fence that he needs to talk to Ray. Ray sets aside the tarp and crosses to the fence. What's up, Ed? Ed tells Ray to get his shit together, his voice gruff.

He can't see Ed clearly, only catching glimpses of his pink skin and shock of white hair through the fence slats. Ray laughs. What do you mean? Ed points out Ray's deteriorating state, his appearance, the condition of his house and the overgrown yard. He recounts a number of mice he's caught since Ray stopped mowing, claiming the lawn was in such disarray it could be made into hay. The old man goes on, talking about their HOA and county code enforcement, common courtesy and health.

He pauses to ask if Ray is even listening to him. Loud and clear, Ray says and turns to go. He wants to check the alignment of the telescope and then nap. The Nova may arrive that night. He reminds Ray that he isn't the first person to lose someone. He says he just needs to keep moving forward, then asks whether Ray was even working or caring for himself. He says that it's normal to be beaten down,

but that Ray doesn't need to lose his house over it. Ray clenches his teeth. Leave me alone, Ed, and grease your door. I'm sick of its noise and yours. Ed shouts back to go mow your fucking lawn, then begins to cough. Ray hears the snap of a lighter and smells the acrid bite of cigarette smoke in the air. Ray goes back inside and draws the curtains, listening to the chirp of grasshoppers outside his window. He sits on the couch amidst the nest of water bottles and food wrappers that he can now see clearly.

He accepts the mess and closes his eyes. to watch the shapes, shimmy and reform again and again, in anticipation of the night sky. The night is cold and clear, and Ray is marveling over how sharp his transformed left eye can see the stars in nebulae, when TCRB goes nova. A pinprick of light expands and explodes in the lower left of the constellation, its arc of brilliance swelling in bright white that thrum and pulses in the lens. Ray flinches, but nothing pierces his eyes, and he sighs in relief. The light folds and twists in his kaleidoscoping vision, and he laughs, wishing he had a means

to document the Nova as he sees it now. Then it happens. Ray feels his golden eye pulse and swells against the lens as he cries out in the night, high and sharp, as the gold light that pierced him a month before erupts from him, tearing through the newt and rebounding off mirrors to rocket upward, a beacon in the night sky. He falls back, grasping at his eye, and gasps at the beam still streaking into the night sky. His yard is awash in green gold light, and the grasshoppers chirp in response to the sudden noonday brightness. And then it ends.

The beam, rocketing off to whatever message recipient the shapes are reaching out to. Ray can feel his mind shifting along with them, drawing itself into new shapes. He doesn't feel so horribly lonesome anymore. The sliding door squeals next door, and Ed barks from the deck, asking what Ray was doing. Ray turns and tastes the sweetness of his tears. then smiles. Stargazing, Ed, he says. How about I show you the light?

Ray walks to the fence and grasps the top of the posts, then pulls himself into Ed's yard. The old man chokes out in shock, asking what Ray had done to himself before rushing to the house, trying to shut the squealing glass door. Ray follows him, his golden eyes full of light and dancing shapes. For our final story this evening,

Natalie Somerset works the lonely winter shifts at Johnny Hendricks Five and Dime on a deserted boardwalk, feeding unseen creatures beneath its planks. When gruesome deaths occur, Natalie uncovers disturbing secrets about her employer, the boardwalk, and the monstrous entity lurking below, one that knows her too well. Creepy presents, Keep them fed.

Written by Tim Brown and narrated by Megan McDuffie. Natalie Somerset had it drilled into our head that Johnny Hendrix Five and Dime must remain open. January chill be damned. The other Booth Beach Boardwalk stores shut down months ago,

but Hendricks kept its shutter raised from nine to seven all week long. Fifteen minutes till punch out. Dark had emerged hours ago. Behind the counter set a large, thrumming fridge. Her instructions were clear, and the pay was decent enough to follow through on them. She lifted the lid and frosty air wafted out, sinking to the ground like something from a sci-fi flick. All right, what are you getting tonight?

