Creepy - Chalk Skin & The Scarecrows Are Dancing

Episode Date: November 6, 2025

Chalk Skin***Written by: Johnzy Zombee  and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***The Scarecrows are Dancing***Written by: John Oakes and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Tanja Milojevic: https://tanjamvoice.com/***Adam Peacock and My Neighbors Are Dead: https://open.spotify.com/show/6S5coQAPY4iGa11yHGbDGm***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. Hey, everyone. Still here at the radio station.

I'm sure the issue's been fixed by the time you're listening to this, but I also recorded this immediately after I recorded this stuff for last Sunday, so, you know. We'll get to the stories in a second. I just wanted to take a second to say a few things that I didn't say on Sunday that I very much should have. But in the middle of all my over-explaining, I just didn't. So if you didn't hear Sunday's episode, I explained all the audio issues during that intro.

First of all, thank you to everyone who listened to this year's 31 days of horror. And special thanks to Tanya Malojavik and Adam Peacock for lending us their ample talents. Make sure to check out the links in the description of this episode for Tanya's website so you can see even more of her voice acting, as well as a link to Adam's podcast, My Neighbors are Dad, which I'm sure you've heard me talk about before. I just really love it. As usual, I'm sad that October's over, and it'll take me a bit to get back up to speed again. But as much as it's months' worth of work, and there are times that I very much feel like I've painted myself in the corner with all these episodes we do, it's worth it to see people enjoying what we do.

Even the people who aren't enjoying it, I hope you at least know that we're doing our best to make a lot of free content for you all to hear during our favorite time of year. Okay, let's get to the stories. First up from writer John Z Zombie And narrated by Megan McDuffy Creepy Presents Chalk Skin My eyes snap open But the rest of me doesn't get the memo

I'm awake Well, awake enough to know I'm looking at the bedroom ceiling But my body's absent without leave I stare at the cracked plaster Until my eyes burn Then roll them to the side Nothing, not even a

which, it's like my muscles have gone to a retirement home. I'm frozen, solid. Like that time at the Edinburgh fringe when I volunteered for a hypnotist's demo, he'd pulled me on stage, told me to close my eyes. I'm going to count down from five to zero, he said. When you open your eyes, your feet will be stuck to the floor. And just like that, they were, glued down, welded to the stage, Even though it was bizarre, it was kind of funny. This isn't funny, though. This is that same feeling, like I've lost control, but cranked up to a thousand on the nightmare thermometer. I'm awake, but I'm trapped in my own skin.

I can't move anything but my eyes, so I drag them to the left until they water. My Himalayan salt lamp is still on, bathing the room in orange. I always leave it on. It's a comfort thing. I flick my gaze to the right, catching the edge of my wallpaper, a Japanese cityscape sprawling across the wall in an endless neon labyrinth. I look up at the ceiling again, but something blurry creeps into the corner of my vision. I track it, and there it is.

What looks like a worm, spiraling through the air like a twist of sysyl rope. I stare at it to make sure it's real. Yeah, it's real. It pirouettes out of sight, but I still force myself to look away. When I glance back, it's gone. I'm glued to the mattress. Maybe this is sleep paralysis? I read about it ages ago. The brain wakes up too soon, while the rest of the body is late to the party. We're all supposed to be paralyzed during sleep, like some fail-safe against flailing around and cracking our skulls on the headboard. Makes sense, I guess, but it doesn't take me out of my current situation. I've been awake too long now for it to be sleep paralysis. I had it once before. Only once, thank God, and I'd

snapped out of it pretty quick. This isn't that. This is something else. It's starting to bug me out. Just a little. No, more than a little. I try to scream, but it's like the message gets lodged somewhere between my brain and my throat. Then I feel it. Not something, but something. A presence, like it's been dunked in a barrel of negativity

and then left to dry out. I feel it both inside me and outside me. Primal instincts flood my guts. I can't pin it down. It's everywhere, all at once. In the air, in the bricks, in the very DNA of the bedroom.

and it's watching me. I don't just sense it. I know it. Whatever it is, it's pissed off. Furious, like I'm the one that's invaded its domain. Its eyes drill into me, and I'd thrash around if I could, but I'm stuck. I am glued. I dart my eyes from left to right, but there's no sign of it.

