Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2022 - Day 3: Midnight Train & The Worst Camping Trip Ever

Episode Date: July 11, 2022

Midnight Train***Narrated by: Joe Stofko***The Worst Camping Trip***Written by: Zealousideal-Line565***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet 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 Megan McDuffee 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. Please join me in welcoming and thanking new patrons. Becky M. Tamara Willis, Davis A. Fat guy in a little coat. And call me flawed. Okay, flawed. To see how you can support the podcast to anger rewarded with early commercial free access to all episodes,

bonus episodes, and more. Please check out our donation to us at patreon.com slash creepy pod. And quick call-up before I got to get back to the campfire. It's that time. Start sending in your stories for the 31 days' days. of horror. Just like last year, we're running two stories a day, every day, all October long, so we need your words, and the sooner the better. Stories should be between one and five thousand words and ideally single narrator. Pumpkins, scarecrows, trick or treat, all the good themes.

But don't wait. As soon as we fill the spots, submissions are closed. Don't message me in September or October, yes, that happens, and ask if we're still accepting stories. We start producing them as soon as possible because it takes a long time to get it all together. For more information, check out our submissions page at creepypod.com slash submissions. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. Okay, so who's next? What's wrong? You said there would be s'mores.

There will be. When? When you tell another story. Is that where Danielle and Colent? No. They said they were going to find that camp and never came back. Cole texted me a bunch of emojis I don't understand

I think they tricked me and escaped I mean went home It doesn't matter There's still plenty of us left Come on someone has to have another story to tell Joe? Follow the light from the campfire Oh there you are

I couldn't read the damn directions Why did he get to drive and we got brought here in a windlass van? Because he's the only one who didn't get tricked by the offer of free camp Hey, I didn't. Or puppies. Oh. Joe, did you print out the MapQuest directions? How old are you?

Old enough to kick your ass. Oh, you really are, Henry. Well, as long as you're here, you're old. Fuck you. I meant that you've lived a life. I'm sure you've got some scary stories to tell. I don't think you could handle what I got, kid. Try me.

Well, let's see if you can handle hearing about the midnight. train. In my old age, I've seen a lot of things. Some things I'm a little more proud of than others. As a boy, there wasn't a damn thing that could save my appetite for the world around me. Everything in reach I had to get my hands on, take it apart and study it. My natural curiosity is what got me into the many scraps and situations of my youth. I remember when I wasn't any older than six. It was the fall of 1928. Me and several of the local boys were out playing a game of hide-and-seek.

Denny Lewis was the seeker, and a damned good one at that. So I took it upon myself to find a damned good hiding-play. I remember the hay loft out in our barn and figured I could hide myself among the many bales of hay up there, maybe even put some of those bales around like I had times before when I wanted to build a fort and get myself a perfect hiding spot. Now then he started counting out loud from a hundred, and I took off a run into the barn, the breeze tickling my cheeks and smelling like the harvest. I ran through those big red doors,

and my eyes fell on Danny Lewis's mama laying on the ground. Straw in her hair and her dress hiked up, with my daddy laying on top of her, looking like he was trying to pick himself up, but he seemed to be having trouble. I had no idea. what I was seeing, but I would later learn all about what my daddy was doing when I was 14, when me and Sandra Hannigan made our way up into the same hayloft that I had hid so many times

and made so many forts in to get out of the rain. She shook the water from that beautiful blazing red hair of hers, and noticed my eyes stuck on her nipples poking out like, little buttons in the cold wet hair. She hiked up that flowery yellow dress she liked to wear and spread her creamy white, freckled legs revealing her sweet fire peach. Oh, there in the smell of spring rain, an old horse shit. I made love for the first time. Beautiful girl she was. Daddy? My little voice rung out, echoing off the duffer. rusty wooden rails. My old man turned and stared at me, like he'd been caught dipping his hand into the honeypot,

and for lack of better words, that's exactly what he was doing. He hoisted himself up off Mrs. Lewis and made his way over to me. What are you doing in here, son? He spoke slowly and calmly. We was playing hide-and-seek, Daddy. I was going to hide up in the loft. Yeah, you ain't gonna be telling nobody about what you saw, right, boy. I could hear the anger rising up in his voice, but I kept on pushing it, like the curious little boy I was. Well, what exactly was you doing, Daddy? He just stared at me, his eyes slowly growing darker in the brightness of that fall day.

Mrs. Lewis, still, a ways behind him, was up on her feet, straightening her dress and picking bits of straw from her long golden hair. I was too busy looking at Mrs. Lewis to notice that my daddy meandered his way over to the wall where he kept the tools and picked out a hefty dirt-crusted shovel. You ain't going to be telling nobody, right boy? repeated in that slow and calm way he always spoke when he was angry. But me being the stupid child I was, I just kept right on prying. Daddy, what was? I didn't have a chance in the world to ask before the side of my right cheek exploded with pain as I fell to the ground in a pathetic bundle. My vision went hot white. All noise became muffled, as if the world suddenly got sucked into a vacuum.

