Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2024: Day 6 - Paddle Your Own Canoe & From the Trees

Episode Date: April 22, 2024

Paddle Your Own Canoe***Written and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***From the Trees***Written by: Dahlia Cortez***Support the show and get rewarded 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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Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. The bus. The bus? Someone's here. Okay.

Who finally grew a pair and decided to come back and... Danielle? Hey, John. What are you doing here? Wow. Thanks. Good to see you too. No, it's not that.

It's just a... Normally it seems like you all just sort of take turns interacting with me, and you already had your turn. Well, if you don't want me here, I can always leave. No, wait! I'm sorry. I didn't mean... Wait, what the hell is that? Uh, what? You being serious right now? That mountain of Mardi Gras beads next to the bus.

Oh my God, Danielle. Did you... John. I'm from Massachusetts. If you're thinking about starting something, I want you to take a second and consider how bad this will turn out for you. I'm still bitter about Tom Brady leaving. Jesus.

Six championships. Let it go. Try being a Vikings fan. Well, to answer your horribly misogynistic question, no, I did not show any parts of my body to get those beats. Then how did you... They aren't mine. Who's are they?

Owens. Seriously? Ew. Hey, I heard that. Rude. Holy shit. Is Owen under all those beads? Yeah, he's refusing to take them off.

I earned these. Anyway, that's why I had to drive. Oh, sweet, delicious air. Oh, thank God. So you're telling me that all those are Owens? Yep. Except that for guys to get beads, they have to show their... Yes.

I know exactly what he had to do to get those beads. But, honestly, I think after the first few, he just forgot to zip up. Owen. Do better. Look, I told you, I found these on the street. Yeah, right. Okay. My good deed for the month is. done, I'm going back into town. Oh, speaking of which, there's my ride chair. We have a fanboat tour scheduled for later. Daniel, you don't need to pay for a tour. You can stay here with me and...

Sorry, John. I can't hear you over the sounds of me driving away. Dude, that's really got to hurt your self-esteem. You're literally stuck in a pile of dick beads. I've been in worse places. I am from New Jersey, you know. not to look a gift horse in the mouth but why are you out here owen was i not supposed to come out here i thought we were all taking turns like you know like jury duty owen look around you is there anything out here to suggest that i'm involved in some elaborate plan that will

end well for me well looks like your typical pulling a john moment i'm sorry what well you know it's like when a person let's say someone named john gets really excited for an idea that he hasn't fully flushed out, and being a self-aware introvert knows other people need to be there to motivate him to actually do the thing, but also so that there are people there that he can either use as an excuse for failure

or outright abandon, only to discover that his plans were destined to fail, but still clings to some weak, albeit incorrect, hope that he will succeed in the long run. I can't say I care for the term pulling a John, but I can't really argue with history. I mean, I can.

I'm a white sysheat male, so history is just sort of how I remember things. No one can argue with it. But still, is this something you all talk about when I'm not around? We actually try not to talk about that, John. It's kind of a buzzkill. Wow, this is a lot to deal with being severely malnourished in the bayou. If there's one lesson I've learned from any amount of time in swamps,

it's that you have to learn to paddle your own canoe. I don't know what that means. Dude, that was my segue into the story. Don't ruin it. Having survived several overnight and weekend camping trips in the Pine Barons of New Jersey, my buddies and I went searching for even more remote wilderness areas where we could canoe and camp for up to a week at a time. Every year we sought out the best paddling routes and backwoods camping sites. We discovered the beauty of canoeing in Nova Scotia,

where we were almost claimed by the choppy black waters of Lake Kajumakou, Trial and error in Maine, Missouri, South Carolina, upstate New York, and the Boundary Waters of Minnesota had prepared us to get the most out of our canoeing experience in this Paddler's Paradise, Oki-Finoki Swamp in Georgia. Packing would be interesting, since we would have to bring everything we needed for five days in our packs. We couldn't leave the swamp to grab hot dogs, firewood, or beer. Mmm, beer. Most of our previous trips had included coolers full of cold beer,

but we had to be more frugal with space this time around. That consideration, plus the heat of Georgia, would make it tough to keep the beers cold for more than a day, even in a cooler. So we packed one bottle of alcohol to help ease tired muscles after long days of paddling. Wild spirits is a liquor that was distilled in the Philadelphia area and had some psychedelic properties. A few shots of that stuff, I could see auras and vapor trails.

