Creepy - Bumpa & I'll Tell You What Turned Me Off Fish

Episode Date: August 28, 2025

Bumpa***Written by: Ryan Peacock and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***I'll Tell You What Turned Me Off Fish***Written by: Loris D'Emic and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. Bumper, written by Ryan Peacock, and narrated by Rissa Montanez.

I grew up in a very small town, far off the highway and deep in the woods. Most of my family lived in town, and many of us lived on the very same street. In fact, Uncle Rob and Aunt Nancy used to live right across from us. Their kids were older than my sister and us, so we didn't get to play with them very often. But Uncle Rob and Aunt Nancy were still always happy to have us over when our parents were at work. They let us play with our cousin's old toys, and Aunt Nancy was the best cook. They treated us just like we were their own. Although they've always had one rule that I never quite understood.

Never go downstairs and never ever, ever. bother Bumpa. Bumpa was mom and Aunt Nancy's dad, but neither my sister Katrina and I had ever met him. Mom always said he was very sick, and he didn't like being around people anymore. I remember once I asked if I could meet him. Mom said, only when I'm older,

and Aunt Nancy said she hoped I never, ever met him. Though I never saw Bumpa, I still heard him. Sometimes when Katrina and I were at Nancy's place, we'd hear him moving around downstairs. Heavy footsteps and heavy breathing. Thump, wheeze, thump, wheeze, thump. He never came upstairs, even when it was time for dinner. Aunt Nancy always took dinner down to him, but she never stayed down there for very long. She'd always run right down and then run back up.

Sometimes we'd hear Bumpa trying to go up the stairs after she'd closed and locked the basement door, but he never came all the way up, and he never tried to open the door himself. I was always the curious sort, as was Katrina. I'd say she had more of a nose for trouble than I did, though. That girl had a certain fire in her. An insatiable need to know that hadn't quite manifested in me. I'd like to say that I knew when to stop. Katrina, on the other hand,

she didn't always have the same inhibitions. She must have been about ten when she decided she wanted to see bump a face-to-face because I reckon I was eight and nine when she came up with the idea to go downstairs. It was after dinner. Uncle Rob and Aunt Nancy were watching their TV show while the dish is soaked in the sink. The smell of the apple pie we'd had for dessert still lingered in the air, making the house smell like cinnamon. Katrina and I had disappeared into the next room to play with some old dolls we'd adopted.

But I remember that Katrina had seemed distracted. She kept glancing over at the door, listening to the sounds of the television. I don't recall if I ever called her out on it. But at one point, she simply stood up and went to the door. Where are you going? I remember asking, but she raised a finger to shush me. There was an urgency in her eyes that was enough to quiet me. Once she was certain that we were more or less unsupervised, she finally spoke.

I'm going down to see Bumpa. She whispered. You can't. Mom and Aunt Nancy told us not to go down. It'll just be a minute. She said. I heard him all through dinner. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Don't you think it's strange that we've never seen him? He's down there. We know he is, but we've never, ever seen him. We've seen Bumpa. I said, although I remember the way my voice faltered. Aunt Nancy has a picture of him on our wall. Katrina wasn't swayed. The picture wasn't enough for her. It depicted an older man with a bald head and a neatly trimmed mustache that we'd never seen before. It was the only picture of Bumpa that we knew about, though. She didn't bother responding to me as she crept out into the hall, and I hesitated for a moment before creeping out right after her.

I wanted to tell her to stop. But if I spoke too loudly, Uncle Rob and Aunt Nancy would hear us. Then we'd really get in trouble. So instead, I just followed, anxious as I watched Katrina make her way towards the basement door. She turned the lock gently. Then paused to make sure the sound hadn't betrayed us. It hadn't. The TV was still on.

Satisfied, my sister turned the doorknob and gently pulled it open, just wide enough to expose the stairway leaning down into the dimly lit basement below. It wasn't completely dark. There was still some lights on. Lamps in the hallway kept it bright, although they didn't quite banish every shadow in the hall. She descended the stairs slowly, and I lingered at the top watching her go down. She looked back up at me, expectantly, and gestured for me to follow.

I shook my head. What if Bumper gets mad? I whispered. Katrina just rolled her eyes and continued going down. A few more steps, and I couldn't handle just watching her anymore. I set my foot down onto the first step and followed her down. We'd never been in the basement before. I hadn't been sure what to expect, but it was quite nice.