What I could hear seemed distant, ghostly even. I could hear Mrs. Lewis screaming a pretty head off, and strangely, the long, low whistle of a train in the distance. Whether it was my imagination or not, I do not know. But I've learned in life that there are no coincidences. I heard that whistle as clear as I could hear Mrs. Lewis screaming. Sandra Hannigan's soft whispering moans its thunder rumbled across the gray spring sky, and my father's harsh, labored breathing, has stood over me, brandishing his shovel as if it were excalibur.

I heard that train. Lord help me, I heard it. You ain't going to be telling nobody, you hear? Daddy, another explosion erupted, as my father brought the shovel down onto my exposed chest. I heard several pops and cracks echoing throughout my body. I held up my small arms in defense, but they were crumpled like paper under the force of his blow.

I dared to raise my hands up for, protection again, only to see my fingers crooked and bloody. Mrs. Lewis was no longer screaming, but babbling on like she'd seen a ghost. My father turned to her and waved his weapon. Shut up, bitch. Shut the fuck up, he yelled. His voice was like that of an angry god. While he was distracted, I tried to crawl away. My crum. brushed fingers clawing at the straw and the earth, pulling myself to freedom. It was all for naught, though, as my father grabbed me by the leg and threw me towards the ladder to the loft.

He's just a boy, Clay. Just a boy, Mrs. Lewis kept muttering. He didn't do nothing wrong. I said, shut up, he spoke again with that godlike force. He swung the shovel down on me again. I heard a very loud crack, almost like lightning skimming across the sky. Very faintly I heard the train's whistle again, that loud, shrill pitch in the distance. He flipped me over onto my back and spoke again.

Are you going to be telling anyone about this boy? His voice has calmed down, but there was a deep anger there, calm and intense. I felt one of my teeth fall to the back of my throat. A small fountain of vomit and blood pushed from my mouth as I tried to cough it up. I feebly turned my head and spit it out. No, no, no, daddy, I ain't telling nobody. Good. My father tossed his shovel aside, scooped me up in his arms,

and carried me like I was just a baby. His voice had flipped to that. of genuine concern, like any good father's voice. You okay, boy? You took a mighty big fall off that ladder, right, Janice? He turned to Mrs. Lewis, still holding me in his arms, her face burning from tears, she only nodded rapidly. Yes, yes, are you okay, Daniel?

Are you okay, sweetie? She rushed over and ran her shaking hand, across my tiny battered face. My father pushed me into her arms. Take him up to the house and into bed. Tell Martha what happened, okay? I'll go to the town and get a doctor. Quickly now.

Mrs. Lewis pulled me even closer and ran to the house to get my mother to put me down and comfortable until the doctor came. Before I blacked out, I remember Mrs. Lewis running across the field to my house, the smell of the harvest filling my nostrils, Mrs. Lewis quietly muttering how sorry she was, and in the distance my eyes caught the slowly moving shape

of a black train, smoke, pluming from the engine, the slow chug, chug, chug of the wheels, and the horrible shriek of the whistle, calling me to darkness. The doctor came and went, but I had no idea. I was unconscious the entire time. A broken hip, three broken ribs, one dislocated, a cracked skull, two missing teeth,

four broken fingers, one broken wrist, and miles of bruises. Other bits of damage appeared over time, had lost hearing and most of the sight out of the right, side of my face. On a good day, and I can say I had plenty of them, I had a slight limp, but on a bad day I was practically a cripple. My left hand froze up sometimes, couldn't move my fingers worth a damn, but I got along fine with my condition. My father was never found out, and the fact that Mrs. Lewis never came back around the house only meant she would never speak.

about it. We all just sort of went on with life. I lived as best I could for ten years before I heard that whistle again. Now it wasn't uncommon to see or even hear a train near the farm. Hell, there was a track not more than a mile from my front door. But this train was different. The whistle didn't sound right. It was like a dying. rabbit, nails against the chalkboard, and steam spewing out of a kettle, all rolled into one. It's like that sound pierces through you and sends shivers down your very bones. Not a pleasant feeling, in other words. I was sixteen in living like my father's before me, working my hands to leather in the earth.

