Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2024: Day 4 - Campfire Colors & Midwest

Episode Date: April 15, 2024

Campfire Colors***Written by: No One of Consequence***Midwest***Written by: Black Fedora Man and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Midwest***This story is is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License.***Support the show and get limited edition Creepy mardi gras beads 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.

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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. John? John? Are you here? Hello? Oh, hey.

Yeah, I'm here, but I don't see him anywhere. It's not like you all left me much choice, is there? I'll be fine. I've dealt with weird men before. Yes, it was. I checked it with my bags. Well, it seems a lot less crazy now, doesn't it? Yeah, I'll call you back as soon as I see how he's doing.

Don't go to Commander's Palace without me. Bye. John? Megan? John? Is that you? Where are you? Over here?

Follow the light of the fire. Hey, John. How's it going? Is that a shotgun? Yes. Oh. Okay. What are you doing here?

I thought it would be a good idea to check in on you. Oh. That's very nice of you. But you didn't have to come all the way to my apartment to check on you. me. You could have sent a fax or page to me. Uh, what? I like it here. It's peaceful. John, you've been out here a while by yourself. Are you doing okay? I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Just sitting here, thinking, enjoying the campfire colors. For as long as I can remember, I've had a strong fondness for fire. I wouldn't classify myself as a pyro or anything like that.

I just really enjoy fire. When I was growing up, we had a fireplace that actually got some use in the winter months. Didn't snow often where we lived, but it was fun to have on cold nights. The fireplace we had wasn't gas, so we had to go out and gather the wood ourselves. That meant I got to go along as dad went out to my grandmothers. She had land just out of town, and there were always trees that needed cutting up. My job was to gather smaller branches from the ground to help start the larger logs. When I got older, I got to help Dad chop the wood.

Now that I'm all grown up, we've got my own place in town. But unfortunately, it's an apartment. There aren't many apartments in this area that come with a fireplace. As a way to satisfy my craving for fire and maintain my independence from my parents, I go camping a lot. At least once a month I'm packing up my green car and going to a state park. It's a cheap outing that affords me the chance to recharge from the grid of corporate America. My coworkers love giving me a hard time for my outdoor activities. They used to ask me if I'd like to join them for a drink after work on Fridays.

I made the mistake of saying I was on my way to the woods one too many times. The stare at out calling me a tree-hugging hippie, but tree-huggers are notoriously non-violent. I proved to them that that wasn't what I was by nut-tapping the loudest of them hard enough that he doubled over. Carter later decided to retaliate, but regretted it. He came up to me in the smoking air, with his friends following. I could see right away that he wasn't there for a friendly reason.

There I was with a lit cigarette in my hands, and he raised up a can of hairspray to spray me with. I saw it coming, and before he got a chance to use it, I snatched the can out of his hand. Within moments, I had the can pointed at him and brought my lighter up. I made it perfectly clear that if he continued to carry on like this, I wouldn't hesitate to set him on fire. You could see that I was fully prepared to do just that, and it got him to back off.

Some of the others like to joke around with me about my affinity for camping. Things never escalated that high again. Since the weather's turned cold, I haven't spent a single weekend at home. Every Friday, I load up my camping supplies before heading out to work. Once at its 4 o'clock, I rush out to the supermarket, took up my curbside, order and put everything into the ice chest in my trunk. Time always drags on Fridays. And no matter how busy I keep at work, it never goes faster.

I even work through my lunch so I can duck out an hour early. Occasionally I'll take a bite from my sandwich while I go over whatever files I have opened on the computer. About a year ago, I was in the smoking area with my manager, and I casually asked if I could work through lunch in order to get out at four. traffic's always horrendous at five and if I could leave at four I'd get to my campsite and set everything up before dark since I'm such a reliable employee and I'm never the cause of his headaches he didn't see a problem with it since then all I have to do is let him know I'm going camping and he signs off on me leaving early this is why it pays to be a good employee as I work in my

computer I can hear the clamor as others come back from lunch Carter stops by my cubicle on his way to his, he's carrying a shopping bag. But it's from a store I don't recognize. The only Pandora's I know of is a jewelry store, the music streaming service. Things between us have been civil, since he tried to set me on fire. There's always been tension.

It's gotten worse since our manager announced that he's looking to promote someone within the department. Everyone thinks I'm a lock for the promotion, but Carter is a hard worker. If anyone's going to get it over me, it'll be him. Cutter hands me the bag. I overheard Harrison talking with some of the higher-ups and sounded like he's going to promote you. I just wanted to be the first to say congratulations and give you this peace offering to show you there's no hard feelings.

I don't know what to say, so I thank him and take the bag. I look inside and really don't know what to say. Pull out what looks like an old brown tomb. one of those old books you see collecting dust in libraries because no one ever touches them. It doesn't take long to realize it's not actually a book. It turns out to be a cleverly disguised box. Inside are several brown paper pouches with interesting drawings on them. The first one I see is a tiger's face on it and I'm intrigued.