I need to get out of this room now, but that's not happening. And this thing, whatever it is, it's not just negative. It's hateful, spiteful. All kinds of bad. If it was a person that had died and come back, I'm guessing it must have been an evil bastard. And it knows. It knows it's making me uncomfortable and it's relishing in it. I feel my arm hairs rise and goose pimples break out all over my skin. It's watching me. Really? watching me, pouring every drop of its burning rage into me like it's trying to drown me in the darkest depths. There's pressure on my chest. The full length of my spine sinks into the mattress, bending under a dead weight. The bed springs roar and sharp pings and the mattress feels hollow like it's caving in. This isn't me. I can't move, so how could it be me? My breath slips away. Then it comes back as if to attack me. My chest rises, settling back where it belongs.

The pressure is gone, and that awful sense of being watched is gone too. Well, at least I think it is. I still can't move, though, but I'm more awake now, more awake than I was. I'm sure of it. My eyes flick to the side, catching only the orange glow of the salt lamp and the cityscape wallpaper. A wind rushes it. into my ears, like chicken feed being rammed down someone's throat. It builds to a crescendo that stabs my eardrums. I listen, trying to make sense of it, and then it fizzles out just as fast as it

started. This can't be sleep paralysis. It's been too long, way too long. Or maybe it's just the world's worst case of it. I try to scream, to shout, to call for help, but it's like my mouth is sealed shut. My vocal cords and throat are right there, but just as useless as the rest of me. I want to scream so badly it aches, but the sounds are locked in some prison inside me. I am here. Clear as day, a sharp, grating whisper aimed straight into my left ear. I'm awake, awake enough to have heard it, to have heard every vowel and consonant, but I still can't. move. This has to be a nightmare. Some twisted, lucid night terror I'll forget as soon as I wake up. Pressure clamps onto my arms, like a cold metal vise pressing in from each side. My shoulders pop as the tendons pull together.

I am not doing this. With sleep paralysis, you don't move. While that's what I remember reading, The invisible vice presses in deeper, and that whoosh sound clouds my brain. My chest sinks again. Feels like something's sitting on me this time, pressing me down into the mattress. The bedsprings snap and ping like little gunshots. I can't breathe. My lungs strain under the dead weight. An invisible hand tightens around my throat, and I feel my windpipe repress as cold fingers squeeze it.

tighter and tighter. I try to scream to force the oxygen out, but nothing happens. Nothing happens. I bank my eyes down as low as they'll go, barely catching the form of my chest under the covers. There's an indent there, faint crease marks in the fabric, like someone sat down and left just enough of themselves behind. An incubus, maybe? Or a succubus?

I can never remember which is which. Someone once told me about demons that visit just for sex. Or is it called Old Hague Syndrome? God, I don't know. I can barely think. My brain runs rampant, trying to conjure quick fixes. I land on the Lord's Prayer, like it's a get out of jail for free card. Nothing.

Not a single line. Wait. St. Michael, the Archangelo. Joel, protect us? No, I've drawn a blank. My back is deep in the mattress, like something's pushing down with every muscle it has access to. I try to move freely, so bloody hard, but my body's given up on being useful. My arms, legs, chest, back, head, and mouth, almost everything has signed off. My mouth's still there, of course it is. I can sense it, but it won't work. It won't allow me to make a sound.

I don't even know who'd hear it. I don't even know where I am. No, I'm in my bedroom. But whose house is this? I'm breathing at least. That's something right. I fix my eyes on the ceiling where the plaster decides to do things it shouldn't. A dark gray lump forms from the white expanse,

molding and stretching until it looks like a head and torso with one long arm. It comes down, pushing closer and closer until I feel it right in front of my face. I know our brains are wired to feel a certain way when someone is close to your face. The brain never lies. This thing was nose to nose with me. Then, just like that, it's gone, as is the pressure on my chest. All gone. I try to remember the night before, but it slips through my chest.

neurocells like caustic soda down a drain. Where was I? Who was I with? Did I drink? Pop a pill? Something? Anything? My brain, ever the provocateur, starts throwing out the most unwelcome thoughts. Imagine being stuck like this forever. What would that be like? Wouldn't that be awful? Thanks, Mr. Brain. Real fucking considerate. Last night. Last night. Come on, think. Okay, I went to bed. I remember brushing my teeth. I remember washing my hands.

