Creepy - Come, Devil and Don't Eat The Veal

Episode Date: November 4, 2021

Come, DevilWritten by: Laura MardenNarrated by: Nate DuFortContent Warning: None***Don't Eat the Vealhttps://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/ohh0tc/dont_eat_the_veal/ Written by: ImsorryImDeadNarrated by: Heather ThomasContent Warning: Torture - Graphic***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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 books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Come, devil. Written by Laura Martin and narrated by Nate Dufort. The boardwalk rattled under my boots, and it was all I could do to keep my feet under me as I ran. Several years worth of mud and dunkaked the planks. The grime along with the rain made, my route slick and hazardous, so I kept my eyes down, watching my step. I didn't dare slack in my

speed, but I aimed for the patches that looked as they offered the surest footing. Clutch to my chest was my gun in my holster, and I slung it around my waist as I ran. My fingers felt blindly, but I couldn't find the way to feed the leather through the buckle. Risking a look, I glanced down, to see what I was doing. My toe caught on a protruding slat and I sprawled headlong, scraping the skin from the heels of my hands as I threw them out to stop my fall. My gun went skittering into the street. I scrambled up. My palms burned and a worse hurt stabbed into my leg like a hot iron, making my ankle weak with pain. I forced it to bear my weight and stumbled to retrieve my weapon. My eyes darted back the way I'd come and my shoulders sagged

when I saw the boardwalk behind me deserted. Hopling into an alley, I paused to catch my breath. I was lightheaded from the fear. My throat burned. My lungs felt as useless as a fish out of water. I hadn't run all that far, but every time I sucked in air,

my chest drove it back out again before it could do any good. After a few seconds, My gasping slowed. My heart stopped filling my ears with its pounding, and I listened hard. The town was deathly silent, except for the rasping of my own breath. Ways off, the wind rattled a loose shutter back and forth. I noticed the steady drip, drip, drip, in the rain barrel next to me,

and I realized that I'd been staring, hypnotized by the disturbed surface. of the black water. Even though it was near dark, I could still see the cold gray sky above, see the outline of the roof. I focused on the shapes between the ripples, recoiling from the reflection. My stomach twisted into a knot

as I realized that it wasn't water gripping from the eaves. But blood, a scream echoed between the vacant storefronts. Not my own, though I don't. I thought for a moment. It might have been. I rushed to finally buckle my holster and my shaking fingers made it difficult to tie the leather down around my thigh. Once it was snug in place, I pulled my gun free and fumbled with the bullets, thrusting six of them into the empty chambers. With a click, I closed the cylinder and held the pistol in my hand. There was another scream.

It was either closer this time or just louder than before. As I listened, my own voice whispered in my mind. I'm still hungry. Across the street at Tumbleweed bounced against a building, hitting the sliding and rolling backwards only for the wind to blow it up against the wall, over and over again. An open door swung limply from one hinge creaking. and banging. There was a horse lying in the road. The dirt around its belly plowed into furrows

where its hooves it thrashed as it succumbed to death. Everywhere were bodies, draped over railings, crumpled against buildings, lying face down in puddles. They were mostly men. The women and children, having made it indoors to hide before the creature followed their scent. I shuddered recalling the monster. It was so like a man in its shape and size, but at the same time, unlike anything I had seen in this world. Its slender razor-tip fingers, feverish eyes and fangs jutting out of its ugly mouth. I found myself sweating, even in the cold. Removing my broad, brimmed hat, I lean my head against the damp, rough-hung boards of the building in my back. I forced myself to inhale through my nose

as though that could call me but the smell of death and shit was overpowering. I began to move again, slowly on account of my ankle. The six-shooter stayed in my hand though I knew it couldn't help me. I'd seen Sheriff Donahue get off several solid shots but it hadn't done him any good.

The thing was fast, zigzagging, throwing itself to the side just in time to dodge the bullets. Recalling the agony on Donahue's face, I closed my eyes, but that only made the memory all the clearer in my mind. It was because of the sheriff that I'd been able to make my escape. I reckoned he hadn't felt right leaving me to die trapped like some sort of vermin.

He unlocked the cell door, shove my gun into my hands, and told me to run for him. my life. I was across the room in three strides, my hand on the latch when the monster attacked. It burst into the jail, knocking me on my ass. Sheriff Donahue had been less lucky. Right in the creature's line of sight.