I've drunk myself into alternate dimensions a few times, always with friends who could share the mystical trip, but each with his own journey, destination, and lessons learned. The motto on the bottle was, paddle your own canoe, which, while vague on the surface, made perfect sense when you were rowing yourself gently down the fractal stream. Day 1

Famous for being the honeymoon destination of Gomez and Morticia Adams, Oki-Fanokey was exactly what we wanted. The road trip had been smooth, and we arrived at the outfitter right on time. Inside the outpost, we needed to pay for the canoe rental and purchase a few supplies. On a cork board alongside some fishing line, we spotted photocopied flyers that looked like wanted posters.

The flyers read, Warning, Florida skunk ape spotted in southern Georgia. There was a blurry photograph of a creature that resembled the classic Bigfoot fish, that everyone would recognize. It was a little smaller than the traditional Bigfoot, and a little more gorilla-looking, but definitely familiar if you've ever investigated American cryptids.

The flyer went on to warn of a foul odor and strange sounds that would portend the arrival of the beast. We pretty much dismissed it as a prank or hoax, though the photo was strangely convincing. At any rate, we needed to settle the bill, so I collected cash from the guys and stepped up to the counter. counter. The lady at the register was an ancient woman with leathery skin and one milky eye. She rang us up silently and handed me the receipts and our waxy maps of the route.

I reached for the goods on the counter and raised my head to say thank you. A three-legged cat patted over my hand and the woman swatted it away. She grabbed my arm, leaned in close and said, He is watching. Um, yes. Yes, ma'am. Who was watching? The skunk ape?

Ranger Dan, the Swamp Patrol man? Some kind of Alligator King? I smiled a smile with a little bit of fear behind it and tugged my arm out of the woman's grasp. Thank you, I muttered. And I walked out the door, still feeling the unnatural gaze of the woman clinging to my back like a wet rag. Outside, the guys were chatting with the driver

who was taking us to the launch site. He warned us to look out for the gators. Oh, we knew there would be alligators around. People spotted them frequently while canoeing through the waterway. They aren't too dangerous, sweet heard. Just don't taunt them or feed them. What nobody told us about was the spiders. I don't mean like you're out in nature

so you might run across a few arachnids along with the insects. I mean like, kingdom of the spiders, spiders. Like, if you have arachnophobia, you will leave, this trip either head-held high cured of your fear, or feet first, stiff as a board, frightened to death. Spiders kind of gave me the ick, but I wasn't deathly afraid of them. What I gained during this trip was a very healthy respect. We arrived at the site in just a few minutes. Launching our canoes, the waters looked calm, and the route, though winding, appeared to be straightforward. We had finally figured out that the bigger, stronger guys would sit in the front.

This would help distribute the weight more evenly, as well as enabling smoother paddling, since the front paddler provided more propulsion, while the backseat guy could steer using his oar like a rudder when the time came. The trick was not to be freaked out when you steered face-first into a huge spider web that had been woven across the canopy at eyelash height, like most spiderwebs are. Take your hands off the paddle for just a second, and your ass gets wiped right into the banks of the swamp, where you are instantly covered with more webs.

We got used to the webs, along with sharing the canoe with some hitchhikers who would start spinning webs right on your shoes so fast it was like watching time-lapse photography on Vimeo. I spent a few days with a wolf spider in my canoe that I couldn't bring myself to evict. I called him Wolfie and just learned to live with him. The big guys up front developed the helpful habit of calling out webs

that we could duck under. My friend Toast was in front with moles in the middle and I steered in back. Web! Toast would shout. And then, boop, boop, we would all duck in a row as the canoe passed under the silky bug traps. The other boat had scoots up front

and my cousin Chubby in the back. Web! We would hear from afar. And then, boop, we would see them duck. Couldn't dodge them all, though. But we learned to take those like champs so we didn't end up crashing into the brush like we did in the beginning.

Slow learners, but learners just the same. This one web, though, was extraordinary. We all ducked it, but I almost didn't make it. I was transfixed by the spider that sat in the middle of the web. It was his base of first baseman's mitt and glinted in the sunlight like a magnificent ruby set inside some spider princess's tiara. It did not move as my head got closer. No, it did not.