Time and effort had been put into finishing it. The floor was wood. The walls were painted a pleasant beige. It looked as if it had been set up as a home for someone. Katrina reached the bottom of the stairs and wandered into the hall, keeping a slow pace as she looked around. I wasn't quite as brave. I lingered on the last step, clinging to it as if it was somehow safer than the other steps.

Somewhere in the basement, I couldn't hear Bumpa's wheeze and breaths. If anything, the basement seemed quieter than normal. Looking down, I spotted a dirty plate on the floor by the bottom step. I remember thinking that Bumpa must have left it there after he'd finished dinner. Katrina drew nearer to one of the doors in the hall, and after a moment she turned the knob and opened it. What's in there? I asked.

Stuff? She replied. There's a pool table, some model cars. It all looks very messy, though. Is Bampa in there? She shook her head before stepping back from the door, looking for another one to open. Before she could even get close, though, I heard the creak of a door being pushed open further down the hall.

Both Katrina and I froze as we heard one of Bumpa's raspy breaths. Katrina immediately ducked into the room she'd been just about to open while I retreated further up the stairs. When I looked back, I saw a man standing in the hallway, and yet this man looked like no one I'd seen before. and like no one I've ever seen since. I knew he was a man, that much I was certain of. He was bald with a long, unkempt gray beard, and aside from the fact that he didn't seem to wear a single scrap of clothing, he almost looked normal.

But there was something in the way he stood. His posture seemed almost hunched over. I could see his ribs against his grayish skin. He stared towards the stairs, and I knew that he was looking at me. All I could think to do was shyly raise my hand and wave. He didn't respond, not in any meaningful way. He just continued to breathe heavily. I took a step back up the stairs.

His gray eyes followed me. Then he moved. And when he did, he was the fastest thing I've ever seen. He was halfway down the hall before I could scream, and he was almost right at the top of the stairs by the time I got up and slammed the door behind me. When I did, I could feel the weight of him slamming against the wood, and I could hear him cry out in pain. Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I collapsed against the door.

In an instant, Aunt Nancy and Uncle Rob were there. I could see the wide-eyed fear in Aunt Nancy's eyes as she grabbed me and pulled me away from the door while Uncle Rob locked. it again. Letty, oh God, Letty, why were you downstairs? All I could do was sob and shake as I tried to stammer out and answer. And before I got that far, Aunt Nancy's head was darting around frantically, looking for Katrina. Where's your sister?

Was she downstairs? Lettie, where's Katrina? Where? Her voice was cut off by an ear-splitting scream from behind. on the basement door. Katrina's scream. My heart froze solid in my chest, and neither me nor Aunt Nancy

nor Uncle Rob moved an inch. I remember that scream. Oh God, I remember it. I will always remember it. I remember it went on for what felt like forever. A scream of terror that quickly became one of unimaginable pain. I've never heard anything quite like it.

If I never hear anything like it again, I will count myself a lucky girl. I remember the tears in Aunt Nancy's eyes. I remember the way she bowed her head and held me close. Her body shaking as she did. I remember seeing Uncle Rob right up against the door, struggling to breathe. And when that scream ended,

when the silence set in. Well, that very well might have been worse. I never saw my sister again. Nobody did. My mom and dad didn't let me go over to Uncle Rob and Aunt Nancy's after that. They hired a babysitter for me. I knew better than to ever ask about Bumpa after that. Just like the others in my family, I never even dared to speak his name

and I understood why Aunt Nancy had wished I'd never have to meet him. I wished I'd never met him either. The fire happened about a year after that. I remember very little about it. I'd been asleep in bed when the sound of mom and dad running around in the hall outside stirred me from my sleep. I thought it was dusk from the light coming through my window. But the light wasn't quite right. No.

It flickered too. much. It waxed and waned like a glow. I thought it was dusk from the light coming through my window. But the light wasn't quite right. It flickered around too much. It waxed and waned like a glow. And I sat up to look out my window and see what was going on. I was greeted by the side of Aunt Nancy and Uncle Rob's home engulfed in flames. staring at it, I could do nothing but watching a quiet, wide-eyed horror. Downstairs, I could hear my mom on the phone, and I could see my dad racing across the street in the vain hope that he might just be able to help.