Five shots had rung out. There was an awful shriek from the beast, and then the killing blow. He crouched over the sheriff, sinking its teeth into his neck. lapping at the blood spurting under the dusty floor. I crawled out the door in my hands and knees and fled. The sickening wet sounds of sucking and gorgeing had followed me out into the street. At the end of the alley, I paused. Looking around, I took in my surroundings.

The main street was behind me now when a line of Holmes faced me. their dusty picket fences giving a sense of order that didn't seem real anymore. There weren't any bodies here. The street stood silent, abandoned. A few houses down, the warm glow from a window caught my eye as someone lit a lantern. It was hastily extinguished. Single light made me realize just how dark it had become. Soon I'd lose any meager advantage.

I might have. I needed to find a hiding place. I wanted to run into one of the houses to crawl up into the attic and conceal myself in a dusty corner. But I balked. Any one of those front doors got open on some terrified bastard with a shotgun and a jumpy trigger finger. Hospitality would be in short supply today.

A clattering and rattle filled the silence behind me. I spun around, hammer cocked and aiming my pistol back to the time. down the alley. There was a half dozen or so crates stacked up against the wall back the way I'd come. First few boxes lay toppled on the ground. The bottom fell out of my stomach. My eyes darted crazily strained to see any sign of movement. Nothing happened. I relaxed just a little. Maybe. There was just the wind. My gaze jerked from the alley to the residences and back again. swearing under my breath, I decided I had to take my chances hiding in one of the houses. Not the one that lit the lantern, though. Those fools would be the first to go.

Striking out, staggering down the street, I scanned the buildings. I chose a single-story home with clapboard siding. Pawsing at the gate, I watched for a few moments. But there is no movement in the windows, no smoke trailing from the chimney. It looked rightly deserted. I hurried up the front steps leaning heavily on the railing for support. The door wasn't locked and it swung open at my touch without a creek. Inside, in the dimness, I couldn't make out anything until my eyes adjusted. As I closed the front door behind me,

I began to see the outlines of furniture lining the entrance hall. and was impressed by the elegance. The centerpiece was a large mirror hanging opposite the door leading to the parlor. I shook my head, momentarily distracted from my fear at the ridiculousness of all this fanciness. Making my way deeper into the house, I wandered through the deserted rooms. Though the walls offered me a sense of security, I still noticed reminders of what awaited me outside. A bit of unfinished embroidery cast aside on the floor.

Empty pegs over the mantle where a rifle had hung. Satisfied that the family fled, I decided to return to the bedroom where I'd seen a heavy dresser that I reckoned I could drag in front of the door. I tried to come up with a better plan in the morning, but for now, I knew I wouldn't stand a chance against the creature in the dark. As I turned to leave the parlor, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

I was a silhouette, the last traces of evening light illuminating the room behind me. There was a framed painting behind my head, some sort of senseless forest scene and a plump setty that looked untouched, like the owners didn't allow anyone to sit on it, except they wanted to impress.

Over my shoulder, a rocking chair swamined. lazily back and forth. My forehead crinkled. I didn't recall bumping into it. Sweat beat it on my upper lip and the hair at the back of my neck stood on end. I fixed my eyes on the mirror, struggling to see anything, but the room was empty. I began to doubt myself, to feel foolish. I must have knocked into the rocking chair when I walked past. I are the wind howling over the shingles and felt a draft as the heavy front door hinged slowly open that I knew I had latched.

I was hit from behind. The force of the blow threw me out into the hallway where my shoulder crashed into the mirror, shattering the glass to pieces. I slumped to the floor and the monster was on me before I could draw my gun. I managed to throw my arms up in time to catch the thing by its shoulders and I locked my elbows out, holding it at arm's length.

It was strong, but so was I. It reached for me, gouging its jagged nails into my arms and my wrists, shredding through my cowhide jacket to the skin underneath. All I could see were teeth, long, needle-like, framing the gaping open mouth as the creature snarled and gnashed in my face. Spittle and stale blood sprayed in my eyes. I kicked at its ankles with my good leg, trying to keep it off balance so it couldn't overpower me.

long pale arms sinewy with muscle raised up over its head. With a loud growl, it slammed them down to my elbows, collapsing the joint and breaking my grip. Defenseless, I could do nothing. It fell on me like a hawk attacking a field mouse, clawing the side of my face, forcing my head to one side as it tried to bear my neck. I twisted my torso at the last second,

and its bite landed on my shoulder, teeth sinking down deep, teeth sinking deep down to the bone, piercing through my flesh like it was butter. Hot blood seeped across my collarbone. I cried out in anguish. It shook me ragdow fashion and I thought I might pass out from the terror and pain. I tried to pull my gun, but my weight was pinning the weapon between my hip and the floor. I groped about with my hands, searching for anything. My fingers found one of the shards of glass from the mirror and I seized it. The sharp edges cut into my palm. Pitching upwards, I stabbed.