Carter tells me that they're color-changing pouches for campfires. I've heard of things like this, but I haven't had the chance to see him in action. This is a thoughtful peace offering. I give him a strong handshake as I thank him. I don't always go to the same state park, but my favorite also happens to be the closest to home. The campsites are widely spread out and the woods are dense enough that you can't really see one from another. It gives the illusion of isolation without truly being alone. stopping from my curbside ordering getting gas eats up time

but these are necessities I haven't figured out how to get around gassing up on my way to work is an option but if I need to get cigarettes I'll end up stopping anyway at least this way I can grab a soda for on the way otherwise it'd be thirsty until I get to the park and I can crack open my first beer since I started doing this regularly I learned a useful trick for Friday nights Setting up camp takes time and effort, so by the time I'm done, I tend to be a bit tired. Enough that the idea is searching the immediate area for some usable firewood is usually unappealing.

Of course, in the early days, I'd do it anyway because having a campfire was the whole point of coming out here. After the fifth time, I finally got a bright idea. Every Saturday, I go up to the Rangers station and strike up conversation. You're not allowed to cut down any tree. or pull limbs off them to use this firewood. The only thing you can do is find fallen branches on the ground. Unless you talk to the rangers, like I do, first. They're always having to pick up fallen trees or large branches

that get knocked off after storms and such. They have to drag this stuff to a pile next to one of their storage sheds set away from the campsites. When you get to be on a first-name basis with the rangers like I am, they'll give you access to that wood. Not only does it give me plenty of wood to burn, but it helps them out too. It's their job to dispose of these trees and limbs, and if I can help out with this, it's less effort they have to dedicate to it.

A lot of the time, larger pieces get turned into firewood, and they sell it in the tiny shop inside the ranger station. They let me cut up and take as much as I want without charging me a thing. Seems like a fair trade to me. Sometimes I cut up more wood than I can burn in it, night, but that's perfectly fine. Why I don't use on Saturday, it gets put into the tote box in my trunk and gets used next time I go camping.

So now, when I get to camp on Friday, I don't have to gather any wood to have a fire. The box has more than enough to get me through the night. I even make sure to leave some small branches in the box to start the fire with next time. The sky's getting dark by the time my tent set up and everything's situated inside. I pop open my second beer, unfold my chair next to the next door. the fire pit, pull out the tote box from the trunk and start building. I grab a bunch of receipts from the passenger side floor in my car and rumple them up first, placing them in the center of the pit, I begin using small branches to make a teepee over the paper. From there, I use slightly

larger branches to make an even bigger teepee. Once that's done, I create a log cabin with much larger pieces of wood. Of all my years fire building, I find this to be the most effective way to start. Normally I use stick matches to start the fire, but I forgot to restock him after last weekend. It's probably the only time I'm truly grateful that I started smoking when I moved out of my parents' place. The stresses of adult life hit me like a ton of bricks, so I picked this habit up. To be honest, I regret ever doing it. But I have to admit it does help me deal with the world. I'm sure it's some psychological bullshit.

but it works. For now at least. The fire spreads quickly, as it always does. One thing about cutting up wood from the ranger's supply, it's always ready to burn. Unless it's a limb that fell from a living tree, the wood they cut up is from dead trees. Even then, they wait for the dead trees to fall over on their own, unless they're from the common area of the park. I wait for there to get some seriously nice red coals at the heart of the fire before I break out. dinner. Friday is usually something quick and simple like hot dogs.

On occasion, when the store has them in stock, I go a little crazy and cook kebabs over the fire. Saturday, when I have more daylight to actually do it, I'll cook something less junk food. I've been known to wrap a couple years of corn and foil with seasoning and butter inside and roast them. Most people my age prefer bars and clubs on the weekends, but not me. Drinking at those places isn't just expensive but potentially dangerous. You have to keep a constant eye on your drink to make sure someone doesn't slip something into it. It used to be a sole concern for women, but these days, that sort of thing happens to guys too. Not for the same reasons, I imagine, but then again, people are pretty twisted and are capable of some pretty fucked up stuff.

Honestly, if I could live my life removed from any sort of society, I'd give it a serious go. There's too much noise in the city, and I love the solitude that nature provides. Sitting out under the sky with nothing with the crackling of my fire and the occasional noise from animals or insects, the quiet settles over me, and I smile. Oh yes, this is so relaxing. And the warmth of the fire comforts my tired mind. The orange yellow flames dance majestically over the beating red heart of the coals.

I sit and watch as the wood is consumed by the flames. Something so simple that entertains me better than any movie or TV show. I eventually get tired of watching TV, but I never grow tired of a fire. My eyes begin to droop and for a moment I doze off. Out in the open, exposed to the elements and anyone or anything, that happens by. I can never do this in the city. People there will victimize someone that leaves themselves so vulnerable.

Yes, a wild animal could very well wander into my camp while I doze. Even a person could happen by. But the odds of either disturbing me are slim. Animals tend to steer clear of fire, which is why our ancestors used to huddle around the fire at night. A person wouldn't be quite so determined. heard, but out here in a public park like this, other campers tend to leave each other alone. Time drifts by, and I eventually opened my eyes.