I ducked just in time, and then turned to look back at it in one. and admiration. I think it took a deep breath just then. Uh-oh, I stopped steering for a split second, and so we wiped out into the bushes on our right. The guys swore at me, naturally. I took a quick glance over to the web we had just moved under, but the spider was gone. We named him General Spydrax, after the Sector's toy from back in the 80s. I'd never seen anything that scary, or that beautiful. The first night we camped on a platyx. in the swamp. Marked on the map and reserved for our itinerary, it was easily spotted because of the dock

that was set up to receive canoes. The platforms were generally set high enough out of the water that gators probably couldn't get up there, and there was an outhouse that was way cleaner than we could have expected. We couldn't bring much perishable food because there was no place to cook, so we feasted on trail mix and beef jerky for our dinner. We had a stash of power bars for our daytime paddle brakes and lunches and saved the fruit and nuts for dinner. Careful to pack everything away tightly and leave no trash behind. We crawled into the tent and crashed pretty hard. Day one complete.

The noises were strange and it took a while to fall asleep, but we managed. We needed our rest for the days ahead. Day two. The next day was hot. I mean really, really hot and humid. The water was extremely still, which should have allowed for easy travel through it, but it was murky as hell. Our arms and backs were getting really tired from trying to slog through this section of the swamp.

One of the guys had read up on the route and saw a review that warned of the peanut butter section of the waterway. We were really beat up and needed a break when someone said that it was like paddling through diarrhea. We all stopped paddling and laughed our asses off for a few minutes before starting to move forward. again. Well, that didn't last long because somebody else kept repeating the phrase, and it eventually took a weird turn when somehow Harry Callas was commentating on the adventure. We started narrating the journey in the style of the famed vocal artist and longtime Philly's announcer. Look out, boys, there's a log right there sticking out of the diarrhea. Oops, we almost ran aground there in the field. It's tough going today here on day two, paddling through

diarrhea. He took a much-needed break as we laughed and floated around in the diarrhea. Huh, that is fun to say. I'd almost forgotten how much fun. Eventually, the levels changed, and the waterway cleared up a bit, and the paddling looked a little more like it had on the first day. More webs, more ducking, more spiders, and a few gaiters here and there, just popping their heads above the surface to have a look at five fools tooling around in their neighborhood.

like a bunch of city slicker tourists. We sort of felt like tourists, too. We didn't feel unwelcome, exactly, but there was a strange sensation that we were being looked at. Noises in the brush startle us every now and then, but it wasn't as scary as it was eerie. I didn't realize how bad the swan could smell sometimes, especially when something kicked up a funky patch of stagnant water

or a dead critter. Come to think of it, those pockets of stank accompanied the noises most of the time. We didn't encounter many other paddlers, but visibility wasn't great around all those twisty bends. As we were approaching our next platform, the sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, and we ducked under one last broad web.

There in the middle was a ruby red spider the size of a Costco pumpkin pie. Damn, that looked like spydrax. How many of these giant red spiders were in this swamp anyway? Luckily, we were far enough away from the platform, that I wasn't afraid it would follow us. Those things seemed to live between the trees, trying to catch dragonflies or whatever.

I didn't want to know what they ate, but it probably wasn't mosquitoes. Day three. After a decent night's sleep, we awoke with sword traps and lats. Our ass cheeks weren't feeling so great either, but we were ready to take on our next leg of the journey. We were headed to a cabin-type structure

on an actual island in the middle of the swamp. Not set atop a platform, we wondered if gaiters would be lurking around on that side. Actually, we presumed they would be, which made us glad for the enclosed nature of the building, if you could call it that. The first half of the trip went smoothly, and we made really good progress. The water had a gentle flow to it, and there weren't too many hazards to navigate around. Ready for a lunch break, we steered close together and hooked our legs into the adjacent canoe, so that we straddled the two boats, essentially creating one.

craft. We opened up the food boxes and traded power bars like baseball cards. We decided to eat one now and stashed one away in our pockets for later in case we needed another break. That way we wouldn't have to anchor ourselves again. As we chomped our way through the warm bars, our jaws getting tired from chewing, we had our first real gator sighting. We had seen a few from afar, naturally, but this one swam up real close-like. He could have been a very big. He could have been a very big. He could been a third canoe for all we knew. He floated there alongside us and looked at us, not looking at the boat as if it were another animal, and not looking at us like we were prey. No, I got the feeling he was looking at our power bars. I think he wanted one. Or maybe he was just making sure that we packed

the wrappers up and didn't toss them into the water. We didn't do that, of course. We always pack in and pack out when we camp. When we had finished the bars, we stuffed the wrappers back into the boxes. Then we unlocked our legs from the adjacent canoes, grabbed our paddles, and started to move along the path toward the cabin. We moved gently at first, not wanting to upset our lunch guest. Actually, I suppose he was the host and we were the guests. Either way, we paddled along and the gator stayed put.