I looked in the mirror and everything seemed okay. But then there's that blank, that black hole of selective amnesia. A chunk of my time my brain refuses to recall like it's protecting me from something. Something that would be a very bad idea to revisit. Think, Samantha, think. the thing. Maybe if I chant this over and over, the ether will give me the answers. But nothing. Come on, what happened? Something had to have happened. I was upset about something. Yeah, I remember that. There was a sense of sadness. There were tears. I remember looking at myself in

the mirror and the tears just flowed. But why? Why that? Why that? hell was I crying? I'm not much of a cryer. I never was. My body goes into full alert mode. My nerves flare up like sticks of dynamite buried under my skin, begging to get out. My fingernails feel like they're going to pop off at any given second. My tongue swells like it's been stung by a hornet's nest. Swallowing? Yeah, not happening. I can't. My throat's all closed up. Fuck. Confusion starts to bleed in. I feel dizzy. Dizzy. Can't catch my breath. My vision blurs. Help. Did I say that? Or was it just in my head? I just don't know. I feel my heart thud. So hard, I swear it's trying to burst out of my chest. I'm dying. I'm dying. Please someone, help me.

But there's no one here. I'm sweating. Or maybe it's just tears. There's warmth on my pillow. Pools of something. What the hell is happening? Is she upstairs? The muffled voice that asked the question drifted up like vapor, lingering, just long enough for me to catch it.

Footsteps. Upstairs. Then voices from behind the door. Are they real? Are they mine? Or is my brain just screwing with me again? My throat burns. Bile oozes out. I taste phleg, too. I taste vomit. I taste things that are meant to stay in the stomach. Mike, I remember Mike. I did it because of him. He slept with an eve. I swallowed the entire bottle. Little white discs with split lines across them. Texts from Mike, flashes of him, flashes of Neve, the bitter taste of those awful white pills. I had second thoughts. I do remember that. I walked into my bedroom. I locked the door. I lied down. I'm drawing a blank. Wait, I choke. I gag. I cannot breathe. That's it. That's what happened

at the start. But it's happening again. Right here. Right now. Samantha? The bedroom door detonates like a cannon blast. Blurred movement scrapes the edges of my vision. I can't remember the last time air made it into my lungs or slid back out. Pile stings my nose and the noises take over. Beeps, voices, heavy feet.

Someone's talking to me, but it sounds like they're underwater. I'm here. A woman's voice cuts through the haze. Can you hear me, Samantha? Pressure bears down on my chest. Someone's hands, palms flat, up and down, up and down, counting over and over. I hear suction. I hear more beep sounds.

Pain rips through me. Then it rises and falls in blunt aches. Darkness creeps in, thick as tree sap, and my vision drags itself out to sea. My lungs sign off. My internal organs feel like they're caving in, crushing me from the inside out. I think I'm breathing, but it's only little snippets of air that get wrangled before they even make it down my trachea. The bed covers are gone. Just gone.

Cold hands grip my neck and wrist, the unwelcome feel of latex fingers. Strangers around me. Noises. Words I don't understand. Everything is too fast and too slow at the same time. Something lifts my chin and I feel soft pressure around my mouth. Air slams into my lungs. Clean, clinical air that tastes like a hospital corridor. I try to cough, but choke instead. Her pulse is weak. Someone says, I'll start the drip. Another says back. A bite in my arm like a single razor-sharp tooth. I hear fabric rip. I hear other things rustle. Ice cold surges throughout my veins, as if my blood had been replaced with freezer fluid. Sticky gel smears across my bare chest and little circular stickers tug at every hair they can get their suckers into. At least I'm breathing again. Looks like she took the whole bottle, a voice mutters. Now looks on on standby, another says.

Stay with me, Samantha. The voice insists. We're taking you to the hospital. You're going to be okay. I float mid-air. I'm weightless. I'm on a stretcher. There's a steel pole beside me.