She liked to conjure that illusion of choice, but the choices were always the same, beef and tuna. Grady Hendrick, nephew, and current owner, had been adamant about that pairing, telling her to do it this way. It's what they like, and he knows what they like. Grady dropped by every few weekends to replenish the stock, but Natalie never saw him. He preferred being active late at night, less traffic around. The dark circles under his eyes were proof enough for her. She preferred to envision a meat fairy, who only came around when she was home asleep. Tonight she selected three pounds of hard ground beef and a few cans of tuna for the feeding,

a six-pack of SpongeBob popsicles to take home for herself. The off-center gumball eyes irked her, but not enough to curb her appetite. She placed them all in a plastic lunch tray and set it aside for her walk home. The sign out front, done up in colored chalk, told the remaining pedestrians, elderly townies and the oddball writer who liked a winter beach, that they were indeed still open for business and that there was no other game in town. Natalie liked to etch crude drawings on the blackboard. Men with throbbing, phallic noses

exclaimed how good the two-for deals at Hendricks were. The price were nowhere near a nickel anymore, sure. But if you needed a bathing suit and a pinch, Johnny Hendrick was your guy, so come on down to his five-and-dime. Nobody needed swim-trunks, though. Nor the racks upon racks of sand shovels or sunscreen, or beach umbrellas, not for another four months, at least.

She zipped up her jacket, took the food tray, and left. There was simple work to close up. All she had to do was take the sign in and lock the shutter. She carried the tray in both hands, looking forward most of all to getting out of the unhindered chill of winter winds and into her studio a few miles off the beach. Booth's boardwalk had been built over 60 years ago, and in that time hadn't expanded beyond its mile-long stretch, it was all the town needed. Those summer days brought in the big bucks and tourist tips, though none went to Natalie.

Instead, she earned ten bucks an hour, tending the only open store on the expanse of Ipe. The work mainly consisted of reading self-help books and ignoring awkward come-ons from her customers. Each night and morning, she came to this spot. Towards the end of the boardwalk, past hibernating pizza joints, arcades, and sorts. stores shilling cheap goods like Hendricks, was a little beachside staircase leading to the sand. As she crested the wooden steps running crookedly downwards toward the cold, deserted beach, Natalie's mind began to swim. The tray, filled to the brim with chilled ground beef and opened cans of tuna, seemed to float in front of her. Nestled inside a bed of styrofoam at the bottom of the

stairs, was a rat. She'd seen plenty of dead animals before, roadkill, things washed up on the beach. But nothing quite like this. It occupied the far corner of the tray, like it was seeking warmth. The rat had a tiny red hole, just smaller than a dime, below the nape of its neck. Something Natalie hadn't seen before rimmed the wound. A green, mossy substance coated the area around the hole. Whatever had caused this rat to perish was not something she had ever seen before. The thing was stiff with death and cold, eyes glazed a milky white. Home called to her with the siren song of heat and the book she was ready to finish. Natalie swapped trays, taking the rat with her. It didn't feel right to just leave it there.

Even a trash can burial seemed more dignified. Its mouth sagged open, and she saw its yellowed teeth within. Grady had warned her about this, how the strays under the booth boardwalk tended to leave presents. He sat her down in Hendricks a few days after Thanksgiving. She thought the boardwalk was abandoned then, but it would only grow emptier as the days grew colder. He asked her if she had any cats. Natalie shook her head. Her mom had some when she was a young child, true, but that was 15 years ago. She didn't remember much more than its name, Leaf, and its favorite food, her Christmas steak. But if they're cats, why all the other? Why all the expensive meat. Those idiots don't know a filet from gizzards. She didn't ask, Grady. He wasn't the

type to answer questions, he deemed superfluous. He continued the conversation by asking Natalie if she knew how they liked to leave little presents on the doormat, little bits of wildlife. They do that, because they like you, and they think you can't fend for yourself. Or maybe they just want to show off their prowess. Grady rubbed a few errand beads of sweat from his brow. His hairline had another two, maybe three years before it disappeared completely. He looked at her smiling and advised her to take it away. They won't be able to tell that you didn't eat it. That is, unless you want to do a little home cooking.

Natalie did not want to do any home cooking. Sorry, buddy, you'll be picked up soon. Hope you get to reunite with your cousins at the dump. With that, she unceremoniously tilted the tray into a garbage can. for Booth had many, where it landed with the swish of empty plastic. A bloody styrofoam packet hid the rat from passers-by, not that anyone would peer into a beach-side trash can on a bleak January evening. She stashed the tray behind the can, making a mental note to wash it upon her return.

Home again, she set her keys on the red-lined envelopes she would never read. She used to, but for every overdue bill she paid, two more would spring up. The SpongeBob Popsicles proved an unfulfilling dinner. The next morning's feeding went without incident. She flicked on Hendricks' buzzing fluorescent lights and tossed last night's tray into the sink to clean later. Then she cozied up behind the counter with the latest by Deepak Chopra. He would set her right one of these days. The bell hanging over the door rang a few hours later.