I'm staring at the fire, but I don't know what woke me. Aside from the dancing flames, I don't detect any movement, so I just continue to stare. The colors blend and separate, drifting into and away from each other. For a moment, my eyes lose focus and I see something else. With the black of the charring wood, I start to see the outline of an animal. Black undertones with the fine lines, orange encompassing at all with hints of something lighter, yellow or white. The shape's never there when this happens.

But I would swear that I'm seeing an animal on the flames. Both are dangerous and fierce when let free. I lock eyes with it until the beast subsides. The wood burns down to coals and the orange is gone. I don't bother looking at my watch. Instead, I grab up the small bucket and pour dirt over the coals. It's more effective to dump water on the fire to put it out, but it makes a mess. With dirt, you cover the coals and use your poking stick to move everything around.

It'll leave the ground still warm, but if you completely cover it and don't leave it any coals exposed, it'll eventually smother out. When it comes time to him to build my fire tomorrow, there is no risk of the ground inside the pit being wet. It's less of a concern in warmer climates because the water will evaporate. Satisfied, there's no risk of a flare-up, I put my cooler and trash bag in the trunk of my car. Crawling into my sleeping bag, I breathe deeply, smelling the smoke of burnt cedar on my clothes as I fall into a deeper sleep.

My last coherent thought is about the brown tome, the cleverly disguised box with its little pouches inside. I'd completely forgotten about it, and the pouch with the dragon design. I'll use it tomorrow. Two of colors it'll add to the orange, yellow, and red. Waking the next morning, the air is chilly, even though the sun is above the horizon. I use my tiny camping stove with the small propane bottle to boil some water for coffee and oatmeal. breakfast is always quick and simple so I can get on the move as soon as possible. Cutting up wood takes a lot of time and effort,

but the bright side is I can drive to the pile. I'm not allowed to use their tools, but I can use the workbench and shopping block they have set up. It doesn't take very long for me to drive over there. Armed with my own tools, I look at a large pile of dead trees and fallen limbs. It's big enough that if you lit it on fire, be considered a freaking bonfire.

Slipping on my leather gloves, I get to work. My first task is decide which specific pieces I want, and wrestle them from the pile. The sun is hiding behind a blanket of clouds, making the world look yearly gray. The heart of that pile is dark, and there's no telling what critters may be hiding inside. At least snakes aren't a concern right now. That hadn't been the case last summer. I'd been out here for an hour working on the pile that was twice as big as this one. The day was hot, but I was determined to get through a decent amount of wood.

This was back when I was still trying to impress the Rangers and get on the good side so that I always allowed me access to the wood. I've been so focused that I didn't notice the five-foot-long rattler coiled behind a large log until I got too close to it. The rattle made me freeze instantly, and I watched as the reptile raised raised. its head by a foot. We stayed locked in a standoff for what seemed like a long time. One of the senior rangers happened to pass by and noticed my oddly frozen posture.

She rushed over with her revolver and unloaded all six rounds into the murder rope. Ever since then, I've checked all around the pile before starting to pull from it. It doesn't matter that it's winter and snakes are hibernating underground. The one time I don't check, that'll be the time when another season. Snake tries to kill me. Considering how early it is, there'll be hours before a ranger comes out this way to check on me. Satisfied that there's nothing in the pile waiting to attack, I get to work. I use a folding camsaw to cut off decently thick limbs.

At one point, I cut off a couple one-inch-th thick branches into six-inch sections. I use these as handles from my pocket chainsaw, which is basically the cutting element from a chainsaw with loops on the ends. I work up quite a sweat using this saw. But once you get a good rhythm going, it'll cut through tree trunks quicker in the folding saw. Once I've got a pile of footlong logs, I stand them on the chopping block and use the axe.

Taking frequent breaks to drink water and have an occasional cigarette, I admire my decent pile of wood after about six hours. My arms are tired as hell, and my back is worse for wear. I'll have to do some stretching when I get back to can. I've managed to build a decent pile of chopped wood. That's after I've refilled my box. The Rangers only sell the thicker stuff,

so I load up with the things that are smaller than three square inches. They don't burn as long, but that's okay. It just means I have to add wood on more frequently. Before getting back to camp, I stopped with the showers and clean myself up. It may be cold, but I sweated up a storm while I was cutting wood. I'm like a lot of people that go camping, I don't like to wait till I get home on Sunday to shower. There isn't anyone around to complain about my smells, but that doesn't mean I want to smell myself. Body odor is disgusting no matter who it's coming from.

After I eat a delicious dinner of steak, roasted corn, and some sweet Hawaiian rolls, I break out the brown tone. There aren't any instructions, but how many different ways are there to use something like that? like this. I mean, it comes in a brown paper bag. I should just need to toss it in. Using my poking stick, I move around some of the burning pieces to give me an unobstructed view of the heart of the fire. The bright red coals burn at their hottest there, a burning inferno contained by a metal ring. I gently tossed the bag into that space and immediately the paper ignites. billows out like a giant cloud and I jump back in shock so hard that I fall back in my chair.