As the jagged edge of the mirror dug into its flesh, I felt its jaws loosen. There was a glimpse of hope, so I struck over and over again with all the strength I had. The creature fell backwards, wailing and writhing on the floorboards. I couldn't take any chances. Lunging, I straddled the monster and plunged the shard into its chest. It howled and spasm beneath me, but it didn't die. It clutched at its wounds, growing weaker with pain. Rolling off, I crawled backwards into my back, hit the wall,

and used it as a brace to push myself to my feet. I slipped a hand beneath my tattered jacket and clamped it over the wound there. The thing was still lying at my feet, curled into a ball against its agony as it weased and hacked. In the darkness, black patches of blood stood out against its skin, which was white as a death pallor. My eyes widened as it tried to straighten, putting out an unsteady hand to push itself up from the ground.

It collapsed again, but it was only gathering strength after the injury. I dealt it. This was it, my only chance at escape. I dropped my hand from underneath my jacket and stumbled for the door, dragging my bad leg behind me. Barreling out onto the porch, I slipped down the steps

and fled through the garden gate. In the street, my feet faltered as I cast my eyes about to find my escape. To my left, I saw the edge of town, and beyond it, the back country where I knew my way better than anyone. Out there, I could try and,

try to hide my scent in the maze of the foothills, and the coyotes would hunt it as viciously as it hunted me if I could only keep myself moving for a few hours. I already knew which cave to hunker down in until daybreak. There I could make a fire, sleep, and treat the wound to my shoulder. As fast as the pain in my ankle would allow me, I took off down the street. My hand found its way under my coat once more to the bloody mess of my shoulder. I pressed my fingers at the edges, where the creature's teeth had bitten into the skin. It was raw.

My arm throbbed down to the bone, and I could feel the heat coming off the wound right away. It burned something awful, worse than any fever. I scowled and spat in the dirt. Like as not, I'd get some. kind of infection from that son of a bitch. Creepy presents. Don't eat the veal. Written by I'm sorry I'm dead.

And narrated by Heather Thomas. The veal at Pouet-Mulier was supposed to be spectacular. Like heaven in your mouth. The cows that die for that meat come from God's pastures. My boyfriend Nathan explained, jumping from one foot to the other, like a child talking about Disneyland. Pouin-Mulier was a new up-and-coming restaurant that opened up in my seaside hometown of Redacted. It was supposed to be one of those extravagant places where you had to dress up.

Of course, Nathan wanted to go. He's a self-proclaimed foodie, and is actually a hot-shot food critic. That's the only reason we even got close to getting reservations. I couldn't help but let his excitement rub off on me. Honestly, I've read wonderful things about the place, excellent wine selection, candlelight and soft music sounds fantastic after the week I've had. He established the reservations months ago. The place booked even before the doors were open.

He called them up and requested a table for two. I remember Nathan telling me about the host and mentioning that he asked him some strange questions when he made the the reservation. He brushed it off as one of those weird, quirky, hipster things that restaurants are trying to do to stand out, you know, like restaurants that use anything but plates to serve their food. I agreed. Way too excited about the evening out with the eagerness to get dolled up in one of my favorite dresses and ankle-strapped high heels. And before I knew it, there we were, in front of a brick-faced building nestled between trees just outside of town.

A fat, full-bodied moon hanging low in the sky as we got out of the car. A shiver ran down my spine and rustled the forests around me like we were one, as if they were shuddering in tune with my body. Puerre Mouillier, read the scripted words on the board on the top of the building, highlighted by soft yellow light. What do you suppose it means, Nathan? I asked, wrapping my arms around my shoulders, hunched over from the chills scraping over my skin and giving me goosebumps.

Nathan threw his arm around my waist, ushering me towards the front door, an impossibly wide grin on his face, and shrugged. Who knows? The name won't matter much after we eat. We walked into the restaurant, hit with the warm air of a building that's been heated with the fireplace and candles. Soft classical music and the hush talking of customers, filling the place with a sense of comfort and romance.