Being positioned in the way back, I looked over my shoulder a few times to see if he was following us. He wasn't. He just watched us go. We floated around a bend, and he was gone. Well, we couldn't see him anymore. But I had the feeling he could still see us. We consulted our maps and figured out that the cabin was just another two miles away. We should be able to get there soon without too much trouble. But the sky was getting dark, real dark, real fast.

There was a nasty rain headed our way, so we decided to pick up the pace a bit. The path was wide at the moment, but narrowing up ahead. I could see a giant web that looked like a gate to someplace we were not welcome. If Charlotte had woven it, it might read, Abandon Hope, I'll ye that enter here. We noted it to each other, preparing to duck under it. We were just a few yards away when a white bird swooped down and snatched a spider from the web. The bird's beak was clamped down on one of the spider's legs.

It thrashed and fought the shining. red exoskeleton catching the sun's rays like a fiery gem. Now we knew what kept the SpyDRAC's population in check, I guess. And not every scary creature can be an Apex predator. Away they flew, our gate now wide open as the damage web floated in shreds from the canopy overhead. Ooh, you smell that. Somebody's blazing up, said Chubb. Scoots chimed in with some Cypress Hill lyrics.

It's the skunky, funky, smelly green shit. We smelled it, too. but it was kind of skunkier and funkier than pot smoke. More, I don't know, gross. More like an actual skunk. Turkey vultures smelled pretty bad. We'd gotten a whiff of those over the past few days. But this stink was something else entirely.

This guy had gone black and the rain came down in torrents. I don't know if I've ever seen rain come down that hard. The last look we had taken at the map seemed to indicate that the cabin was pretty close now, so we had to tough it out. The rain pounded the surface of the water so hard that somehow it drove the fish at the bottom of the swamp to literally jump into the canoes. I think they're called mudfish or swamp trout

or some such thing. We didn't look too closely since we were paddling for deer life trying to get to the inlet that led to the cabin. Damn, there was that stink again. It was really pungent this time, and definitely not a burning plant. Something huge,

in front of the first crew and let the guy's a little shaking. What the hell was that? shouted scoots. We had heard a splash on a plunk but didn't see anything. Still don't know what it was. Bear, deer, gator, Jurassic mudskipper? At last, we got to the inlet and a slide that led up a path toward the cabin. The water was shallow here and tough paddling,

so we got out and dragged the boats up to land. We staggered into the dry structure, wrung out our clothes and hung them on some wall-mounted hooks. We'd have to pack them up wet and set them out to dry tomorrow if the rain stopped. The interior looked like a pavilion or a cabin or a shed, just a rough structure that had been equipped with some wooden furniture. The walls were as rough and dirty as the floors, with no insulation in either. So the weather was just barely at bay,

and the noises inside were as loud as they were outside. maybe louder since the sound bounced around on the planks. We were absolutely certain that there were critters inside as well as out, so we set up the tent right there inside the cabin in the middle of the floor. Digging through our packs, moles pulled out a skunk ape flyer and performed his famous fat guy Yeti strut to mimic the allegedly nearby cryptid. We couldn't help but wonder if the skunk ape had been what was thrashing around in the water on the way in.