My back crashes to the ground, the back of my head bouncing off the dirt. Days I looked next to me and find a baseball-sized rock with a bit of a point on the top. If I'd landed just a few inches to the right, I'd have landed right on that rock. My skull would have cracked open like an egg. I'd have bled out before anyone could do a damn thing. Not that there's anyone here with me. I slowly pick my aching body up, getting to shaky feet and stretching my back out. The dark gray of the world had been only moments ago has been replaced by pitch black.

Had I been laying on the ground longer than a few seconds? My head throbs and thinking's a little hard to do. I've got enough of me still here that my eyes land on that rock again and I kick it away. Setting my chair back up, I take a seat and use my. hand to inspect the back of my head. The spot that hit is sensitive, but my hand doesn't come away bloody. I press the light button on my watch and it illuminates the face. It's still early yet despite the pitch black, and I wasn't on the ground long at all. Then something occurs to me. The light on my watch is white, not the dull blue it normally is.

Looking around, I notice everything illuminating. as cast in muted colors. Even my skin looks flat white. This doesn't make any sense. I'm looking at the world in black and white. The blast of smoke must have screwed up my vision. Either that or the impact on my skull did more damage than I thought. Some fucking peace offering, Carter.

I mumbled to the darkness and immediately freeze. Out of nowhere, a ferocious growl, from some big cat fills the silence. I look around, but there's little to see. The light from the campfire isn't casting over my tent, car, or picnic table like it was before the smoke glass. It's almost like I'm stranded in the middle of the wilderness, somehow removed from the campsite I was in only moments ago.

As I'm straining to stare into the darkness, the growl comes again, but from behind me. I whirl around and my eyes are drawn to the fire. Orange and white flames dance over a heart of black in the pit. The flames reach higher in the air than they should with the amount of wood that's in there. I'm caught in its light. Frozen solid as it roars at me, bringing a blast of hot moist air with it. Not understanding what's going on, I lower myself back to my chair. My eyes unable to leave the dancing flames.

something moves inside the fire, something hidden that wants to come out. My heart races as I see it pacing, moving back and forth like the predatory cat it sounds like. I can see the graceful movements as those powerful muscles move, as angelic as it is deadly. Like the fire, if it was ever freed, it would destroy me without thinking twice. The flames keep expanding outward without additional wood thrown in. Whatever was in that bag, it's done some seriously unnatural things to this fire. It's not like anything I've ever seen, and it's clearly doing more than changing the colors of the flames. There's 500 pounds of furred muscle pace within the flames.

I hold my breath each time that face points in my direction. The orange and white flames continue to expand until they completely fill my field of vision. I blink, and suddenly everything changes. I'm no longer sitting in my chair in front of the fire, but standing in a forest. Everything is still black and white, but the tiger is thankfully gone. As soon as I realized that, I hear there were again coming from somewhere behind me. I don't even think about it. My feet are just suddenly moving.

My heart races as the trees become a blur as I weave between them. There's no way I can outrun that cat, but trying is better than just standing in place waiting to die. My heart's pounding, and all I can hear is the blood rushing through my veins. It doesn't take long for the thump of heavy paws touching the ground to fill my ears. And I know what's coming. The moment I can't hear them. I let my feet drop out from under me, and I tumbled to the ground. I can see orange and white fur with black stripes sail over me as the tiger misses its prey.

My head tells me to get to my feet and start running again, but my body is no bane. Instead, I crawl backwards until I hit the trunk of a tree. All the while, that powerful beast has landed and is turning to face me. automatically my right hand goes to my pants pocket for the knife I always keep there. A pocket knife isn't going to do much against the massive claws and life-ending jaw strength of a full-grown tiger, but I've got to do something. As I get the blade open, he leaps at me. Bringing my left arm up, I block the cat's access to my throat,

which is to tiger's primary killing move. I don't know what I feel first. My body being crushed by more than three times. my weight or the searing pain of sharp teeth sinking into my flesh, those monstrous jaws clamped down on my arm and I can hear the crunching of my own bones. Screaming in agony, I bring the knife up with my remaining arm and start stabbing the beast. The knife might as well be a fly buzzing around the tiger's head for as much attention as a pazet.

My eyes lock with those majestic gold eyes above me. and I see my own death there. I'm filled with defiant rage, and I bring the knife higher, aiming for the fur-covered throat. As my four-inch blade sinks in, the tiger wrenches its head side-to-side, exploding my body with unimaginable pain.

My arm's still in its mouth. I feel like I keep stabbing at the tiger, but my strength is getting sap quickly as it releases my night. dead arm. The face of my murderer gets closer to mine, and as it opens that blood-stained maw, I use what little strength I have to thrust the knife up under its jaw. The blade pokes up through the tongue inside its mouth, but it doesn't falter. Those jaws close over my throat. Warm wetness covers my face, and for a moment I can't see anything.