Nathan dragged me towards the host stand. Nathan, redacted, table for two. I made a reservation. He glances at me over his shoulder before turning back to the host, saying something to him I couldn't hear. Right this way, your table is closest to the kitchen as requested, sir. The host says in a clipped, professional tone. leading us towards a dinner table at the rear, I could see couples all around us, sparsely any families

with children, maybe one or two, but besides that it was men with young women, no younger than 18 and no older than 25. All of them about my age, if I had the guess. Strange, I thought, why were all these women so young? Literally, not a wrinkle in sight besides some men. "'We'll start off with a bottle of your special house wine, please,' Nathan says to our waiter. "'I wasn't paying any attention. Too invested in my thoughts to have heard any conversation between them. The server brought over a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass of rich vermilion liquid, the candlelight catching the color in the bottle and casting it over the white tablecloth. I took a big sip, easily clearing almost half the glass,

and felt the smooth, sensual wine slipping down my throat and into the pit of my stomach. Nathan, do you see what I see? Look at all the women. Isn't it a bit weird? I got cut off mid-sentence and heard a crash to my right. Looking over, I noticed an enormous mirror reflecting the whole dining area. the mirror the size of the wall, with the door right next to it, which I presumed must have led to the kitchen. A chill ran down my spine, and I could picture the trees outside doing the same.

Something wasn't right. The alarms in my head were going off, yet scanning my surroundings. I couldn't see any reason for me to be feeling this way. The restaurant was perfect. It was romantic and cozy. But something was wrong. Looking at my environment more closely, I could see there were only waiters. They all seemed to ignore the female customers, and were solely talking to and acknowledging the men.

Turning to my right, I peer into the mirror, the rest of the dining area behind me. This way I could look at them without making it too obvious. All the women in the restaurant were drunk or getting drunk, wine glasses empty, or almost. So. Some were slouched over, slurring. Others were blinking irregularly, as if they were trying to focus or clear their eyesight. Every ten minutes one of the women would get up, stumbling towards to where I would assume the lady's room is. I turned back towards Nathan, feeling the room ebb and sway, like the branches of the trees outside. Now realizing that they were shoeing me away and warning. He was looking at. at me. His lips were cracked in a string of saliva stuck to his lips when he inhaled, making me feel nauseated. Nathan, we need to go. Something's wrong. I don't feel well, I begged with the whisper. My word slurred. Nonsense, Abby. We haven't eaten yet. Have another glass of wine and relax. He says, sucking on his teeth, and glaring at me like he is waiting for something to happen.

Something did happen. I lurched into a standing position, flinging the chair I was sitting on into the customer behind me. It was a man, contorting his body around, scowling at me. A plate of food in front of him. He must have been mid-bite before I interrupted. The food was art. You could see they sculpted it to perfection. Only a five-star chef could achieve.

His date must have been long gone because there were two wine glasses on the table, one empty and one knot. My hand covering my mouth, I doubled over. Nathan took me by the elbow, gripping and digging his fingers into my skin, yanking me up to face him. You're embarrassing me. Go to the ladies' room. The server will show you where.

He says in contempt. His face clammy and eyes wide. Teetering on my heels, I tried to back away. But a server took me by the arm hissing into my ear. This is why animals shouldn't be allowed in the dining area with people. I couldn't fight. Strength was leaving my body like someone pricked holes into my joints for all the power to leak out. No one was going to do anything.

In fact, all the men were continuing with their meal or staring at their dates. The woman too drunk or too scared to do anything. The best I could do was to let this man drag me away, clutching onto him before I lost consciousness. Everything started coming in flashes, flashes of light and images. But surely none of these things were happening to me. God wouldn't let this happen to me. Big burly arms attached to scared and hairy-knuckled hands, grabbed my smaller paler ones,

swallowing them up whole, and only spitting them out when they were chained up towards the ceiling, dangling from a meat hook. No, God would not let this happen. I started shaking, sensitive from the cold air whipping my skin like an angry master. They took my dress off, my favorite dress.

Bile was rushing to my throat, frothing and scalding my esophagus. My mind was screaming, run. But my body was frozen in place. I was in a back room with mold growing out of every crevice in there. Before was wet, and it smelled like piss, too. They say stressing the meat out before you slaughter it. Makes it taste weird. A deep voice vibrates around the chamber, sinking.

into my body and twisting my insides like a knife. You'll only be here for five minutes. We need to clean you off. Of course, this is a five-star restaurant, and we do not know where you have been. The voice says in disgust, like I was some sort of subhuman, below him. I believed him. At that moment, I was nothing. A void. Non-human. Powerless. Cold and naked.