Blake Harrison dusted the hypothetical snow off his newsboy's cap. It was cold enough, but there hadn't been snowfall in weeks. He shivered and muttered something about it being chilly out. The wind was picking up. Hey, Blake, Natalie said, not taking eyes off her book. He shuffled towards the fridge filled with coax. Blake picked up a bottle of vanilla coke, a wave of nostalgia washing over his face as he recalled the last time he enjoyed one.

He inspected the rainbow assortment of bottles like a general sizing up his troops before war. "'Can't say I've ever had one.' Their eyes finally darted up when she heard the unsealing of the rubber liner. Blake ambled back to the counter and set the Coke down. "'150.' Blake pulled out two dollars and refused change, his focus entirely on the bottle in his hand. He snapped it open and took a swig,

the cold liquid refreshing against the chill of the day. He told Natalie that the taste reminded him of a root beer float, a childhood favorite that brought back fond memories. He recalled how the ice cream would melt and get all over his fingers, and without breaking eye contact, he demonstrated the act of licking each finger, clean down to the webbing. A creepy gesture.

Natalie stifled a shudder. I'll see you tomorrow, Blake. As he finished, he tipped his cap in a light-hearted farewell, his enthusiasm palpable. He dinged the bell on his way out. A slight sheen of spit remained on the brass. Creepy old Ledge, wish he didn't come back. But it didn't matter, almost quitting time.

She took another tray, filled it with meat and popsicles from the freezer, and locked up. Blake appeared distant on the boardwalk, empty, save for the two of them. He was heading toward the stairs she needed to take. Natalie gave him a few more minutes head start and began towards the boardwalk's edge when he turned the corner home. The gulls' wings had been snapped in half. Its head twisted around, looking at Natalie with terror-glazed eyes. The dime-sized wound was red, but not seeping. It was also at the nape of the gulls' neck, maybe a knuckle-deep,

a flash of hollow bone at its center. Something Natalie could only guess was a cross between moss and mucus encircled the puncture. Same as the rat, she thought. Jesus. She could just make out the tray under the dead bird, wings obscuring the plastic. She looked back up the stairwell. Nobody there.

Nobody on the sandy tundra either. There were only the crashing waves and wind buffeting against the boardwalk pillars. And yet, something prodded her mind, something which emptied her thoughts. That emptiness prodded further, putting a bowling ball's weight on the point of a pin. The inside of her skull itched, then burned. Her leg spasmed a sock. her player's kick. It collided with the lip of the tray and sent it flying. The goal went with it, pinwheeling away into the early blackness beneath the walk. The pressure subsided, but the wind persisted.

As suddenly as the pain came and went, hunger took its place. Her stomach complained with a loud groan. It only had a popsicle on ice cream sandwich for lunch, of course. Fed and bedded, Natalie finished another good chunk of her book. The dinner popsicles had a little bit of her hadn't quite sat right with her, and they churned in her stomach as she turned off the light. Sleep came lightly and interrupted. Blake's sentient skull grafted onto the gull in the same impossible angle, spoke to her, saying to her, this is the best head it's ever had. His impotent wings tried to flap, but only managed a feeble flutter.

Natalie felt a weak breeze, not even enough to shift her hair. The gull asked her to give it a lift. She lifted the gull, limbs dangling and grazing her elbows. They were at the cusp of a steep cliff overlooking booth. No such cliff existed, not that she was aware of. She dropped the man gull. It flapped its useless wings as it tumbled down, down, down, and splash. A white foam formed quickly, soon turning a frothy pink,

carried on by the wind where the gulls last feeble words. the fish sure are biting tonight, aren't they? But it wasn't the fish who were biting, pointed tentacles, each barbed at the end, swarmed the man-gull, and tore chunk after chunk of flesh and muscle from him it. They would hook in, tear away a piece, and retreat back into the ocean. Water seeped into the pits of the thing, and it began to sink. All the while, Blake's voice called to her, not in pain or for help, but to stop. spout lewdness and puns.

She didn't wish to help him. She wished him dead. Natalie awoke, draped in sweat, still hearing her screams. Very human and very real. Morning's light provided heat, though not enough for Natalie to shed her heavy winter coat. She would rather sweat under the thick wool than freeze. The walk from her apartment to the boardwalk stretched a little more than half mile,

pleasant and warmer months, but rough when it was hugged. covering around 30 or lower. Her thick-souled boots reverberated across the planks of the boardwalk. She trudged past the booth funfare, the dragon's head, topping the roller coaster, peered down at her from its high castle walls. The stores tapered off toward the end, where she had to leave the Stray's breakfast. Tacky retail stores, Hendricks notwithstanding, morphed into more residential buildings. Across from the resilient sand reeds were multi-million-dollar beach homes,

all presently vacant. Natalie wondered what it would be like to squat in a place like that during the off-season, the kind of wild shindigs she could throw, ones to make even Jay Gatsby blush. She juggled the packs of meat in one arm, the stack of tuna cans, and the other.