We laughed at that for a bit, nervously. Then Harry the K returned for a while, recounting our trip through the diarrhea. We were pretty drained by this point, so we got some food in us. After a dinner of Gorp, good old raisins and peanuts, we crawled inside the tent and tried to sleep. Yes, we all shared one decent-sized tent. Sleep wasn't the priority on this trip, and we knew the comfort would be in short supply. since space in the canoes was at a premium, we only packed the 110. At some point, I identified four distinct snoring patterns, which meant that I was the only one awake. Every noise was an alligator or a deadly spider or a Dracula

that was fixing to consume us in our sleep. But then I heard something chilling. Footsteps accompanied by a dragging sound. Slow, deliberate footsteps entered the cabin. but we were certain we had closed and latched the door. The steps were not loud, but the floor vibrated with the weight of something large. A steady sliding sound accompanied the steps,

like someone dragging a body behind them. I sat bolt upright in the tent and tried to listen and see through the walls of the tent as if I had superhero senses. The footsteps stopped a little ways away from the tent, and then turned and went out the way they came. I lay back down and silently said goodbye to my friends. Whether the place was haunted or infested or both didn't much matter by the time morning came.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, but not for very long. When we crawled out of the tent, I wasn't well rested. Day four. That day, we dragged the canoe to the other side of the small island and pushed off into the dark waters. wasn't too long before a tremendous gator popped up ahead of us, purposely blocking our progress. The stream was too narrow to go around, so we slowed down, stopped, paddled backwards. You know that feeling you get when you're driving along a highway,

and you're about to run out of gas but you don't have a cell phone, and there's nothing around you for miles. Your head is on a swivel looking for an emergency call box or a functioning farm or police barracks or anything that could get you out of trouble? That's what we felt at that moment. Were we close enough to jump out and run back to shore? Can I swing a paddle hard enough to scare an alligator away?

Can I swim faster than my friends? Luckily, the enormous alligator just hissed at us menacingly for a few moments and then submerged itself. We were going to have to travel right over top of it, so let's make it like a fire drill, quick and quiet. Okay, on three. One, two, paddle. Over the gator we went, with little sound save the pounding of our hearts and some gentle lapping against the sides of the canoe. As some of the tension melted away, I saw something on a log just past us on our right. A pile of white feathers

sat there, blowing in the breeze. It had definitely been a bird at one time, though it was clearly no longer alive. Away from the bird, down the log, and off into the weeds, limped a shiny red spider with seven legs. Paddling got easier from there until a quick current picked us up and shot us into a weirdly shaped pool. Rocks over to the right and two small passages to the left, one of which was blocked by a cock-eyed log

that stuck out of the water like a tail of a crashed plane. We mishandled the current and swung out toward the rocks. We got grounded on one of the stones, but managed to stay afloat, more immobilized than helpless. Scoots and Shub paddled over to help us by extending an oar. Toes grabbed hold of it, and we were yanked free. As we got our bearings and paddled around to approach the passage without the love, we noticed that the other guys had already done the same, but were approaching the narrow opening that was partially blocked by the opposite.

They reached into the strokes, paddling swiftly and smoothly like Olympians. They're picking up speed, said Moines. They're not going to try, started toast, but they were going to try. Coming in as hot as they could, Chubby and Scoots attempted to launch themselves over the partially submerged log. I was trying to visualize their successful watery parkour maneuver, hoping against hope that they would glide across the fallen branch tilted to one. on side like the General Lee and land safely on the other side with a gleeful, yeah!

They did not. Over, out, and into the drink they went. We three spent a moment laughing at our friend's misfortune, but collected ourselves when we realized that the canoe was gone. It had filled with water and sunk to the bottom of the swamp. We paddled over to the guise and jumped out of our canoe to help. We took deep breaths and dipped beneath the surface of the cloudy water. It was just a little deeper than I am tall, so I lifted with all my might and bobbed to the surface for air.

The other guys could stand up in the water, so they managed to turn the canoe over and drain it so they can climb back in. We gathered up the gear, which luckily had been packed in watertight boundary bags, that floated because they were sealed. There were a few casualties, though. Scoot's new video camera was waterlogged and therefore destroyed, and a portable toilet seat we brought in case the outhouse weren't serviceable, floated away down the stream, never to be seen again. Chub climbed back into the canoe, but rocking one way, then the other, resulted in a farcical overcompensation harmonic. The craft re-sank and was subsequently re-recovered. Finally, we were all settled back in our seats, paddles in hand, and glided peacefully to our

next camp platform through a serene, glassy body of water called Mirror Lake. Alligators were everywhere, and had been the whole time. Arriving at the platform with some daylight left, we set just about all of our clothes out on the dock to dry in the sun. Between the rainstorm and the wipeout, we were wearing the only dry set of clothes we had. The humidity was pretty low and the sun was hot, so it worked out nicely.