I hear squeaking and splashing. Before what feels like sub-zero water hitting the back of my body, like a thousand tiny little blades. A screech bubbles up into my throat and spills out of my dry lips like vomit. Squeal, little piggy. We need to get you nice and clean, says the man, glee dripping from his voice like honey. I remember a little after my bath. It felt like ages.

My body growing numb from the freezing water until my fingertips turned blue, and my backside was no doubt burned red from the cold. I woke up, the perception of smell coming to my exhausted body first. The smell of freshly picked basil. and thyme, garlic and onions, sauteing in a hot pan, and meat. The sound came rushing in close behind. The sounds of a knife hitting a cutting board, orders being given and taken, shuffling feet, pots and pans being moved and used. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt like my body was protesting, protecting me from what I might see by keeping them shut. The sense of time

came then, my wrists and ankles twisted into unforgiving angles, tied up. They strapped my upper thighs down, and my upper arms, rendering me immobile except for my head, which I could turn from left to right. I strained against my eyelids, forcing them to open. And when I did, the lights, white and reflective, blinded me, winceing back into the flat exterior of the metal table I was tied to, trying desperately to mold myself into it and disappear. I opened my eyes again, cautious of the offending lights this time. I could look at my surroundings now. Turning my head to the left, I saw the big dining area.

I'm looking through a window. No. It was that huge mirror I saw earlier. It's a two-way mirror. I can see Nathan sitting at the table talking to the waiter, smiling and practically bouncing in his seat, while the waiter is writing on his notepad. I'm in the kitchen. I'm in the middle of the kitchen. Jerking my head to the right, I see people hurrying around, chopping and cooking. A short, stout man shouting orders, and everyone replying to him in union. Like soldiers, a hive mind.

and I must be looking at the queen. Two other tables surrounded me, both empty but blood pools and dried, on and around them, scratches gouged into the surface like some sort of grotesque handwritten letter for help. Suddenly the kitchen door flings open, and Nathan's server walks in and up to the chef.

Reading from his little black book, the chef's eye suddenly land on me and feels like a punch from a heavyweight boxer. I shake my head, mumbling words that neither I nor anyone around me could have deciphered, even if they wanted to. A cruel, crooked smile forms on his lips. Appetizer?

Tartar. Main dish? Veal. He screams over the noise, and everything stops. No one dare to move. Yes, chef. The soldiers shout as one, and the noise starts up again like someone flipped on the switch. A lean, tall man hurries up to me, assessing me like I was nothing more than a thing.

An it. He yanks on my bindings and grabs the side of my jaw. He pushes down, forcing me to open up, before shoving a leather strap into my mouth. I can smell the onions he was cutting up earlier on the tips of his fingers, pulling my lips thin and extremely tight. I could feel them burst. I was too slow, not that I could have done anything. My heart was slamming into my ribcage like a feral beast, but when I saw the flash of silver above me, it ceased. Everything stopped.

I couldn't push air into my lungs, nor could I urge myself to close my eyes. Searing agony stitched itself into my chest before spreading out into every fissure of my entirety. It creeped into my psyche and decimated every thought I had, blood everywhere, until all I knew was the scent and taste of it. My eyesight was tinted red with the wetness that was meant for the inside of my body. The ringing in my ears, nonstop, high-pitched, and felt like a monster dragging his name. through my brain. Vision blurry. I saw the tall, gaunt man walk away with a lump of flesh, pale underneath the harsh lights of the kitchen. My mind incapable of allowing me to even think of the possibility that the tissue the man is stealing belongs to me. Belongs to the skin on my

chest. The tall, slender man grew taller and taller in my mind. He became my nightmare. The monster under my bed. I was laying there, panting, cold sweat breaking out over my body as I could feel myself slipping into a state of shock. Tears were leaking out of my eyes, but all I could perceive was fire, radiating from my torso. I rolled my eyes around until I spotted Nathan again, sitting at the table and devouring whatever is in front of him. I couldn't hear him, but he seemed to experience pleasure. shoving a forkful of ground-up meat into his mouth and closing his eyes in bliss,

not even swallowing before shoving another bite into the gaping tomb that is his mouth. I'm telling you, brother, you're going to be making so much money here. I hear a young man say. I roll my head in their direction, staring. I don't know, dude, this is a bit fucked up. I mean, look at her. We can't do this. I spot another young guy, awkwardly built with acne all over his face, fidgeting.