Remorse over kicking the gull, crested over her. She tried her best to dismiss the feeling. It only made today's work harder. She'd retrieve the tray and gulp both when she was finished giving the strays their breakfast, nothing a little soap and elbow grease couldn't fix, she thought. But when she crested the top of the stairs, the tray vanished from her thoughts.

She let the food go. Cairns tumbled down the steps. The ground beef stopped a few stairs down, but the tuna kept rolling. A few made it as far down as the bottom, and one collided with what lay at the landing. Blake Harrison was dead. His head twisted toward the same impossible. angle as the gull in Natalie's dream. A chill blew through the boardwalk's underbelly, whispering an inquiry about the fish, and if they were indeed biting that morning. What sent true terror through her

was his wound. The mossy substance was present, but a sliver of bone jetted out as well. It didn't look like a part of him, more like something got stuck in him. Whatever that, tooth, yes a tooth was attached to its owner must have had a bad time removing it there was a chunk of what natalie could only assume was the thing's gum stuck to the end a drizzle of teal goop leaked down the shaft and there were drops heading further beneath the boardwalk a single eye peered through the supports orange and watery it blinked at her once twice then retreated further into the boardwalk natalie could have sworn that that a hulking mass, larger than a school bus, followed it into the blackness. She screamed, though there was no one to hear. Police came, draped in heavy coats and wielding coffees. They asked her questions, but she knew as much as they did, maybe less. Natalie was let go after giving a statement, and she watched an ambulance cart,

Blake's led her his body away. They're not cats, are they? Natalie said. Grady leaned against the counter. She'd texted him about what happened. He insisted that she meet him at Hendricks. The open sign had been flipped around, and, at least for today, the boardwalk was completely closed. He shrugged, commenting that he had never said they were.

But then, what are they? What exactly was I feeding? Grady sighed and ran a hand through thinning hair. It seemed grayer than when she last saw him. He sighed before uttering that the... They were indiscretions, past mistakes, things he was only peripherally aware of. She had too many questions. It was difficult to only pick one, so she remained silent and let him continue.

He lamented that there were so many things he wished he knew before he took over the store. Johnny was old now, getting up to his 90s. Natalie knew the next part already. Johnny Hendrick stood up one of the first stores on the walk. Only a small bandstand and the beach's more famous crab cake shack came before. But Hendricks was always there,

since almost the beginning, weathering economic downturns and the occasional hurricane, nothing could keep the store down. Grady continued, telling Natalie that he liked to take his walks, his uncle. Late at night, once the stores were all closed

and the lights off. He liked to say that it was the most natural way to experience the beach, with none of the best. mandatory consumerism or the obnoxious blips and bloops of video games. He strolled, maybe just below this very store, as he pointed to his feet, and that's when he saw what lived beneath. Grady seemed to consider something, making a thin line of his lips, his knuckles drained of color, and the plastic bottle of water he'd been drinking from

crumpled under his grip. Grady's eyes went dark and cold, as he recalled that he did see something, feel something too. It was during winter. He was walking home after tending to the store. It slipped up through the cracks in the wood and up his pants, all slimy, all comforting, like being caressed by a lover. He felt what his uncle felt decades prior. He closed his eyes, smiling at the thought. He called to her saying, come on, he'd show her. Grady led her towards the opposite end of the boardwalk, away from. from the cops in Blake's final resting place. He ordered her to stay here. Don't come down.

Natalie waited at the top of the stairs as Grady descended. He stretched his arms wide toward the underside of the boardwalk, not moving, not blinking. Out from beneath the wood, wood which Natalie spent so many innocent summers walking upon, came a creature. Vains bulged through its sides like rivers, A singular blob emerged.

There was no way Natalie could tell how the creature even worked. At the end of a prominent stalk, culminating in a singular bulge, was an eye about the size of a baseball. It looked up at Grady, who looked back at it, with a smile of recognition. Natalie's mind raced with horror. Their skin nearly leaped from her flesh. The tentacle twisted around Grady's ankles with affection, culminating around. on his knees. Then it saw Natalie, hovering at the top of the stairs. It slithered away,

double quick. Grady was calling up to her, telling her that it gets hungry, and its children get hungry. It's our duty to feed our children when they can't fend for themselves. Natalie was stunned. Our children? Detached, Grady explained that they were his and Johnny's both. He laughed and asked her if they thought they were content bachelors. They both went beneath the boardwalk. Maybe ten feet from where she stood. It felt overwhelming. But they were safe and happy. Uncle Johnny still visits his side of her when he's feeling up to it.