An intravenous drip bag swings from the top of it. Someone leads in close. Samantha, just listen to the sound of my voice, okay? I float downstairs like I'm made of cotton fluff. feet burn over the carpet and each bump makes me feel more alive the front door opens and i spill out into the night it's cold i drift upward trading the dark for the harsh white gleam of something boxed in and sealed tight a coffin box filled with translucent light i hear a heavy door close and another an engine rumbles i stare through the skylight i can see the star Tires. Tires rumble like they're trying to eat the road. My head throbs before the sirens roar to life. I feel my chest vibrate until I realize it's only the rhythm of the engine. Light bounces off a masked face next to me, and I claw my way back into the waking world, desperate to belong in it once again. I realize I'm strapped down, green belts tight across my chest. My body adds shape to the bright blue blanket underneath. I sink and everything gets dark. I can still hear the engine, but then white, bright white. I'm back in the giant white coffin. My face is stretched, taut over muscle,

drained of anything resembling life. There's a dull sheen to my skin, like I've been mummified with candle wax. My eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. left eyelid is slightly pulled down. The contours on my face have forgotten what it means to emote. Every inch of me is locked in a grimace. My mouth hides behind a mask of clear blue, condensation taking up most of the interior. My hands are halfway between a fist and a claw, gripping at something that's been frozen in time. I sink into the floor. It's dark. There's a void. Silence. Then noise. I'm on the stretcher. I start talking, but the mask around my mouth dulls, the words. I repeat the sentence until I know it's right. I want to live. Again, I want to live. No, that's not it. My brain is spitting it out all wrong. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. Can't they hear me. me, I close my eyes and see black. I open them and see white. I don't want to close my eyes again.

And next up, from writer John Oaks and narrated by Nicole Goodnight, creepy presents. The Scarecrow's Are Dancing. Could she say she was surprised when her car puffed out its final breath with a cloud of exhaust or whatever the hell kind of smoke spews from a dead car engine? Sure. Sure, the machine's bellowed jump. her out of her driver's seat and her heart seized, but could she really say she was surprised? No, was the simple answer. No, of course, the road cutting through the endless dirt expanse was to be the final resting place of her car. And no, of course, the sun was high and hot in the sky, so bright she had to look down at that eternal dirt or else her eyes would start to cry. Yet she wasn't expecting to leave her car on foot to wander down the ruckled road just wide enough

for one vehicle to maneuver. But once she was on foot, she knew it had been coming. She could see all the signs, the flashing check engine light, the lack of literal signs along the road, even if she'd miss them when first presented. And she couldn't really call that a surprise. It was more of fortuitous certainty if it was anything at all. So she did the only thing she could, which was to wander through the dirt desert following the road she had been traveling when she still had a car. She would make it to her stop, a small little town because just small wasn't small enough, and she'd get a hotel for a few days. Maybe make some money. Maybe not. And then she'd move on. On foot, by car, or any other way she could find. If she had just stuck to the road.

Her lack of surprise had started with her father. They had lived together in a large house on a hill, looking over a large farm. But the farm had been something she couldn't name just by saying what it looked like. Her father didn't keep up with the farm. The scarecrow's did that. And they weren't all too good at their job. The odd stalk grew, but the majority died. It was more of a large land of fertile dirt. It rained more often than not. Sometimes the rain fell in little clothes, but she always knew when a bigger storm approached. She'd hear the drops erupt on the shingles, and then her father would call her name from the kitchen, telling her to come be with him downstairs. It was hard for him to be alone when it was raining very hard. Mary Ann would creep downstairs. Her father's voice

shattered wind and rain, and Marianne knew what was coming, but she didn't mind, even though she had heard the story plenty of times. It rained a lot at that hillhouse. Her father would be sitting on their tattered love seat. It was the one they liked to share, unless it was a rainy night, then her father would cast Marianne to the floor. Marianne would curl on the circular rug at her father's feet. She liked to spin her legs around her base trying to mimic the spiral of the rug as her father told of her mother. As her father spoke, Marianne would look out the jug. As her father spoke, Marianne would look out the giant casement window at the scarecrow's dancing in the storm. Her father would always say how her mother had gone away on a night like this when the scarecrowes danced. He only referred to her in that way,