To save someone in that house. I don't think he ever could have, though. From where he was on that street, I don't believe he saw what I saw from my bedroom window. out in the back, behind the house, I could see the shape of a man. Even from a distance, I recognized his unkempt beard and knew he was naked. He didn't look at me this time. Thank God for that. Had he looked at me, I may have just died on the spot, but...

I knew Bumpa when I saw him. What I didn't recognize was the shape that he dragged behind him. He held it by a single lamb that ended in a bare foot. But in the glow of the inferno, I could not see who it was attached to. And for that, I am grateful. He dragged the body behind him slowly, away from the house and into the woods behind it. He didn't look back. He didn't slow or stop.

He was gone after about a minute or so. I'd only caught a glimpse of him at a distance. but that one little glimpse told me all that I needed to know about Uncle Rob, Aunt Nancy, and the fire. I knew then that I wasn't going to see either of them again, and I couldn't do anything but curl up in my bed and cry. Mom and Dad sent me to a boarding school that September. I barely spoke to them after that. There were a few letters exchanged between us, and I'd come back for summers. But for the most part, I wasn't home, and what relationship I'd had with my family before then,

quickly deteriorated. Some people I've met have told me that it was a cold thing for my parents to do to me. But I don't believe that I agree. After all that I'd seen, Katrina, the fire, it was best to get me away from that place. Were I in my mom's shoes, I would have done the same in a heartbeat. We never once spoke about Bumpa when I was home. But I couldn't help but know.

there was a new lock on the basement door. And I noticed that mom always fixed and extra plate at suppertime. She'd bring it downstairs when no one was looking. But she never stayed down for long. She'd always drop it off near the bottom step and hurry back up. I never asked her about it because I never needed to. When school ended, I left town and found someplace else to settle down. I wasn't too far from home, but I was far enough.

away from my own comfort. I tried to forget the worst parts of my childhood. Tried to forget Katrina, Aunt Nancy, and Uncle Rob. I even tried to forget my cousins who'd lost their parents in a tragic house fire that nobody ever talked about. I should have known I wouldn't get off so easily, though. Mom and dad passed away about a week ago. Nobody would tell me how, and I haven't really asked. There was a funeral, but I suspect that you're urns were empty, just like Katrina's was. The house I grew up in is mine now. A few distant relatives stopped by to wish me well with anxious smiles. They don't stay for dinner, though. And I don't blame them. I found a shotgun with a few empty boxes of ammo in my dad's study. He was never a hunting man.

I'd never seen him handle a gun before. I guess he took the time to learn. though it doesn't seem to have done it much good. Something tells me that burning this house to the ground isn't going to work either. I'm considering my own options in the meanwhile. But until I get an idea, I leave Bumpa's meals by the bottom step.

When I hear his raspy breathing, I run back upstairs as fast as I can and I keep the basement door locked tight. I've got the only key and I wear it around my neck so that I'll never lose it. I've got little cousins who come over sometimes. And one day, I might have little ones in my own to deal with.

And I'd prefer that none of them ever have to meet Bumpa. Creepy Presents. I'll tell you what turned me off fish, written by Louis Demick and narrated by Owen McCune. Despite everything, I'm thriving. I have my house and my health. With the neighbors gone and no newbies coming in, my property is grown. My mind is sharp. I exercise.

I'm happy to say that even at my age, I still have a full head of hair. Early evening and the heat is intense. Not midday's inferno, but enough that a stray ray of sunlight can burn like hell. I'm safe, though. Suit, boots, gloves protect my skin. I might sweat under the rubber of the gas mask, but I'll never choke. I bought it myself, decades ago at this point, and it's never quit on me. Military grade, the best.

The ground bakes through my goggles. I'm reluctant to move too much in this temperature, so I only turn my head, scanning the landscape like a lizard. Long shadows make it easy to spot what would otherwise be sucked into the background. That's another advantage of coming out at this time of day. when everything is golden and the sun has already done its worst. A peculiar shadow draws my focus. I follow my instincts and am rewarded.

A gecko lies fully cooked in the dirt. Into the satchel. 900D polyester nylon blend. German crafted. The girl at the store said it was meant to endure, and shit, she was right. Not spotting more around here. I head for the safe bet of the beach.