As evening set in, we had eaten some dinner, and we broke out the wild spirits. Bad decisions beget bad decisions. so we ended up killing the bottle that night poorly fed and a little dehydrated we passed the bottle around until it was empty moles sat back and cracked disjointed jokes which we all laughed at scoots and chugged were dancing around performing the dx crotch chop and toast lumbered around the platform imitating the skunk ape from the flyers i tried to absorb it all but i must have been drunker than everybody else the world around the world around the platform imitating the skunk ape from the flyers i tried to absorb it all but i must have been drunker than everybody else the world around the world around the me seemed to splinter and reassemble with every deep breath I took. We all tumbled into the tent, and the other guys passed out pretty quickly. I had a soul-shaking case of the spins, so I crawled out of the tent to walk around. I needed some fresh air and maybe some water, but mostly I needed to be standing.

I was going to try to wait out the buzz and not even attempt to sleep until I was slightly less inebriated. I wandered over to the edge of the platform behind the tent to puke or piss or just wobble for a bit when I felt the platform rumbled beneath my feet. Slow, deliberate footsteps were approaching me from behind accompanied by the dragging sound I had heard in the cabin the night before. Slowly turning around like a cake on display at a bakery, I looked directly into the eyes of a giant alligator.

I'm not much of a praying man these days, but I definitely caught a glimpse of God in my peripheral vision. I thought about having a word, but the figure in front of me was simply too compelling. Greetings, I said. How you doing, old dog? said the gator. I'm okay. Kind of drunk, though. He chuckled. Paddle your own canoe, huh? Yeah. Um, how are you?

Oh, just fine. I appreciate y'all keeping the place clean. Gotta make sure the garbage don't get out of hand. Yeah, we always pack our trash. I noticed. Have you been following us around this whole time? When we were capsized... Y'all were safe.

They all know. Hey, what was that big splash on the way up to the cat? cabin yesterday. Did you hear about the skunkie bump around these parts? Yeah. You won't anymore. Oh. Oh, thank you.

Thanks so much. That's really helpful. Wow. We're glad you're looking out for us. Is there anything we can do for you? I'm a little pickish at the moment. My pleasant conversation with the alligator king was over. fear boiled away the last bit of alcohol for my bloodstream. I was about to be eaten by a living,

breathing, talking dinosaur. You wouldn't happen to have one of them power bars, would you? Stunned. I patted myself down, but I didn't have a bar on me. Just then, I remembered that all of our wet clothes were there on the deck, set out to dry this afternoon. My shorts from two days ago had a wrapped bar in the cargo pocket. A peanut butter okay? My favorite. I extended the bar in his direction. He looked at it and nodded his head. Would you mind?

Right, I said, and unwrapped the bar. I held it out in front of me, and he snapped it out of my hand before my nervous system could register the reflex to pull it back. I put the empty wrapper in my pocket. He watched me do that. Much obliged, he said. And then, backed away as if to...

leave. See you later, Alligator. Don't do it, warned the alligator king. Yes, sir. And he was gone. Day five. Morning came, and we were way less hung over than I thought we would be. I didn't tell the guys about my encounter the night before, though who knows what visions they might have had while they were paddling their own canoes through Dreamland. The final day of paddling was the shortest. This was by design because we'd be pretty beat, but also so we could begin the road trip home. Just a few more webs to duck under, and we'd be meeting with the pickup crew to take us back

to where we parked by the outpost. A giant web stretched overhead, a seven-legged spider, set right in the middle like a crown jewel. I looked at General SpyDrax one last time as I prepared to duck under. Down in the bottom of my canoe, There by my feet next to Wolfie was one of the mudfish that had hopped in during the downpour. He was pretty dead by now, but I thought the general might be able to use it. So I tossed the dead fish into the web like you might stand back and toss a magnet at your refrigerator.

It stuck in the web, and as I passed closer to him, I got a good look at his head. He made eye contact with me with all eight of his eyes. I could swear that one eye winked at me. After saying goodbye to Wolfie, we slid up onto the sandy bank, and we went out, leaving Okifanoke swamp behind us. All of our trash went into the proper receptacles, and we tipped the driver a few bucks. The road trip home was so smooth and efficient that we even had time to stop for lunch before we left Georgia. The guys ordered Gator Bites at a place called Woody's. I did not partake.