He couldn't look me in the eyes. He knows I'm watching them, but he keeps his eyes averted. Look, it's none of our business. These men come here to have the best meat life offers, and what's better than a supple, tight young woman. They pay a fortune to be here to experience this. In any case, look at these bitches. They would never give you the time of day.

They deserve this, so stop being a pussy and start making some money. The other young man says with a disdain in his tone, I could hear the way his speech seized on the word woman. He despised me. Us. I did nothing wrong. I tried pulling on my bindings again, devoted and praying to an absent God to give me the strength to endure long enough to get out of hell's stomach.

That captured the eye of the awkwardly built man. He looked at me, and I could see it. He's fighting a war within himself. If I could, I would have fought with him, but I was trying my best to endure as is. In that one look, I tried to portray to him I was human, just like him. I had dreams, too. I wasn't some subspecies. I wasn't a breeding animal that should be slaughtered. I wanted to live, too. He looked away, turning his back and pretending to busy his, himself with folding napkins. My chest has stopped being a fountain, instead now a trickling stream.

I'm wearing a dress of scarlet, and I have nowhere to go but up. A loud bang had my eyes flying open, delirium grabbing onto my mind and refusing to let go. It's Nathan's server. He's mumbling something to the chef. They both look at me, before the server nods his. head and scurries off. No, please stop stealing from me. Give me back my body. I shake, pulling myself in whichever direction I could move, hoping that either north, west, south, or east would snatch me up and run away. I didn't budge. I spot a clock, the long fingers extending and flicking about, taunting me. Lying. I've been in this restaurant for two hours now. since walking in to me laying on this table.

Impossible. It's been ages, a millennium, an eon. Time for the main course, dirty little calf. We've been asked for the house specialty. Veal. And here you are. A deep coarse voice chuckles above me. A sound only someone who smoked for years could.

The chef will be making a few cuts down here, he says, running a calloused finger over my lower abdomen, where my underwear lined would have been. I started lifting my head and slamming it back down against the table, screaming into my gag until my face went purple, and I could perceive blood vessels pop on my eyes. There, there, little calf. You won't be needing it anyway. Stay still now. It makes the best meat for veal. The rest of you, we will use for scraps. He taunts,

tutting at me like I was a child, throwing a tantrum. Without warning I could feel him cut into me. I trashed around howling into the gag like a broken, hearted wolf calling for the aid of her pack. My heart wrenching out of my chest, A stampede of horses cracking through my ribs, desperately trying to get me to let go, to leave this situation. I refused.

I could feel the chef gently slide the tools into the incision. Not for my sake, but for their organ inside me. To preserve the only use he has of me, I could feel it lacerate me on the inside, some foreigner claiming the land as theirs. Unwanted. unwelcome. I laid there sobbing, mourning for the woman lost to this and the woman before me. Their blood now long dried and mixed with mine. I decided then that this is enough. I closed my eyes ready to give up, feeling the tugging and pulling inside me, the tools and

cuts yanking my body from left to right onto whichever side he was working on. The puppet master pulling my strings. I must have been out for about eight minutes, because when I opened my eyes, I'm being shaken. I'm being dragged. I look up, and it's the awkwardly built man from earlier.

Lights are flashing everywhere, and a fire siren is going off, but the noise comes and goes like my vision. People are running around yelling. Absolute chaos. Finally, the outside matches my insides. Get the fuck up. Hey, please, get up, lady.

Without opening my eyes, I could hear the desperation in his voice, the need to help me. He won the battle. He saw me as a human. I tried to stand up, skin flapping open like a bird-ticking fight, a retractor weighing down the now dangling trim. I'm stumbling and slipping, my blood coating every inch of my body. He doesn't care.

He drags me. He's panting and swearing to himself, heaving my body across the back of the restaurant's parking lot, staring at me like God himself wouldn't be able to resurrect me. He got me into his car, wheels squealing out of the property, protesting his movements. The last thing I remember. was seeing the swaying trees ushering me away. Case number, redacted. Date of statement, redacted. Name, Abbey, redacted. This was my report and the story I told the detective. The young man took me to the hospital, where I stayed for months, and then many years of therapy.

This is still an ongoing case When the law enforcement went to go look for the restaurant It was gone Only a brick-faced building in the testimonies of the young man and me This happened to me 22 years ago I am not half a woman I survived my mind will ever be scared And a piece of me will always be at

Pouamouillier I did this to warn you all. Don't eat the veal. For even more from creepy, 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 used under license

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