My eyes are open and blind. My body and memory I can't recall. Then sensations begin to come back to me and the blindness that's dissipating. Once again, I'm looking into the orange and white flames over a black heart that is my campfire. I reach a hand up to my face and find the wetness on my cheeks are clear. Only tears, no blood. I blinked my eyes and pain erupts behind the lids. I haven't planked for a really long time.

I don't move much after that. Keeping to my chair, I occasionally reach over to my ice chest for beer. The ice cold liquid squelches the fire in my throat from contained screams that I so desperately want to let out, but don't if I let even one out. I don't think I'll ever be able to stop. It all felt so goddamn real. I stay that way until the early morning.

Rays of the sunrise light up the sky. The fire is nothing more than dim coals. Somehow glowing black and gray as I finally get to my feet. I slowly climb into my gray car and drive to the showers. As I clean my body, I inspect myself for any of the wounds I received from the tiger, but my flesh is unmarred. Aside from certain colors looking oddly different to me, I can't seem to find anything wrong with me.

The back of my head doesn't even hurt anymore. After drying and dressing, I go to the sink to brush my teeth. As I bring the toothpaste-covered brush up to my mouth, I catch eyes with a mirror and freeze. Golden eyes stare back at me, and the toothbrush clatters to the floor. What had once been brown eyes stare at me from my reflection. The eyes of my murderer

I get back to camp and quickly pack everything away. I need to get back to town and get to an emergency room or something. There's seriously something wrong with me, and I'm freaking out. As I fold up my chair, something catches my attention from inside the flare pit. The coals are dead cold, but there's something metallic in the heart of it. I tentatively lower my hand to it, trying to detect any heat whatsoever. When I feel nothing but the chilly air, I placed my fingertips on the cold metal.

It's small, about the size of a business card. Etched into the thin metal are the words, We should really talk. The other side has the business name from the babe Carter gave me etched into it. If anyone has answers for me, should be this Leanna Martin, assuming she's the one that sold the box to Carter. If not, the tiger inside me might just,

decide to come out and rip someone's throat out. John, you know we aren't at your apartment? We're in the middle of the Louisiana swamps. Speaking of which, where the hell of you and the other narrator's been? Oh, uh, oh my God, John, I love what you've done with the place. Can I have a tour? Of course. Now, please don't judge.

I know it's still a bit of a mess. What was that? Nothing. Did you just rack the slide of that shotgun? Maybe. But you already did that when you got out of the bus, and I didn't hear you fire a shot. Did I? No.

See, I can see the ejected shell right there. Don't be wasteful. I'm sorry. I just, I... I was worried that since you all abandoned me in the swamp that I might have gone crazy over the last couple of weeks and think there's a chance you're going to have to put me down like a rabid animal? I would never shoot an animal. That sentence gives me mixed feelings.

Well, if it makes you feel any better, evidence suggests that my long-term memory is deteriorating at a startling pace. Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is what supposed to make you feel better? Never mind. Show me around. So, my goal was to make it feel like home. real Minnesota nice Less passive-aggressive Hopefully

Have you ever been to Minnesota? No, but I have been to the Midwest Having spent my life in a buzzing metropolis Driving through the Midwest states Was a hypnotic and sobering experience Anyone who has seen the breadbasket of America

Will know what I'm talking about Fields Billions of acres of crops Covering the land And waves of undulating leaves The tame wilderness organized into rows, blocks, and circles, continuing on for hours and hours, and days and days. That's one of the strangest things about driving through the Midwest. The endless ocean of cornfields, birthed by man's labors, seemed to go on without end, but with no signs of those who created it.

A car here, small house there, a windmill, a rotting barn. It's as if some great civilization built it eons ago and then died out, leaving the living remains of their creations for you to drive past and wonder at. That's how I found myself on the evening of the last day in July, driving my red sedan along a veritable tunnel of a road cut across the cornfields. No broad highway for me, rather, I had chosen a gravel detour, which I had been promised led back to the interstate. The last few exhausting days had seen me driving non-stop across the country, but today, as the sun peaked in the sky and began its free fall back into the earth, the end of my trip drew near. Rest, relaxation, and who the fuck knows, maybe even fun, lay at my feet. The only thing separating me from my goal was a mile more of gravel road and a few insignificant minutes on the freeway. Unfortunately, my car was having a little trouble navigating the tiny country road.

The assholes at the gas station had promised a worn but perfectly passable route, but a few miles in became increasingly evident that neither description fit this sorry excuse for a road. Still, the anxiety didn't really sink in until the gravel path degenerated into a dusty path and then into mere ruts on the ground. As the weeds growing between the tire tracks begin to hit the underside of my car, I briefly grappled with the idea of turning around and taking the more traditional, albeit longer, paved route. But soon, that bitch, stubbornness, got her way, and I plowed on forwards against the rising weeds and deepening dark.