The coastline is a flat plain, land and ocean neatly divided. Used to be a drive away, but now the beach is a quick walk from my house. Ocean front property. I don't know what I'd do if I were more inland. Creatures come, all types from all places trying to reach the water. Nine times out of ten, they fry before that and end up on my doorstep. And if they do make it to the water, well, good luck to them. There.

Just out of the breaker's reach, something else for me. I hunker over to inspect. Looks dry, so it should be safe. Two, three years old? Skin and bones, of course, but more meat than a tiny lizard. Dark brown hair, swollen red skin. Wearing a onesie of a sort. Looks like an emergency blanket, crudely cut and sewn.

I scan to see if the person. person responsible for that is still around. Instead, spying a similar lump, half under the sand. Same hair and dress, but bigger. I lean down, give it a shake. Stone dead. Five, I guess, and fattier than its sibling. It must have been doing okay, until recently. I take a long look, a round snout of the gas mask pointed in all directions, trying to spot the parent. Only me, these two, and the moon faint in a still blue sky. It takes some time to fit them in, despite my satchel's 120 liters, and I bend under the weight. Nothing I can't handle, though. I do calisthenics.

The walk is level, an advantage nowadays. No cliffs between me and the water. The tides long since covered them. My back sweats under my hall, but the temperature's cooling. Stripes of rich pink spread over the Pacific as dazzling as ever. That sunset is what made me fall in love with Marin all those years ago. Squelch under my boot. I glanced down to scales, blood, bones, and it makes me want to jump out of my skin. Forcing myself to stay calm, I ease the satchel down, away from any poisoned fish guts and assess the damage. Only my right boot is contaminated.

so I scrape it against a rock and accept that's all I can do till I get home. My house is the last true building, not ruins, as far as the eye can see. White stucco, brown tile, and the black muzzle of the tank rising over the roof like a flag. A sprawling California ranch, originally five-bed, three-bath, though two-beds got shaved off when the tank crashed. It wasn't malicious. The driver choked on gas, and the driver, the thing bulldozed into the north side of my house. Got stuck there, barrel permanently angled to the sky, propped up by the rubble of those bedrooms at my old office.

It was a bitch to seal the exposed parts off, but since then the house has been stable. I'm proud, as I ought to be, of how well I've maintained it. Plus, there's space under the tank that's perfect for storage. Down a slight slope, east side of the house, my basement door opens to rough concrete. Boots, fizz, and a tray of disinfectant while I peel off my suit. Nothing but darkness.

I won't waste current. The churn of the water purifier fills my ears, and I don't notice my satchel has tipped over until I reach for it. The basement leads into the garage, and light is necessary there. One car still remains, huddled to the side in case I ever need it. Plus, it's hard to part with the Porsche. I opened my satchel to work on the day's catch. Now without the mask, the smell hits me.

I breathe through my nose. Gecko first. So small, a Swiss army slices out the entrails and cuts off the head. I think I'll salt it. Make it a jerky. The satchel's fallen over again. I scoop out the small one, retching as hot sewage hits my nose. I turn on a fan, figuring I'll take a break upstairs.

The kitchen is breathable, a big open space of cedar cabinets and granite counters. A grooved crystal glass scoops fresh water from a bucket near the now permanently closed sliding door. Sometimes I still find myself reaching for the faucet. Old habits die hard and all that. One side of my kitchen is all glass, floor to ceiling. With some minor exceptions, it's all intact, likely because I oversaw construction myself back in the day. The few cracks are securely plugged. Sadly, my glass has to be covered most of the time to keep the sun from cooking me alive.

But at night, I like to let the view in. I pull off the covering to a cool blue landscape lit by a growing moon. The same evening moon that's shown over me since I've lived here. Before the poison, the heat, the gas, the last job I had, before the war, before the kids and wife. I don't know what precisely happened to the latter. I remember the last time I saw them, but that's it. Presumably, they were washed away with the rest of the rabble. Anyway, I've owned this place longer than any of it.

When it gets dark, the ocean is indistinguishable from the sky. My eyes linger on the inky western horizon, trying to find the line. Boundaryless. I gulp down the water. I'm hungry. Downstairs the fan has helped but not eliminated the smell. Gas mask on. Better.