I had spent time at what my wife. would later refer to as a Hick school, but I soon left after my teacher figured that I was unteachable. Well, I wasn't unteachable. I just would just have rather spent my time reading or taking something apart or going somewhere I've never been. The world was my playground and I wanted to play. The thought of leaving my mother alone with me,

My father scared me, though. I owed it to her to stay around and try to protect her. What my father did to me was only the tip of the iceberg compared to all the things he did to my mother. I remember laying up at night hearing them fighting. My father's booming voice, broken up only by the reality of cracking sounds of broken glass, or the cool, clean sound of flesh on flesh. My mother would be in the kitchen the next day with a few new bruises, maybe a cut or two, but she never complained.

It was plain for everyone to see, but they never paid it any mind. That's just how things were. I remember it was a pleasant enough summer night, a little humid, But that's just nitpicking. I spent most of the night out on the porch watching the stars and listening to the creatures of the night as they went about their business.

Occasionally I found myself glancing out to the barn. It stood there like a mausoleum in the grim moonlight, an effigy to many things, pain, lost love, hard work, and my family, who died on the day, this land before me. My mind wandered to memories of Sandra Hannigan. God rest to her soul. Memories of the shovel bearing down on me like a locomotive bears down on those endless steel tracks. My mind liked to wander whether or not I wanted to take the ride. Always has. Always will.

I remember my father driving up in his truck. The bastard was swerving horribly. Obviously, he had indulged in his heart's content on Jimmy Magruder's personal moonshine. What burns blues makes your blues go away, boy, he would always say. I knew he'd be in a fighting mood and instinctively made me go to my room and before I could even reach the stairs, I heard his voice, dripping with that damned white lightning.

Martha, you come here and welcome me home like a good wife should. He shouted in a slurred fashion. The ceramic jug in his hand spilled the foul liquid onto the floor. My mother promptly came up from the cellar without a word and greeted him to his liking, a kiss on the lips and the removal of his coat. As she turned to put his coat on the hook, he reached out and began to grope her.

My mother, I will admit, was an attractive woman, but years of beatings had slowly taken the brightness from her eyes, the skip from her step, and the song on her lips. We made quick eye contact, but just a brief moment said it all. Go to bed, sweetie. Maybe it won't be so bad tonight, just go to bed. But like most nights, it was the same. Her giving in to this predator and his sexual advances just to keep him happy.

She suffered through it in silence. God, the thing she did to provide from me, I pray every day that she is smiling down on me while he's rotting in hell. My mind quickly wandered back to Sandra Hannigan. Did she suffer in silence? Did she let him take her every night? Or did she kick and scream and bite until she was too tired to go on? I don't know. I can't say.

God rest her. soul. I pray she fought back. I climbed the stairs to my room, trying to block out the labored breathing of my drunken father and the cold, complacent whimpers of my mother. Laying in my bed, I tried to nod off and sleep, just so it can all happen again tomorrow. Soon, sleep found me, and I dreamed. A dream that haunted me for years, always picking up new details along the way. My father standing above me with his shovel, staring at me with all the fury of God. His eyes black as black can be. The shovel coming down.

I closed my eyes in fear only to open them and see Sandra Hannigan before me. Her beautiful, smooth skin, now wormy and rotted. Her hair still crimson as fresh blood, and a deep black line ran along her neck. Too horrid to look at, but I can't look away. She hikes up her tattered yellow dress and reveals the further decay of what was once a wonderful sight. She speaks to me.

Her voice is crisp and close, as it was that day. You love me, don't you, Daniel? All the while, the slow, methodical chug, chug, chug of a train. Sandra opens her mouth, her cheeks tearing wide open into a disgusting skeletal smile to speak once more, only her voice isn't there, only a sound that pierces right through you,

chilling you to the bone, scratching at your soul, a whistle. I woke up, sweating bullets, and soaking my shirt and underwear. But it wasn't the dream that woke me, as horrible as it was, no. It was the rumbling of my stomach for release. Now, I didn't need to be told twice before I swiftly jumped out of bed, slipped on a pair of trousers and descended the stairs quite quickly, nearly tripping on the last step in the dark. I could see my father asleep in his armchair in the family room, his jug tipped over empty and bone dry, the moonlight shone through the window, and I could see a line of drool falling from the corner of his open mouth. His head tilted back in the way he always slept when he was in

chair. I quickly shoved on my shoes, rushed through the front door, and off to the tiny little shed far from the house, the grass swishing underneath my feet, and the wind cooled the sweat on my body. I reached the outhouse, flung the door open, and squatted down on the splintry seat without a second thought. There were always stories of porcupines getting their way into the outhouse and gnawing, on the seats for salt from sweat and such, but I can say I never did see a porcupine. A raccoon did get in once. Poor thing fell into the hole and drowned in the shit and piss of a small farming family. Kind of sad, really.

That was years ago. And that hole had long been buried. I let myself relax and let the body do what it's trained to do, in that type of situation. I nearly nodded off in the smelly little shack, but something jolted me off my seat.