As the sun kissed its lower lip to the crust of the earth, I stopped the car. My journey had come to an abrupt halt. The road, barely discernible among the vegetation and barely wide enough for the car, had ended, stopped, right in the middle of a field of corn. Apparently, this was the literal road to nowhere. I cursed the hicks back at the pump and save who had given me these shit directions and considered my options. Option, actually. The only action now is to return down the path I had so painfully tried. traveled, and then take the long paved road all the way around.

Holding my breath, I tried to stifle a headache and several curse words running through my brain. That's when I heard that sweet sound, the unmistakable mating cry of a Harley tearing down a highway at full speed. Evidently, the interstate was straight ahead and only a few hundred yards away. I felt some guilt for what I was planning, but stubbornnesses' sisters, adventure and lethargy, convinced me that mowing down several hundred feet of some farmer's corn harvest was worth not spending more hours on the road. I wasn't sure if a sedan could hold up to such punishment, but my car handled it like a pro, crushing and pulverizing the greenstocks as they bent away and under the bumper. A couple of minutes, and bam, I was through, back out into the dim evening light.

I laughed and flipped the wipers to clean all the cream shrapnel, covering my windshield. I stopped mid-laff. This was a road, but definitely not the highway. A two-lane, paved, black road ran in a perfectly straight line off into the darkness, disappearing into the evening light. I cursed the assholes at the gas station again, and prepared to bash my way back to the dirt path. But, turning around, the beautiful hole I punched through the field was gone. A wall of corn, not row to row, but stock to stock, stood in front of me, and I realized with a sinking heart that there was no way I could find the dirt path again in that solid block of green. Once again, I weighed my options, just two now, left or right.

I headed what I figured was due south and hoped this road linked up to the highway for which I so desperately strove. Miles and miles I traveled. No change in scenery. Miles and miles of cornfields, pressing in on the car, enveloping me in the gloom of early night. No other cars. No other sounds. No radio reception.

I stopped a few times at first listening for the signs of a busy highway, and later just listening for anything at all. anything beyond my own breathing. Nothing. Nothing but the crickets, gently chirping to each other across the ocean of waving stalks. More driving. The crickets faded away, and only the occasional shrill wine of a cicada cried out into the night.

More driving. Low on gas. More driving. The moon peered over the tufts of corn and lifted itself into the sky, transforming the land into monochrome, draining away cup. color. More driving. Very fucking low on gas. More driving. Nothing but corn, corn, corn fucking everywhere.

More driving. A barn? A barn. The glow from the light of the moon made it appear like a ship in the sea, a dark but welcome shape rising above the bonotonous and oppressive landscape, With a mixture of relief and apprehension, I continued down the road. One turn, a short driveway, and I'm there, parking at the bottom of the sloping hill that leads up to its moonlit roof. It's built in an old wooden style, high gabled with heavy oak doors. It looks old. Like, not just the normal—oh, look, it's an old barn, kids, old, but really old. like it hadn't been looked upon, much less opened in hundreds of years.

Still, its presence offered some hope and companionship, shelter, and safety. Getting out of the car, I walked up the path to the front doors. Interestingly, the grass all around the barn, a meadow extending about 50 yards, was clearly meticulously cut and groomed. Also, the path up to the barn had been worn smooth, like some large machine had been routinely pounded up and down, polishing and flattening the path. Striding up to the door, I knocked. And knocked again.

I gave it several minutes, but apparently no one was living inside. I opened the doors and walked in. I was right. The stench hit me first. It was powerful, like a left hook right on the nose. Seedy and cloying, sour. It was like being dunked headfirst into a port-a-pot. I wretched, struggling to force fresh air down into my lungs.

But as my eyes adjusted and the stench escaped into the cool night breeze, the horror begun. The barn was full of corpses. Dead bodies lay on tables, hung from the walls, and sat piled in great heaps in the corners. Green with rot, their open mouths were grinning, their decayed eyes staring emptily about the barn. The world started to spin around. My knees buckled and my breath escaped once again. Hundreds of bodies. Some were still fresh, crumpled spread eagle in the corners of the barn, huge red-ringed gashes covering their bodies, wounds that looked like splashes of lipstick applied to their pale, naked forms. Older rotten corpses were laid out flat onto slabs of stone and wooden tables and hung from the walls. cut open and divided in a grotesquely methodical pattern. Their hearts were placed carefully near their heads. Tongues cut out, various organs lying discarded and piled onto the floor below,

and their intestines bunched up and nodded like a nightmarish bouquet of flowers. Further into the barn lay the bits and pieces, brown dried hunks of what used to be heads, arms, and torsos, and crates, giant wooden, Boxes piled neatly along the back wall of the barn, almost innocuous but horrible. Dark stains seeped from under the lid and ran down the sides. But nothing compared to what hung from the ceiling. A fraying rope stretched down from the rafters, hanging from the rope, gently swinging in the night over the bloody tables, was bound a horrible absurdity of something that was once alive.