The little one is a little swollen heap on the table, and I decide it's most efficient to dress both carcasses at once. I reach for the big one, but find my satchel is empty. A trail of shit leads away from my table, which I follow back into the basement. This time I switch on the bulb, flinging cold light around the room. My suit hangs like flayed skin. Above the hum of the purifier, I hear a whimper. Quiet, not to spook it.

I stepped towards the boiler. Light catches on the rubber as my neck snakes around a pipe. There. Very much not dead. It hugs its arms around its knees, barely. I can't move well. Bloodshot eyes freeze on the mask's circle snout. I really had thought it was dead, and now I'm in a position.

I calculate its chance of survival. Impressive that it made it so far, but it certainly has permanent damage from the exposure. And if it lives, what would it eat? I do fine for myself, but food isn't plentiful. I don't like it staring at me, whimpering. Red across the goggles and dark brown hair on my butcher's table. I'll tell you what turned me off, fish. Years ago, I had an altercation with a drifter.

I was friendly to him at first, but he got greedy on me. More of this, more of that, latching on like a barnacle, invading my space. I remember him shouting demands through my windows as the sun came up. When he started to burn, he chose the ocean. Not long after, I came across a human arm on the sand, Bitten off at the elbow, looked like a shark's signature. Fingernails were missing.

I imagined him taking a swipe at the beast before meeting his fate. Or maybe he tried clinging to the underwater cliffs. As I stared, thinking of him, the arm began to quiver. Something rippling beneath the skin and then, Pah! Hundreds of blue scales burst from under the sunburned flesh, like parasite eggs hatching from their host. They grew around the bite mark, over the hand, wet and glistening.

Then the surf came and washed away what had become of the drifter's arm, and I haven't trusted a thing that's come in or out of the ocean since. I wake up mid-afternoon, having drooled into my stack of pillows. After a heavy sleep, I do a minute of jumping jacks, brush my teeth, spare a scoop of raspberry-flavored sugar powder to mix in with my water as a treat. A rare day with little to do. I run a maintenance check, noting to add more sealant around my old office wall, and to get fresh propane for the generator.

By nightfall, I'm restless, having been in my pajamas all day. Not really healthy to do that. I'm on Chapter 5 of zero to one. But I've read it before. I've read all of them. Suited and masked, I go out through my basement. In a silhouette, the tank is a solid. slab of basalt, like the bare-faced cliffs that once lined the beach. Its back is dug into the

ground, the front splintering stucco and Spanish tile. My house holds the tank up, and tonight the muzzle points at a round silver moon. It's cool out, even, dare I say, cold. Maybe it's my old sweat leaking through the nylon lining. The moonlight is a relief, lending some sheen to the tiles on my roof. It brightens an old branch, the last reminder of the crab apples that used to border my home. Way out are the skeletons of other houses, scavenged long ago. All those former neighbors didn't make it. Yet, here I am. But I've always had that edge. It keeps me on top. Of course, I wish the world hadn't gone to hell, but looking back, I can't say I would have done anything different. Really, it's only gotten bad for some.

For me, it's an odd life, but am I unsuccessful? Certainly not. I could see the cracks in the dry dirt smoothing as they get toward the coastline. The water catches moonlight as it churns. Looks calm from here. No more than bathwater. But those ripples might be massive waves. Something in the distance holds my eye.

Silver light, instead of coming and going with the waves, is steady. Whatever it's reflecting on is not water. A rock formation, a ship. Neither of those things should be there. I shiver. What a strange sensation to be cold. My legs are stiff. I haven't moved a muscle in minutes.

I turn my back to the water and head home. Dread, festering. until I'm all but scurrying like a mouse. Those strange, steady lights have followed me into my kitchen, so I cover the windows. The overhead bulbs are warm and familiar, like my table, the cabinets, my glass, my plate. I fix myself dinner and focus on the tenderness of the meat.

Flickr, hum, and the electric dies. Shit, I need more propane. My fucking luck, it's sitting under the tank. I suit up, but my gut churns at the basement door. Only a couple of feet beyond the borders of my home, but those lights. My instinct is to install another deadbolt rather than it go out right now. Without the generator, the meat in the fridge will spoil. The cove under the tank is swollen with shadows.