I can see my story left you speechless What? No, I'm speechless because I just watched you chew your way out of what looks to be over 100 pounds of marty-graw beads. Not my first rodeo. I'm not sure if we don't talk enough or if we talk too much. Thank you. Exactly. So, you've been out here mostly by yourself for the last few weeks?

Mostly. How are you holding up? I'm fine. How's everyone doing in town? Doing great. Though there are some of us who miss having you there. John, where the hell did that sound just come from? From the trees.

I know. I know I'm barely around. And I've come up with some pretty lame excuses as to why no one should come out here and visit me. But this time around, I really appreciate the company. I'm glad we're all here, sharing stories. when people are actually out here with me, wondering which one of us is going to try petting the first cryptid that comes out of the bushes,

taking bets on who's going to go missing first. Don't give me that look. You know it's true. It's not a matter of if, it's who. Well, since it's my turn to tell a story, I think, for legal reasons. It's my duty to tell you now that this story, any names, characters, weirdness, incidents, or events portrayed in this retelling are all probably most likely, but not based on any actual findings, but definitely are fictitiously non-fictitious.

Like the woman standing over my bed watching me while I sleep, or the kitchen cabinets that open and close themselves while I make breakfast. Or the way my screen door slams open just stays that way when I've been sitting at my desk for too long. Oh yeah. And any identification whatsoever with the actual persons living, deceased, or undead, places, buildings, dark alley, sinkholes, and products like the antique comb wrapped in rusty wire and a bit of hair is purely coincidental. No matter how creepy it gets. Because it does. Oh, shit. All the rambling I'm doing is probably a sign that I've been by myself for too long.

Anyway, I moved down here with a wish and a hope that I could finally finish my book, which now that I say that out loud, I realize how cliche it sounds. But most people that have dreams of finishing a book either move back in with their parents or sell everything they own and move out to a tiny cabin in the mountains somewhere. Not me. I didn't want to do anything typical. So I chose a place that was both intriguing and beautiful and scary Louisiana Bayou. I put my life savings into a few wet acres and made my new home in the Bayou of Orleans Parish, right along the Etchafalaya.

I think it was right after my breakup I started realizing just how much I really appreciated being alone. I guess it's a common thing after spending so long with someone who didn't believe in quality time. or have the capacity to take accountability for shitty behavior. I stayed, yeah. I stuck around, but that's where I had any control. That's where I had power. The power of choice. And I chose to stay because that's what I could do.

And so I did. Told myself things would be better. at some point. And that was the hope that kept my choice alive, I guess. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't just my relationship or that twisted power of choice was an issue. It was a daily commute, the exhaustion of pretending to be invested while listening to co-workers gossip.

The way I'd had to fluff up my life at family dinners just to avoid anyone asking too many questions about things they had no use knowing about me. My therapist had stuff about people-pleasing and self-sabotage. She told me if time away is what I wanted, then the question I should be asking is why I'm avoiding getting it. And when I asked her if it was silly to also want that time off to finish my book instead of sitting on a beach somewhere, signing up for group therapy to sort out my problems like a normal person would do, all she could do was chuckle and write more.

of those mysterious notes in a writing pad and say, if you don't take this time away, if you don't finish the book you've been talking about finishing for years now, what else would you be doing? So I did it. I packed up a few boxes, some clothes, and just left. My family thought I was crazy, and my friends threw me a going away party.

I should give you an idea of how much whiplash there is for me socially. I appreciated my friends. friends for the love and support as I set off to chase my dreams for being a horror writer. And I appreciated my family for their honesty, which wasn't any type of support at all. But I don't really hold that against them. They like what they like or don't like. Yep. Out here with the gators and the mosquitoes the size of your head and neutriar rats and hurricanes.

but some of the best food, the sweetest people, the most intriguing stories, both cool and creepy. There's just so much inspiration out here. And I wasn't inspired living back in the city. It wasn't enough. It was actually too much. All that stress from the urban wasteland really aggravated the voices in my head. It felt suffocating there. But here?