as Marianne's mother, as if she had had no relation directly to him. Wind seemed an archaic demurge around that tapering road. Marianne's shoes scruffed clouds of dirt, but they fell fast. The little puffs of sunlit dust dropped like dead gnats. Marianne thought to herself as she walked, the road crawled and nuzzled itself into the horizon. It disappeared where the sun wrinkled the air with its heat, curling it so intensely that it danced. Being not surprised you've had to expect something, Marianne thought out loud so that the rippling sun wasn't the only sound. So, what did you expect? That's where the issue arose. Marianne had expected some eventual calling similar to the one that had befallen her mother, some disaster. High winds and rain like those at the house atop the hill, or maybe something a little more.

more odd. She'd had enough oddity in her life that she knew there wasn't a way to prepare for such, and she'd made sure to keep extra food on her, the basics, water, a blanket and tarp for sleeping, but it was difficult to lug a collection of necessities around, and Marianne had always had a vehicle of some sort. So this robbery of her car left her to lug things around on her back. She hadn't expected the destruction of her car, and if you expected something but not the something that struck you, Was there any value in expecting it all? Marianne realized that there wasn't. After finishing the story of her mother's disappearance,

her father would call out her name in a long, drawn-out manner. He would tell her to go stop those scarecrows because they were dancing again, and it bothered him down to his core. Her father would stand and hobbled to the windows. He hadn't been an old man, but he hobbled. He'd grasped the clasps and open the windows like a large double door. He always opened them with ease no matter the wind's barbarity.

He would tell her to bring them inside and stop their dancing. Yes, Dad? Marianne's consensus was always the first time she'd speak during a storm. She sat through her father's story with her lips drawn and glued. She liked listening to the story of her mother, and her father liked telling it. Marianne would scramble out the windows. If she weren't wearing shoes, her socks would be soaked by the second step on the grassy knoll.

If she were, her socks would be soaked by the fifth. Her hands would be pale, her lips would purple, But Marianne loved the cool kiss of each drop, and the feeling of her hair dangling heavy and stringy from her scalp. They had five scarecrowes, and by the time Marianne reached the beginning curvature of the hill, she could see all of them stand in guard in the mud. Straw mixed with the grass beneath their swaying posts, their plaid coats whipped in the storm. Marianne's hands would be nearly useless from the cold by the time she pulled the posts from the dirt, but she'd heave with her legs and throw each scarecrow over her shoulder. She'd look like a trespasser, searching for shelter in the storm, the scarecrow's pulling her towards the rushing sky as she trekked back to the house.

The rain had been cold, but Marianne missed it now. Her sweat replaced the cooling lick of the droplets, but her sweat didn't refresh her like the rain had. It tickled in the wrong places and dried to irritating rashes, made worse by her chafing clothes. The road ahead tapered and confirmed the incessant hate of the sun. A mile back the path looked like it crawled forever into the horizon, but it had been a mirage. And Marianne stared down at the dead end, cursing herself for taking that wrong turn, whenever it was that she had taken it. She held her things, food, water, bedroll over her shoulder like she had the scarecrow's

when she was a girl. Marianne stood, not naked, but as useless as if she were, seemingly at the center of it all. The dirt stretched infinitely around her. It didn't matter which direction she went because she went, because she was useless as if she were, as a single step would mean the same, no matter which way she turned. The air stood still. Wind didn't rustle the dirt, but there was a whistling of some sort. It came from the forward horizon where the road had deceived Marianne.

A malified altercation of the desert silence? It was a familiar tune, humming from the deep lungs of the earth. Something danced along with the melodic thrum, and there it moved. A silhouette. It skipped down the illusionary road, small against the sun, but Mary Ann saw how its arms swirled. Its baggy sleeves billowed in the curled atmosphere. Marianne's foot slipped off the road. There's a person over there, Marianne said to no one in particular and especially not herself, because if anyone was as far from conscious as could get, it was her own mind.