I duck beneath the tread, aluminum clinking as I snatch a fresh canister. Metal groans. Something heavy lands across my shirt. shoulder. I jerk forward, but I'm being held. In vain I try to run, the urge so strong that my brain doesn't comprehend that I'm moving backwards until I've already been pulled into the tank. Whatever has me, it's got claws. With the underside hatch shut, the world is pitch dark. It hisses, and though I see nothing, my mind conjures a jaw unhinged and wet with saliva. One arm is free. I whip the propane canister at darkness and hear a throaty inhuman yelp.

It loosens its grip, but I don't run far before tripping. A land face first, the orbits around my eyes throb where the goggles hit the floor. I've lost the canister, and the monster lands on my back, twisting its claws around my neck. Flailing, I feel for anything that could help me, and latch onto the rungs of a ladder. One good pull, and the thing is thrown off. I scramble up, following the rungs, but it's right under me. I jerk to evade it, swipes, jolts of panic each time it grazes me. The rungs end, but I feel something round.

A wheel. The top hatch. Claws dig in my sides. I yell, kick furiously, but force myself to focus on the wheel. Grip, turn. It's pinning my legs. Grip, turn. It's pulling me down.

Grip. Turn. My head swims as I fall. But there, a sliver of light. The top hatch is open. It's on top of me, pressing on my chest. An alien hiss squirms into my ears. Pain crashes over me as its teeth break through layers of nylon and into my arm. When I scream, it bites deeper. Mustering strength in my other hand, I grab at it, latching onto what feels like fur or hair. I think it's the head. and the shock as I rip it out of my flesh proves me right.

It tries to pull free, but I hold long enough to bash its head into the floor. One good smash, and I bolt, able to judge by the sliver of light where to move. I'm out, back into the night, about to stand and run when it latches onto my ankle. The claws are long and pointed like needles, covered in scales. Out of the abyss of the tank, its head appears. oblong and dripping in that fishy skin radiating pure malice. Long hair seeps into the dark. The eyes are bulging orbs as if its eyelids had been burned away,

milky and streaked with purple veins. The nose has two slits. The mouth is stuffed with double rows of wide triangular teeth. For a moment, I'm paralyzed by the sight of it, this thing that loathes me for what reason I can't possibly know. Its pull on my ankle shakes me from my stupor. Under the full moonlight, I visualize my move. Stabilize my free foot, bend out of its reach,

and slam the hatch down on its head. It recedes into the abyss. I bolt up the muzzle and onto my roof. Only then do I risk looking back, but it hasn't followed. The top hatch is shut. No movement on the ground. Whatever it's doing, my only option is to get inside and decide what to kill it with.

I can hear my heart. I'm dizzy. There's blood seeping from my arm, suit pierced right below my elbow. I smell salt, ash, sulfur. I shouldn't be smelling anything at all. I clutch at the mask. Around the nape of my neck, the rubber has been split. It takes all my concentration not to fall as I rush down to the basement.

inside, in the safe air, I strip and breathe deep. My limbs tremor, heart pounding. I can't tell what's fear and what's the gas. I scoop a bucket of fresh water for a shower, taking my butcher knife along. My body aches bumping through the dark house. The master bedroom windows are uncovered, gracing the bathroom with just enough light to see by. Half the bucket over me, and the water is a cold, shock. Scrub. Second half. I can't stop shivering. The water drains. I rub antiseptic on my arm.

Parallel semicircles of double-dotted cuts sting as I wipe them. They itch. And when I scratch, I feel something hard, like a fingernail, protruding from the wound. Stepping into the light, I see that it's a tiny blue scale. Growing out of me. from inside me. Tweezers yank it out and the pain is excruciating. My yell echoes through the empty house, reverberating my torment back to me, like pulling out a tooth. There's another and another.

Scales multiplying and infestation. I pull them out one by one furious at the pain because how can these parasites feel like parts of my own body? The dotted semicircles have become a rough, gaping. wound, raw pink, a cavern in my arm. But there, a bit of shimmering blue. The first scale I pulled out has grown back. Numb, I collapsed on the floor. I've never felt so violated. Why has it done this to me? It isn't fair. From the depths of my home, I hear rustling. Footsteps. My hand is on a knife like lightning. The sounds are far off, coming from the office, the tank side of the house. In my home. In my body. How did it get in? Everything is sealed. It would have to break something.