A whistle, low, and hot at first, but it grew into a cacophony, like hundreds of screaming voices. I quickly cleaned myself up and hurried outside. There it was, in the moonlight. Not too less than a mile

from where I stood, just sitting there on the tracks, which wouldn't have been too uncommon, except there was no switching station out there, just open land in those endless steel tracks. Like I said, I was a curious boy, and obviously something that had been haunting me for ten years was well worth a look. I broke into a run, the excitement and fear gripping my heart. I wanted to turn back to the house, tell myself I'm just dreaming, but my feet kept moving. Thank God for the moon that night. You could steal for miles. As I got near to the damn thing in the dark, the darker had got. The smoke from the engine creeping into the sky and blotting out the

light, the bright diamonds and their satin cloth began to disappear too. I stopped only briefly, panting and sweating. I looked up, only to find myself right there next to it. Oh, it was unlike any train I'd ever seen. It was black all over, so black it hurt my eyes to look at it directly for too long. It was also very noticeably darker right next to the massive machine, like it was devouring the light that got near it. The most trains that came through were freight trains. carrying coal and such to parts unknown. But this was a passenger train. The interior of the cabs brightly lit,

revealing its deep red-color scheme. And the people, oh God, the people in the windows, each one of them just sat there, emotionless, unmoving, like statues of some lost civilization. Now, I tried working my way to the front of the thing, Each car the same, filled sparsely with unknown, unmoving faces. One or two passengers did turn to look out their windows at me, only to return to their original position, their eyes gray and sad.

I kept on walking my way to the engine till it caught my eye. In one of the windows, it was my father. I wasn't sure at first, but it had to be. It was my daddy. Daddy, I yelled out, but he didn't turn to look. Daddy, hey, Daddy. I saw that the entrance to the car was wide open, the light spilling out onto the land. I had to get in that car.

Why was he in there? I thought to myself, what the hell is he doing? I hoisted myself up onto the metal steps into the cover. only to be knocked on my back by a black mass that smelled of oil and smoke. I looked up to see a man standing there, soot stained overalls, greasy white hair, jutting out from under his conductor's cap. He stared at me intently before a smile cracked his lips.

You ain't getting on, boy? His voice was flighty and uneven. high-pitched, yet low and grumbly at the same time. Ain't got no ticket, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, his laugh unnerving, like the sound of crunching bugs under your boot. Why are you wanting to get on anyways, four boy? His smile still beamed at me, a strange skeletal smile, wide and menacing. I found myself reverting back to that scared,

little boy in the barn ten years ago. My daddy's on there. I gotta talk to him. He just bellowed that laugh of his. Boy, lots of people's daddy's beyond this train. No ticket, no ride. He clapped his glove hands together, black dust puffing out. But please, no ticket, boy, no ride. His voice becoming angry, that's when I truly saw him, his skin pale and free of any sort of blemish, and his eyes, they were on fire. Glowing, orange, like the coals that moved his train. Those fiery cold eyes burned right through me.

Get out of here, boy, don't come back till you got yourself a ticket. His teeth, they were jagged and pointed like dog's teeth. I ain't afraid to say I was scared. In fact, I pissed myself right then and there. He just laughed that crunchy laugh of his. Diamond Pearl, Opal Jade. Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha. He turned and slammed shut the doors behind him.

Soon enough, the Pistons started their slow chug, chug, chug, smoke billowing out of the engine. It smelled like rotten eggs, and bloated summer roadkill. I still lay there in my own filth, watching the black train slowly pull away. The conductor stuck his head out of the engine booth and yelled back to me over the locomotive.

Maybe next time, I ain't any boy. He said his eyes burning bright as ever. He laid on the whistle. Close up, I could truly hear the sound. It was screaming, melting steel and burning souls screaming into the night. I only watched as the train pulled away the screaming black behemoth riding the endless steel tracks. I walked home, shaken, scared, questioning whether or not I am truly dreaming, or of this is all a nightmare. The moon was back out and shining in all its glory.

The stars sparkled in the dark folds of the night sky. Finally, reaching home, I numbly pushed the front door open. It groaned in protest, but I paid it no mind. I trudged into the family room figuring my father would be gone, but there he was, still sitting there. I quickly crossed over to him. My hands shaking as I touched his face. It was cold.

I saw that it wasn't drool that dribbled out from his lips. It was vomit. My father was dead to the world, drowned in his own sick. I saw the devil that night. He took my father with him on a slow, screaming ride to hell. The funeral was like any other, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A man was buried on holy ground, and nobody but me and, and my mother ever knew that it was no man but a monster.