Natalie didn't want to think of the implication. Two men loving the same thing. Polygamy seemed the wrong word for it. Against her will, she pictured a cubic mass of flesh and organs, esoteric appendages, and so many teeth. So you keep seeing. seeing it? Keep loving it? Grady's lips curled in a reminiscent smile.

He asked Natalie if she found a lover, would you take them only once? He continued by saying that Johnny's getting old. He needs someone to care for him full time now, and he's the only one he can share his affection with. That's why they hired her instead. She can take care of herself during the beach season with all the dropped fries and crab cakes.

He started back up the stair, His legs were able, and Natalie noticed an extra bounce in his step. Natalie wanted to plant a left hook on his jaw, so I won't breed with it. He nodded in agreement, telling her that they pay her well enough for the work. The hours are easy, too. They just didn't figure that she'd take a shine to her like that, leave presents on her doorstep. He thought it was for her nourishment first. All those popsicles weren't good for her.

But now, with Blake, he paused. to consider before continuing to tell her that those floors in the store are surprisingly thin, she'd be surprised. It senses things, senses emotions, lust, anger, disgust. Dogs do it all the time. They sense their owner's fear of an intruder and bite. It's basic empathy. With Blake, he thought she was trying to protect her. With Blake, you're fucked. They'll find out, no matter how well it hides. Grady laughed before he yelled bullshit. Did Natalie really think those cops were the first to go under the boardwalk? That there weren't hundreds of horny teenagers under there doing exactly what they did?

He raised his voice, forgetting the swarm of board police officers above. He declared his love for her, the creature. They love her. The creature loves Natalie. She proved it by killing Blake for her. An officer approached, piping black coffee in hand. They were both questioned. Natalie told the detectives what she heard that morning.

All she got from them were odd looks and a ride home. Like Grady said, the thing was wily. The police couldn't find a trace of any monsters living under the boardwalk. They followed up with Grady, or rather they tried to. His fate hit the news a few mornings later. Not large enough to warrant the National Circuit and barely a blip locally. The media couldn't make much of the story. The tired anchor only relayed that a local resident had been killed on Booth's shores

and that a local store owner had hanged himself. It cut to the sheriff relaying what had happened. He stated in a press conference that they were still looking into it, but they can tell us that it appears to be an accident related to an attempted suicide. Grady Hendrick created a rope out of his bed sheet and tossed it over a wooden rafter. The wood couldn't hold his weight and buckled. He appears to have broken his own neck. against the metal frame of his bed as he fell.

They are treating this as such for now, until the autopsy is performed. There's no known next of kin. Each week, she searched for employment. The most she could find in town was busing tables for $8 an hour. Natalie took it, sliding deeper into debt she knew she would never return from. Bills piled up. Her landlord gave her the stink eye. But Grady and his lover stuck with her.

She promised herself that she would never go near the beach or boardwalk ever again. She would rather suck shit through a hose than return. But she would hop online and check the boardwalk webcam. It felt to her like stalking an X, but it had to be done. The lights remained on in the store windows. People mulled about, going inside and coming out with drinks and plastic toys. Johnny Hendrix Five and Dime had no openings for the rest of the season. In fact, the only one of the only.

The only news in Booth was about some obscure writer, vanishing sometime in June, and the police had no leads. As summer heat began to lose its hold and the tourists fled, there were fewer and fewer job openings. Natalie considered her options. Fleeing Booth and seeking shelter with any distant relative that would have her seemed the best option. Wait, check again. There's got to be something.

The thoughts stabbed through her head like a hot nail through butter. She opened a new tab and looked for posts around booth. Her eyes widened, and her hands grew clammy when the results loaded. Hendricks is seeking a shopkeep for the off-season. $35 an hour. Requirements, three references, and high school diploma. Must love animals. Duties.

Restock shelves as needed. Open and close the store. Care for stray cats. Call store and ask Mrs. Hendrick for an interview, an equal opportunity employer. ran a hand through her hair. It hadn't been washed since Tuesday. But Grady had no... Shit. Her mind raced. Her bank account couldn't take much more strain. Maybe. Just maybe, if she did things right and didn't ask questions, she could do it this time. With nowhere else to

turn, she picked up her phone and dialed. 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-Lite 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.