I've already been exposed to gas so I don't think I can risk more. The basement, farthest away from the contamination, will be safest. My left hand brandishes the knife as I walk. Not my dominant arm, but I don't trust the one growing scales. In the kitchen, I peel back the window covering to let in some light. And when I turn around, the creature is standing next to my refrigerator. Scaly all over, webbed feet ending in those needle claws. The hair hangs down in dark brown clumps, wet and stuck with seaweed. Humanoid. Used to be human, I think.

A woman, maybe. Some poor sap who went into the wall. water. What hell turning into a thing like that? When I kill it, I'll be doing it a favor. It lunges mouth first with teeth bursting from its gums. I slash, it dodges. I jump towards the basement stairs, but vertigo overtakes me, and it gets its claws in, slimy on my naked skin. My knife comes down on its shoulder, and it yowls, hair whipping sea scum. Smells like putrid fish. The knife is deep. I need both hands to wrench it out, and the forest causes me to topple down the stairs. Bruised on the floor of my butchery, I see the creature, backlit by faint moonlight at the top of the staircase. A jagged shadow anchored by those bulbous sighs, round, monstrous

ghost lights. They bore into me as it lunges. It's screaming. I swing the butcher knife between its eyes and hack at the thing until it's in pieces. My arm tingles. Scales grow tall and shiny. I drag my butcher's table into the light, prop up my arm, and fight not to collapse from pain as the knife cuts down to my bone. I toss the bad arm with the creature's remains. My tongue is sore. Should have bitten down on something.

I need to cauterize my arm or I'll bleed out. There's bad air leaking into my house. The light disappears. I can't take much more of this. Upstairs, the windows are black, completely covered as if the sea had drowned my house. I make out claws, webbed feet, tapping on the glass. I rip the next patch of window covering off, and there's more. More.

Dozens of monsters crammed against my windows, white eyes shifting chaotically in the rising wave of shadow. God, why are they still coming for me? As if I were here just for them to take from, like some... The glass cracks. For a few long seconds, I'm running, ready to die of gas, blood loss, heat, anything before those things. But I'm weak. I've endured too much, and when the horde gets to me, there's nothing I can do. I'm dizzy, in and out of consciousness.

I smell ash, salt. Water splashes into my nostrils burning down my throat. When I come to, it's by the light of a full moon. Slimy, slick rock jabs into me. The Pacific churns, waves beating from below. My hips slide towards them, pulled by gravity, but I don't fall. I'm pinned by claws. All around me, the creatures shine silver, leering at me with two round eyes.

Some are smaller or bigger. Some grow hair. One has a single arm. I struggle, cutting my skin against the rock. A creature sits cross-legged in front of me, holding in its lap the head of the monster I killed. The wound on its face is deep, bulging eyes sagging to the ground. Somehow, more grotesque than when it was alive. Nestled with it, on either side, two small heads that are shriveled but not scaly,

and must have been fished out of my garbage. My catch is from the other day. The children, the cross-legged monster opens its mouth, rows of teeth glistening, curved up. A smile? It sticks its claws between my lips and pushes them apart. Others join, a dozen wet needles forcing my jaws open as wide as they can go. A small blue fish wriggles in the creature's other hand, gasping as it's lowered into my mouth.

I try to wrestle free, but they've cinched me in place. They're forcing it down my throat. A tall wave crashes. dousing me in darkness and acid salt water. I sputter and choke. My arms surges with scalding pain, but I can't scream because I'm drowning. The fish swims with the water deeper into me

until my body swallows it up. I feel the cold, scaly thing pop into my stomach. I wait for the monsters to rip me apart, but they don't. They hold. Unable to move anything except my arm, eyes, I look east to see the sky brightening over the bay. There's an itching under my skin. I can beat them. I know I can because that's always who I've been. Swim to land, fix my house,

kill them. It isn't fair what they're doing. I was happy. I have nothing to do with them. Why should I be here? I shouldn't have to care about this. I'm not some... I'm not... The creatures begin to hum. a quiet foreign sound. It matches the pitch of the waves to the millisecond. Something is growing under me. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube.

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