I remember how she looked when they lowered him into the cold, hard earth. She had this little smile on her face, no tears, no anguish, just a little smile. She was free. A few years later, she sold the farm. I want to go to the city, leave all this behind, she would say. Oh, I didn't. I was glad to leave, but I admit I did miss the place once we were gone, and I know she did too. It was a quiet life, a fine life, but she couldn't stand to be in a house where memories ran rampant

and hid in every corner and shadow, whispering to her, reminding her of my father. It was 1942. The world was at war, and I couldn't do nothing but worked building bits and pieces for guns and tanks. Being partially crippled,

I was 4F. I could only hear about how all my friends I had grown up with went over to fight for liberty and came back in boxes. I suppose I was lucky on that part. My mother took up

a job in the same munitions plant as me. Propaganda at its best, I suppose. Put a smile on her face, though, and that's all I needed to know. It was a good thing. We'd been living with her mother in Boston, and life was fine indeed. I liked my grandmother well enough, but she always looked at me like I was a leper. She saw too much of my father in me, I suppose. She hated him for what he did to my mother.

The beatings were a secret, but she hated my father for taking my mother away. A soldier returns from war and knocks up a pretty young woman with a whole world in front of her, steals her back to his home, where the fruit of several steamy nights ends up dying in its sleep. My sister didn't get much of a chance at the world, but I sure did.

She resented me for everything that I represented. A horny farmer turned soldier. It wasn't until I started to bring Claire around that she started to warm up to me a little bit more. Maybe Granny was finally saying I wasn't my father, or maybe she was just going senile, I don't know. I can't say that I didn't love Claire. She was a wonderful woman.

But I do know that I saw a hell of a lot of Sandra in her, the blazing crimson hair of hers, and those deep green eyes. Well, maybe it was me mourning for a love long-lost, or guilt, for never stealing Sandra away from her life, six feet of rope. Funny how something so seemingly average could remove someone from your life. I loved Sandra, I did. and so did her daddy a little too much. She was probably praying that I'd come to her window at night

and steal her away like Romeo and Juliet. She had something inside her, something horrible, something God forgot about. She wanted it to be something beautiful, and it could never be as such. Poor Sandra. God rest her soul. I loved her, but I loved Claire, too.

Maybe not in a The One, in a truly hopeless romantic way, but I loved her all the same. Claire and I were married at a lovely ceremony in 1945. The war was over, our boys were coming home, and the world began to get even more scared of itself. The reds were everywhere, they started saying, I don't know, men were men, but it's their toys that always end up hurting them. I found work as a mechanic, and Claire was teaching. Money was tight. We didn't complain.

We had an apartment to live in and each other. We didn't need to worry about much else. Until one day I got home from the shop, and she was waiting for me. Hey, sweetheart, I cooed in her ear as I kissed the back of her neck like I always did when I got home. I'm late. What? I'm late. I don't know what you mean. She took my hand and placed it on her belly. It all hit me like a ton of bricks. You mean? Yes. She was trying to hold back her tears and smile, but they broke through anyway. I'm gonna be, uh-huh.

My son was born December 20th, 1949. The most beautiful baby boy if I ever saw. William Hudson Brunson. Oh, he took after me, just as I had taken after my father. I was determined to make him have all the things I never could. But money was tight before, and it wasn't getting any better. my grandmother had died two years prior to the birth and my mother was living all alone but she delighted in seeing her little billy b as she called him whenever we dropped by she loved him with all her might it did me well to see her so happy billy had just turned one when i got the news that our old home was back on the market my mother handed me a check that had all the money that she'd been saving for the past ten years

she told me it would be good to go home returned to my roots and raised billy like i had been raised oh i didn't think that was such a good idea i just knew those memories would be waiting there for me hiding in the shadows and waiting for me to let my guard down so they could strangle me any ghosts in that house of long since left my mother said to me it was a good life i know that life was hard very hard at times but it's in your blood daniel you don't like being a mechanic do you haven't you been aching to get back to the land watch the fruits of your work pay off I did. I did miss the farm life, but I didn't know how much I missed my farm life. We left Billy with my mother while Claire and I made our way back to my childhood home. The town had grown quite a bit. Everything a modern family would need. When we finally did reach the old farm, my eyes fell on the barn. And a deep chill ran through me.

You okay? Claire asked me in that sweet, concerned voice of hers. Goose walked over my grave, I suppose. The man who owned it most recently was a rich yuppie who thought about trying his hand at farm life. Couldn't live without the amenities of modern man. Fully wired, plumbing, plenty of farming equipment, and a completely new paint job and decor.

It wasn't my home anymore. I hadn't been for a long time. After our tour, Claire got into the car and instantly spilled out her opinion. We need to buy this house. You really think so? I do. I can work at the school in town. You can make a living here, growing corn, raising cows, and doing whatever it is farmers do.