It resembled a victim of some terrible Holocaust. Its skin shriveled tight against its chest and belly, the arms unnaturally long and thin, hog-tied behind its back. Its hands and feet were enormous, ending in gnarled fingers a foot long, with a jagged yellow nail at the tip of each one. Its head, a burlap sack had been tied around its neck, completely covering the corpse's features. A gash ran the length of its neck, the dried remains of some purple icker running down from the wound unstaining the bag over its head.

Swinging there. Dead in the moonlight. I rose above the waves of fear and stumbled out of the barn, slamming the door shut behind me. Outside the moon still rose. The wind still blew, and the crickets chirped. The horrors inside the barn had no effect on the simple sanctity of nature. Leave, run, drive. Those were the only thoughts that permeated my numbed mind.

I turned away from the wooden monstrosity before me and ran to my car, but the car wasn't there. There was nothing around, but cornfields. As I ran around the barn, the rows of waving stalks danced before my eyes. Trapped Trapped in an ocean On a ship of the dead No, I cannot stay here I made a break for the fields of corn

The terrors behind chasing me heedlessly Into the unknown ahead As I hit the edge of the cornstalks My courage failed me I couldn't go ahead And I couldn't go back I stood there Shrouded by the complete silence

The light breeze tussled my hair As I stood motionless and frozen and gently the field of corn swayed in place as the wind picked up. Then the wind really began to pick up. The corn stalks began to march back and forth in what was quickly becoming a maelstrom. The wind whipped my face and tore across my arms. It reached down my throat, pulling my scream out and mixing it with the surrounding chaos. Rain. It was suddenly raining, a torrent, a solid sheet of water falling from the heavens.

knocking me off my feet, churning the solid ground into liquid, lightning, thunder, arcs of electricity flew before my face, striking and touching the ground at my feet. I ran back to the only shelter there was. All my fear forgotten in the struggle to survive this onslaught from above. I barricaded myself in the barn. I was shrouded in perfect darkness, except for the pulses of light that glinted off the outlines of the dead. was past fear. I was petrified, crouching against the bolted oak doors, the rain, hammering a machine gun fire behind me, trying to bash its way in. Behind me lay certain death, and in front of me lay the dead. They danced and shivered and grinned and laughed. They had nothing to fear.

They laughed at me and my fear. They laughed at my blood. They laughed at my heartbeat. To this Cacophony of laughter, I sat frozen, watching over those that could not move. Lightning bolted across the sky. Flash. Dark. Flash. The wind blew the corpse tied to the ceiling. It rocked back and forth in long arcs above my head. Dark. Flash. Its hands swung back and forth beneath it. Dark. I thought the hands were tied behind the back. Flash. Flash. The rope is swung back and forth. The monstrosity was gone. Dark. Flash. Suddenly I saw it crouching on the floor. Its bagged head hung low beneath its shoulders.

The cadaver's limbs flailed about, sliding it across the bloody wooden planks. Towards me. In the flashes of light, I saw its sickening, twitching movement as it swayed back and forth, its head bobbing around with no control. They heard it. Bubbling, murmuring, babbling. It sounded like a drowning man trying to talk. It howled and gurgled and sputtered and screamed.

Unintelligible. No pattern, no sense. It twitched, screaming across the floor as I lay frozen against the wall, watching its movement in the throbbing light. I heard it's blithering in my ear. Dark. I felt it's ragged breathing. Dark.

Burlap brushed by my face. I ran. Out the door and across the churning mud. The rain threw me down into the muck again and again. With a guttural snarl, it was after me on all fours. It leaped and twitched and gurgled and screamed as it chased me into the corn. Knocking aside the stalks, I staggered into the pitch blackness. I ran and ran. Unseen things tore at me.

Was it the leaves or had the beast caught up? I ran and ran, I ran and tripped. I tripped on a root. Or did it grab me by the ankles? I ran and ran and ran oblivious to the darkness, to my fear, to my aching lungs. and then it caught me long nails. No, talons, gangreness and yellow tore into my shoulder and held me back. I stumbled and fell. I was going to die.

I could feel its breath on my face again. I could taste the death on its hidden lips. I will not die. With a yell, I rose up and grabbed its sallow arm, tearing. its claws out of my back with a sharp flash of pain and blood. The monstrosity gibbered and yelped. And I ran, and I ran, and I ran, and I tripped again, falling, falling down into darkness, skidding across mud and stones, almost drowning in the muck, I tumbled down and down. Then it all came to a stop.

up from the bottom of a ditch and realized I was out of the cornfield. I was at the road. The rain had gone away. The wind had died. Best of all, my car was parked by the edge of the road. I wasted no time in jumping in, locking the door and starting the engine. Miraculously, I had half a tank of gas. With a yell, I stepped on the gas pedal, hoping to charge forward forever and ever out of the blackness and into the light of day. The mud churned beneath me. My tires spun helplessly and sunk into the muck. Ahead of me, the cornstalks parted,

and the dead thing crawled out into the beam of my headlights. With growls and burbles, it slowly slipped through the mire in front of me, taking its time, savoring the web of dread it had trapped me in, Last chance, I stepped on the gas again and flew forward. The creature leaped. My windshield cracked. With a thunk and a splash of purple blood, it collided against the car and then flew across the road.