She took another step and the shape kept skipping away. On the night things changed, Marianne's father didn't call his daughter down to tell her the story of her mother. Mary Ann cuddled in bed, warm, protected from the gray day, but her subliminal mind wondered what her father was up to. It had been raining hard for a solid time. She crawled to the edge of her bed where it nuzzled under her window and looked out to the wet hill. Wind rattled the glass in its frame and through the rain sideways. Far beneath her, two stories in a big hill down, the scarecrow's danced. Dad? Marianne shouted. The scarecrow's are dancing. The muscles in her neck twisted as Marianne stretched her head, looking as far around the corners of her house as she could.

She saw three scarecrowes, then all five, as her vision grew over their hill like crawling fog. Then she saw sixth, seventh, and eighth, more than she remembered them having. The newcomers, the ones hiding in the dark rain, danced behind the original scarecrows like shadows, and they danced curiously. Their five scarecrow swayed in the wind, and Marianne could almost hear the posts creaking. their clothes whipped like tattered flags pulled tight against their broomstick bodies. Hay spewed from the orifices of their shirt like orange rain, but the other scarecrow's, the new ones and the new were still, for there were ten in total.

And Marianne could see more silhouettes slipping through the shadows, danced like the rain itself. As duplicitous replicas, the other's arms rolled in smooth ripples. They spun their bodies. Their clothes hung calmly against the storm's strength. As Marianne watched more and more straw men and, emerged and in hypnotic sink they covered the base of the hill with their downpours ball. Should I go stop the scarecrow's dad? Marianne did not turn from the window.

Her father had been staring out the window from downstairs and called back to her that she should not go stop them tonight. He told her to come downstairs so he could tell her the story, and they would then go to bed. Marianne listened. The stairs spoke to her as she descended. Her father's eyes, sunken in his face, traced her to her place on the floor. Out the window, Marianne saw their new scarecrow's climbing the hill. They pranced around the house, spilling past the large window in their frolicing procession. As he began the story, the scarecrows outside bounced. Their fingers elongated and nearly touched in a large loop.

Mary Ann saw that they hopped on two legs, not one pole, that moved independently from their torsos. Her father told her now how her mother had disappeared on a night exactly like this one, when the scarecrows had come to get her. Mary Ann watched the figures, so much larger in number circling the house. Her father saw her and snapped at her to close her eyes. She didn't, but she did turn her gaze from the window. The dance outside became a blur all around, and before her, her father changed the story for the first time. He asked her if she remembered her mother.

Marianne stared. Her father gave her permission to answer and asked again if she remembered her. Marianne shrugged. No. He then explained that she was a big, big woman, so great and powerful a woman that most were scared of her, that she was an extraordinary creature that others couldn't help but find themselves caught in her glory. Like those webs the spiders leave around our house. Dad? Marianne was nervous to speak because she was never supposed to interrupt the story, and this one was new and must be valuable. But Marianne did because she had heard something beyond the tumbling rain. There's a knock-a-and-y-and-a-turb.

There's a knocking on the door. He acknowledged the knocking but told her not to answer, as that knocking was her mother. Mom? Interrupting her, he expressed a surprise that they were back. He then told Marianne she must always be ready for surprises, because they were not always nice. Out in the desert, Marianne thought she had heard that knocking again, but with the frying heat, it was easy for her footsteps to trick her. The faux expansion of the road was now a retreating scribble behind her. And the man... It's a devil, not a man, Marianne corrected.

Kept its limping skip ahead of her. But she'd drawn mirror. Marianne saw its legs were frozen independently of its leaping body. Its arms gyrated, fingers erect as if groping for something just out of reach. And it hopped towards the horizon, swinging itself in the direction where the heat rippled above a water's edge. Marianne could see it at the very tip of her vision. The dirt drowned in a sparkle of magnificent water. It's a devil, not a man, and it's a devil.

it spreads the burning sand with water. Marianne repeated. Her tongue was dry in her throat worse. Her canteen was now an empty pouch with damp innards. A few minutes off the path, the heat had grown unbearable. Marianne had guzzled the entire jug in one go, and even that had only been a brief tease of relief. When she tried to turn back, to turn around, camp in her car, hitch her ride, the road's image in the distance danced around. Mirages played with her eyes like ghosts in the night. Marianne stumbled after the figure. trailing it to the desert salivating mouth. Her father's mouth dug a hovel deep into his skull.