You really want to live here, I questioned. I did want to come back, but there was too much in my head screaming in me. not to come back. Yes, she stared at me intently. She knew that I would crack, like always. She had that special kind of power over me. And it settled. It's ours. We settled in and got our new life off to a good start. The land was good. The crops grew like weeds, and Billy was taking a liking to the open air. It wasn't much longer after our first harvest that Claire was late once more. We had our baby girl Esther Mae Bronson in the summer of 1953.

She took after her mother in spades, a slice of the American dream. I found myself walking out to the railroad tracks every now and then. I don't know what I expected to see. Maybe it was sort of my way of trying to make sense. sense of something so unbelievable. I never told anyone, never once. The devil and his hell-bound train were my secrets to keep. I wasn't crazy. I prayed to God I wasn't crazy. Sometimes late at night, I hear a train whistle piercing the darkness of the night. The slow chug, chug, chug, pushing the metal beasts along those endless steel tracks.

Sometimes I swear, just under those whistles, I could hear screams. We led a fine life, indeed. Billy was growing into a man before my very eyes, and Esther was blossoming into a beautiful young woman more and more every day. It was 19168. Another war was going on halfway around the world, but it didn't bother me none till Billy came to me and said he was going to join the army. He wanted to be fighting for his country. Claire had a fit, as expected. But he had his mind set, and he was damned if anybody was going to change his mind. We got his letters every week, and every week we'd write back. I was sleeping. It came again. The first time in years, my father standing over me holding that shovel, his eyes burning orange like coal, the shovel coming down on me before the scene melts away, and I'm with Sandra.

My lovely, rotting Sandra in the hayloft, exposing herself to me in a morbid yet sexually exciting manner. You love me, don't you, Daniel? You know I do. Her rotting lips formed a smile. Her gaping maw opened to reveal an unimaginable darkness. From the darkness came a low whistle, slowly building into deafening screams. I woke up, sweating bullets,

and soaking my nightshirt and pants. I didn't have to use the bathroom. It was the whistle, cutting through into the night, calling me like a sailor to the rocks. I silently slipped from the bed and down the stairs, each step creaking slightly under my weight. I slipped on my shoes, flung the front door open, and started running. The wind chilled me slightly in the autumn night air. My mind raced, with the memories reaching out, not from the course, corners and shadows of my home, but from my mind, reaching out and trying to hold me down and

suffocate me. It was the same as it was those years ago. The smoke plumed from the engine, falling to the ground and lingering like a thick black fog. The deep black metal glared back at me as I walked along the side of the great beast. The devil stood outside of a car, watching me, as I approached. His eyes burning brightly with excitement. Diamond Pearl, Opel, and Jade. Danny Boy has come back. Still no ticket, I see. His voice shuddered through me, but I pressed on. Why are you here?

Oh, my, my, my, Danny, boy. We all have a job to do. This is just my job. But why are you here? In that moment I heard my father sneaking into my voice, a calm and quiet anger. Dad? A voice from inside the car rang out like a bell. Out of the open doorway stepped my son, Billy,

clad in his official army gear, and looking quite confused. Dad? Billy? The word caught in my throat. I ran over and. I held him close to me, never wanting to let him go. Billy, why are you on this train? Don't know. I remember my squad was walking through the jungle, and then there was this white flash,

and I woke up on the train. What are you doing here? I don't quite know myself. I smiled lightly. I squeezed him tighter. It's good to see you, boy. How touching you. How, you. I'll touch him. I'm The devil spoke up. You have five minutes, Billy, boy. The devil stepped into the car and made his way to the engine. Once I knew he was gone, I grabbed Billy's hand and tried to pull him away. Come on, son, we got to get you home. He pulled away from me.

No. Billy? Dad, if this is what everyone else in there is saying, then I can't leave. I can't, Dad. We can go home right now. Tell your mother you're home. And no, I belong here. And who knows? Maybe this train don't just go to hell. Maybe it makes a stop off somewhere else. I don't know. Billy, I...

Daddy. I heard from friends of mine who went home. They got problems, Daddy. I'd rather be dead than mangled and fucked up in my head. Sorry for cursing. It's okay, son. We stood silently for a long moment, staring at each other, trying to think of the words to say. All aboard! Love you. Love you. Goodbye. The black metal behemoth pulled away from me once more, screaming down those endless steel tracks. I waved goodbye to my son long after the train was out of sight, even after its screaming wine disappeared from the night air.

I watched, I prayed. Just like every week we got another letter. Only this time, it wasn't from Billy. Claire was wrecked. She wouldn't leave the house for days, laying around and crying, wailing that she should have kept him here, kept him safe.