Fuck you, I cried as I steered towards its crumpled form. Ten feet? Five feet. Three feet? It got up. I missed. But as I went swerving by, it didn't give chase. I could see it in the rearview mirror, struggling to stand up. I shifted into reverse and revved the engine. Then a shape appeared above the cornstalks.

Blotting out the moon, a shadow climbed out of the field and walked down through the road. The light of night shone off shoulders that stretched meters across. Forty feet above the ground, the outline of a head eclipsed the stars. It bent down to the monstrosity sitting in a pool of vile blood. The shadow picked it up, caressed it, then it turned toward me. A low, moan, filled the air, rattling the car and sending the cornstalks into another mad dance. With its free hand, the monstrous shadow reached down to its waist, then lifted something high into the air. something big and sharp that reflected the light of the moon across the darkened field.

I slammed back into gear and flew forward. The moan continued, the steering wheel coming loose in my hands. The cornfields were in a mad frenzy, stalks bending and swaying with so much force they uprooted and tossed into the air, covering the road in shadows and leaves. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. ground-shaking footsteps coming for me, coming closer. A shriek of metal and something cleaved the roof of my car in two.

Lights spilled into the car like air into a wound. The sound of twisting metal deafened me as the wheels begun to lift off the ground. And then it was over. I dropped back to the road and accelerated, the shadow's footsteps fading away into its hellish moan. I tore down the road with abandon the dark shape and its unearthly call fading behind me. I got it now. The horrible, blurbering shape is nearly a pet, a dog, a guardian of whatever nightmarish creature lived and worked in the barn. It was the true master of that slaughterhouse.

Although it was far behind, that dark shadow, it looked enormous. It turned a flash of silver bursting from its hand as it disappeared back into the swaying cornfields. Pedal to the metal, 130 miles per hour, the engine roaring, the tires squealing, I flew down the road, impervious to my surroundings, to the blood flowing down my back. Minutes passed like lifetimes. Trees and shadows loomed like a thousand unnamed horrors. down upon my head than a light more lights a town not just a town the town the town the fucking place I was trying to reach so long ago earlier today and an earlier life I stumbled into a diner the screaming of the waitress lulling me into dark unconsciousness sleepwalking the doctors say here take these pills they say a hundred doctors

maybe more, and they all agree that I'm a headcase. The cuts on my face and arms? Scratches from the sharp corn leaves. My shattered windshield, I drove into a ditch. They throw a rainbow of pills in my face to cut down on my dreams, to avoid panic attacks, to bury my sorrows in a field of manufactured happiness. I guess doctors know best. Still, there are some things they've never been able to explain. I had some tests done on the purple liquid spattering my car. Inconclusive, all of them. Apparently it's blood, but contains things that are not blood. There isn't much to say about the straight, clean cut that runs the length of my roof either. Nobody has been able to tell me what can cleave steel like butter. Then there are the four jagged wounds across my back that ooze, pus, and bleed, but refuse to heal. stay in the city now. The chalky smell of concrete, the sharp smell of steel, even the bitter

aroma of living humans keeps me sane. My apartment has no plants in it. I eat meat and bread. The sight of a cob of corn or even a kernel makes me throw up, sometimes faint. For the most part, I can interact normally, except for the vomiting thing, and pretend like that last day in July. never happened. I feel perfectly safe in the daytime, but each night when I sleep, I'm forced back. Back to the moonlit fields where the cornstalks bend and sway with the howling wind, back to the hall of corpses, where the hooded monstrosity shrieks and gibbers and twitches. Back to the haunting ground of the unseen butcher, whose long knives flash into the darkness.

Hmm. Doesn't sound familiar. Maybe that was any dinah. Burn. Anyway. I really think my idea camp is starting to come together. I figure now that at least you're here,

I can... Megan? I'll see you later, John. Wait! Where are you going? I'm sorry, I can't hear you. I'm driving away. Don't worry.

We'll tell your tale and write songs about you. You'll write a song about me? Well, no, not me. I'm a real musician, but somebody might someday. Son of a bitch. What the hell? I spent all this time getting people together. Brought him down here to my favorite place in the world,

a place filled with fun, drinking, amazing food, a history fraught with turmoil and complexity and struggle and resilience. And they decided to stay there, instead of staying with me in a swamp, to help build a summer camp for people who probably, have questionable judgment? Man, I'm starting to think this is all just the confluence of a series of poor choices resulting in my own pain and suffering.

No, that can't be right. I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong. Somehow this is either Gen Z or the boomer's faults. Probably both. Oh, well, at least you'll never leave me. Of course I'd never leave you, John. you're the coolest.

Thanks, John. You're not bad yourself. Though you do look like you put on some weight. You know what? Fuck you. Let's see you balance running a company being a dad and carrying around the weight of the knowledge that only I can prevent forest fires.

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