His lips didn't touch between words. Marianne could see the dangling thing like a tongue hanging in the back of his throat. He looked stunned, half there, half somewhere else with his mouth drooping the way it was. The wind chanted alongside the dance of the straw men. Her father said then that her mother had disappeared with the people who loved her. Why didn't you go with her? Marianne asked, because all parents loved each other. other. His response was that Marianne was his daughter just as much as she was her mother's.

It wasn't much of an answer, at least not to Marianne. He went on saying that when they found where she was, they came in droves. They had called upon her and on her power. He said she went missing. Marianne clapped her hand over her mouth. He told her that it was okay to ask questions, and that she had gone with them, but he didn't know where. And she'll come back? This new story was so unlike the original that the previous details no longer held space in her brain. Her father shook his head and explained that when people worship, they think what they worship is theirs. When they find what they are worshipping, they don't give it back. But maybe this is her coming back. Her father shook his head again and said that no, he is just sending them to say hi. For a long time,

Marianne didn't think the water was going to come. It dawned on her, something that she hoped the sun would never do again once it set, but the water was a moron. But when the figure stopped and Marianne saddled next to it, she found herself staring down at a depthless pool, wide enough to swallow the world. The figure stood beside her. It twitched as if wrecked by a fluxing electricity, but its face drooped without energy. The muscles hung slack. Its skin sat on its bones like misshapen clay. Marianne watched it, and though it had no eyes, it watched her back. The so deeply into the melted face that Marianne would have had had no way of knowing if it had eyes if it weren't for the spikes of straw poking from the

emptiness. The hay was bundled like spiders trying to scurry free, and its open sockets weren't the only source of hay. Stocks stuck from its limp ears in its mouth. It was stuffed, exhumed of all its innards, but it moved lively or the Marianne's dehydrated muscles. Its fingers extended, curling at the deep water. Your mother misses you, Marianne remembered her father saying. She wants you back like any mother would, but she's off with the hordes who worship her. What will I have if she has you, too? Marianne's eyes spiraled in the water's reflection. She'll try to lure you back, always be ready for any surprise. But her father's old words were a trickle compared to the expanse before her. Marianne followed the thing's finger. She dropped her

things. Her legs tipped and she went under. She didn't swim. She was carried. No oxygen, but she didn't gasp. The water was a blessing, blanketing her from the heat. Marianne never saw a bottom, but as she sailed, the water opened before her with a cascade. Like those thundering nights in the house on the hill. Marianne stood in a cave that crawled forever like the rippling road she'd traveled. It was dark beyond belief, but she could see.

It was so damp that droplets squirted and then fell from the mossy ceiling, but she was warm and cozy. Figures stood around her like cathedral pillars, but these figures were not so grand. They hung on posts that dug through their backs and burst from their spines. It looked like a crucifixion to Marianne, but these dead still moved. They rocked and ushered her down the path. Marianne passed them. They were just as stuffed.

Their insides had been pulled out from them splattered at their feet to mimic the moldy ground's consistency, but not its color. The once red entrails were now gray. black with age. They were so full of hay that the clumps spilled from their open holes like the waste of the ill. Their limp faces split in strawy grins. The cave didn't end, but Marianne found what sought her. Light gave itself to the dark. The ceiling shadows creaked like old wood. Something unfurled as liquid as rain. Crawling from the black showing itself in the low light, came a creature whose mouth spoke like a wails call. Its feet, dozens more. more than Marianne could count, pulled the serpentine body from its resting place.

It dwarfed Marianne. And still, she could tell that there was so much more hidden beyond which she could see. Its colorless skin hung from it like jowls. No eyes told it where to go. Its body bulged in odd places like a stuffed trophy. And it continued to speak its ancient language, echoing through the spiraling tunnel. Marianne wanted to speak, but words broke in her throat. Mary Ann didn't understand, but she thought she knew what her mother was.

Her legs trembled, and she realized it was her knees begging to kneel, just as all those retainers at the mouth of the cave had before her. Marianne sank to the moss. She soaked her knees as she bowed to that thonic matriarch and spooling above her. Before her mother, on her knees, Marianne swung back and forth, like a scarecrow dancing in the wind. 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 comments share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors.

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