She left me not more than a year out. after that, said she couldn't stand looking at me and seeing Billy. I also know she hated me. I couldn't join her in her sorrow, in her pain. I got to say my goodbyes. I got my closure. I don't blame her for hating me, but to take my daughter away from me was just cruel punishment. I haven't seen either in years, many years. i did the best i could i tried to live life as best i could with what i had i was a good father i was a good son i was a good husband none of that matters a hill of beans in the long run though we all end up in the cold hard earth feeding the maggots and creepy crawlies that haunt our nightmares i can hear it now the screaming the screaming in the darkness, calling out to me. I've seen a lot of things in my life. Some things I'm

more proud of than others. As a boy, nothing could save my appetite for the world around me. I suppose there is just one last thing to figure out. The train is out there, and I finally got my ticket. Only thing left to do is to take a ride. Holy crap. Did that really happen? Well, that's for you to decide. Well, Joe, I got to say, I take back all the old person cracks. That... That was incredible.

Damn right you do. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go home. My doctor doesn't like me driving at night. God, I love that guy. Me too. But you aren't going to let him out, do you? Are you? Yeah, but I should probably at least make an effort, shouldn't I?

Wait, wait, wait. Has anyone else noticed that as soon as someone reads a story, they disappear? Don't be ridiculous. I'm still here. And that doesn't bother anyone else? First person to answer that gets lit on fire. Don't you mean fired? I know what I said. Well, I for one can't wait to hear John's story and avoid having to go to the burn ward.

Thanks, Nate. Since I'm staring to sense a tone from some of you, I'd just like you all to understand that this isn't so bad. It's not like it's the worst camping trip. I used to love camping. The smell of the outdoors, the feeling of immersion, not having any technology to distract your senses from the calming that is the woods. It's just something blissful about being outside,

amongst nature with nothing to worry about. Or so I thought. You know, a while ago, I used to be a junior customer service associate at an insurance firm in the North England. A quiet place, but we did business across the nation. That type of job, dealing with angry customers and dickish co-workers. It was a stressful job, not something that I would advise anyone to get into, unless you like the long hours and egotistical narcissists that we called our boss.

It was coming up to the latter half of the year, and I hadn't requested any holidays. We had this stupid rule where you couldn't carry over any holiday into the new year. So I thought I'd take some me time and go camping for a few days. Just me, myself, and nature. It was going to be awesome. A stress-free weekend where I could relax, go fishing, and enjoy some peace and quiet. I submitted the request for some time off, and as expected, co-workers were coming up to me asking where I was going, what are we doing?

I'd usually just make up some bullshit excuse as to why I didn't need them knowing my business. like they even cared about anything that went on with me, or anything for that matter. Ping, an email pops up on my monitor, your holiday has been approved. All set, I was going Monday through Thursday. You give me extra days before the weekend to chill at home, maybe catch up on some Netflix. And Monday at 11 a.m. Monday came along fairly quickly. I had packed all my things, fishing gear, and charged my Polaroid camera the night before.

I was all set to go. Be about a two-hour drive to the camping ground, so off I went, not realizing that the following few nights would be the worst I ever experience. Monday afternoon around 3 p.m. is when I arrived at the campground. It was a drab September morning, not much color around, slight chill in the air from the wind. Perfect. Just how it should be.

And not a soul in sight. I walked for around 45 minutes before I found a good place to set up my tent, not far from the lake so I could catch some dinner, but also not too close to the car. The tent went up fairly easily. It was only a one-man tent, so fairly straightforward. I boiled some water with travel bunsen burner and a small metal pot I bought not so long ago. It was time for dinner. I brought along some of those packet meals that you just place in hot water and it turns into that discolour. colored mush, but surprisingly, it tastes pretty good.

Chicken curry, the packet read. 11 p.m. came. It was time to get into the tent, trying to get some sleep. I planned out a long walk on my map for the next day. Really get to see the place, take some pictures on my camera. I quickly dozed off from all the driving and walking around, unknowing as to what was awaiting for me outside. What was that? I shot up in my tent, my phone reading 259 a.m.

Just a branch. Probably a deer or something. I thought to myself as I lay back down and close my eyes. There was again. Louder and closer, but still, the animal's probably just as scared as me as I am a vet. I russled the side of the tent to try and scare it away. Silence followed. I didn't hear anything else that night.

And Tuesday at 8.30 a.m. The alarm woke me up on Tuesday, reading 8.30 a.m. on my phone, now with less than 20% battery. I must have forgot to plug it in. Oh, well, I'd leave it plugged in while I was on my walk. Not that I really needed it anyway, I was enjoying the lonesome feeling. I got out of the tent, made myself a quick coffee, and headed out on the walk I'd planned out before I'd come on the trip. The walk was about eight kilometers round, taking some of the best views of the woods. big open areas full of animals, waterfalls, and more.

I was really looking forward to the walk. Around 11 a.m. I sat down near the waterfall, ready to have some lunch. Egg mayo sandwiches and no one to complain about the smell. Whilst tucking in my food, something caught my attention. A man standing there wearing some questionable clothing to be walking this far up in. He was wearing a little look to be a tuxedo. or some sort of suit at least. We were a good 10, 15 miles from the nearest town at this point.

I gave him a gentle, confused wave. No response. And he just walked away. As confused as I was, I packed my things and continued on my walk, not really overthinking what had just happened. I must have mistaken his attire or something, right? On my walk, I took some beautiful photos, captured the true beauty of nature at its fire.

As I got back to my campsite, I decided to look through the pictures. And that's when I saw him. The man. He was in all of them. A very faint blur on the bottom of the photo, but it was him, the guy from earlier. I figured I must have been dehydrated. There was no way. I would have definitely seen him there.

At that point, I was not only confused but scared. What if the branches snapping the night before it was him? And I was being stalked by some maniac or serial killer for that matter. At this point, my mind's all over the place and I was sweating with distress. I picked up my phone to take my mind off the pictures. 10% battery. I could have sworn I had placed it on charge before I left. I would have put money on it that I did.

A few hours passed. I had my dinner for the night and decided. I was excited to go fishing. I'm an avid fisher and love to get out as much as possible at the weekends to fish. I used to go a lot with my dad when he was alive. Well fishing, I glanced over at the other side of the lake and something caught my eye. Him, the man from earlier, the one in the images, standing there. Waving at me?

I stood up and waved back at him. He continued to wave at me. Now I had to ask myself, who was this man and what did he want from me? I set my fishing gear near the waterfront and started walking towards a bridge just to my right. As I get to the bridge, the man starts to walk away. I picked up the pace to catch him. I needed to know who he was and what he wanted, but as I crossed the bridge to the other side, the man was nowhere to be seen.

He just vanished into thin air. I started to turn but stopped. It was the man standing in front of me. Ah, he scared the shit out of me. Who are you? I asked the guy. Who I can now see is in fact wearing a tuxedo. Silence.

The man didn't even acknowledge me in any way. Almost as if I wasn't standing right in front of him. I wondered if he was deaf. I waved my hand in front of his face. no response, not even a blink. What was the guy's problem? I sidestepped the guy. Clearly I wasn't going to get any information from him.

And as I go to step around him, he grabbed my arm. The pressure was so strong, it hurt. Go home. You don't want them to find you, he says. His voice is raspy and it sends a chill down my spine. Who? "'Who's them?' I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "'The kids, they can sense you don't belong here.

"'You're not one of us. "'You're alive. "'Alive? "'Yeah, I'm alive. "'What on earth did he mean?' "'The man dropped my arm and began to walk away from me. "'I tried to shout at him, but it's clear he doesn't want to talk. "'I turned and picked up my fishing equipment,

and hurry back to the campsite, picking up the essentials. I grab my phone. It's now 1%. I have a tax from an unknown number. It's a picture of my campsite with a caption underneath. Get lost. You don't belong here. I'm not exaggerating when I say I sprinted back to the car.

It was a good 45-minute walk back, but I ran, and I didn't look over my shoulder once. When I got back to the car, I unlocked it and sat in the lot for a few minutes, thinking in everything that had happened. I decided to look at the pictures for my camera again. This time, there were more of them. Figures, I mean. I saw small blurry figures in my pictures, getting closer and closer to the camera in each one.

Was the man trying to warn me? Was he a victim of theirs? I drove home in silence. Didn't say a word to anyone, where no one would believe me, but I couldn't keep this to myself. I needed to know if it had happened to anyone else. I need to know. Would it really make you feel better if that had happened to someone else? I don't believe in suffering alone.

That explains a lot. See, this trip isn't so bad. It's all about perspective. I mean, when you put it like that, things could be a lot. worse. Hey, John, I'm sorry that we've all been in bad moods lately. It's just... I know, I know. You're a guy, and sometimes it's hard to just use your words to explain how you feel, and it comes out rougher than you mean. That's not what I was going to say at all. I mean that we're all pretty pissed that you took us away from our families. And jobs. And lives.

Oh, but you're better now? No, but we can make the best of it. more, Nate. He could have just asked. All right, everyone, get ready for something really special as I introduce you to the world of close-up magic. Oh, no, you don't. I'll save us. Oh, that still isn't water? Oh, I know. Don't worry. It'll blow us to safety. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. can also follow us at CreepyPod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative common share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors.

No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.