I can step onto my front porch at night after spending the day riding and hear the cicadas or a hawk. Some days I hear nothing at all. Nothing but wind against my windows. The creek of the cedars and magnolia trees when the night was quiet enough. It was so nice. The voices in my head paused just long enough to listen. Actually, no, I did hear something on the breeze. Only a few times.

I swear I could hear a woman saying, I'm here. And then maybe something in Cajun, but I couldn't make it out. I guess that's what I get from moving to the middle of America's boot. Lost my sanity in exchange for a tail to tell. But it really isn't so bad out here. Once you get used to it. Change is good, after all. Of course, people ask me why I did this.

Why, I just had to put so much effort into getting away and leaving my old life behind. Truth is, I wasn't really living the one I wanted. And waking up to face that every day was scarier than the monsters I wanted to write about in my book. Oh, and of course, it had nothing to do with my breakup or how stressed out I've been with my old job or how crazy expense of the cost of living had gotten, or the weight of expectation set on me by family society. be social media, the usual. As for the book, it was more than just pages.

It was my escape. Eight composition notebooks filled with everything the kid version of me loved, which I guess could be typical for anyone working, a dead-end desk job. A job that makes you spend most of the workday wishing for an adventure, something more. but also just some god damn peace and quiet that's what i found when they moved down here for a little while connection peace solitude spooky shit sure as hell wasn't any of that where i was from no in place of the hanging moss and mosquitoes and gaiters sunbathing on my driveway i was oddly content to leave behind the traffic lights, the hustle culture, all the stuff that seems to matter in the moment, but

really doesn't. Damn, if I don't miss taking a quick walk to get some tacos, though. One night I finished up, I think it was the fifth draft of Chapter 1. Yeah, I got restless. I actually did go for a walk. I guess I missed getting my steps in. Frankly, I never missed being compulsively obsessed with any of my old phone apps, but what I will say is that whenever I had enough cell service to use them, I appreciated them more.

The most mundane task of walking felt more purposeful than before, but in this case, I was restless, almost broke, and I was starting to feel lonely. I started to hear and see things that appeared one moment and gone the next. The first time that happened. It was a full moon. It just finished raining, really bad downpour that night. But as soon as the sky cleared up, I went outside. And wow, it was gorgeous.

There's no street lights or anything out by my trailer, except for a few lights the trappers had set up off in the distance so during a full moon you can see things so clearly it was beautiful and i was alone and i loved it i remember i had looked up at the moon closed my eyes took in a deep breath and that's when i felt it for the first time the shiver a really cold shiver ran down my spine something that was cold and unsettling, frigid, and it went all the way down to the bone. The coldest winter back home couldn't even compare to that. Almost like how you can feel it when someone's staring at you,

which is impossible. It had to be. Because the nearest neighbor was about a mile from me. Even though everything appeared visible, beneath the light of the moon. It felt like there was this really dark shadow creeping up over me. A sense of unease casting a veil of darkness over the moment while I admired the moon's serene glow.

Naturally, I blew it off. Blame the vodka. I'd already had a few tonics trying to get inspired, but nothing had really put me into a creative flow. And that's when I saw it. her, him, I don't know, the silhouette of a man, a woman? No, it was a woman, a woman tall and frail, standing among the shadows at the edge of the tree line just across my front yard. She was still, unmoving and shrouded in darkness, angled in position just beyond the reach of the moonlight.

Although I wasn't close enough to see her features clearly, I did see the slow, deliberate movement of her pale hand as it emerged from the shadows, followed by her fragile knees. She moved to step out of the darkness and into the light from behind the tree. She stepped forward, bare feet sloshing carefully through the mud. Her head down, hands raised, palms turned up at waste level. She was wearing nothing but a bracelet on her left hand. Her form was hauntingly delicate. Waves of hair are covering her just enough for me to wonder if she'd gotten separated from her camping group,

after taking one too many gummies. After a few steps across to what grass, she stopped moving. I'm here, she said. The words airy and almost lost to the breeze. I'm here, Moshear. I was so fucking confused. Not only was this encounter kind of terrifying, but it also felt right. It felt like I'd lived there for years, and her visit was just one of several I'd had with her up until that point, which is, again, confusing, because I'd never seen this woman before in my life.

However, there was something there. something about the way she held her hands up. Almost as if she'd been waiting for me to take hold of them. Was I drunk? Or was she waiting for me to give her something? It was in that moment I thought, hey, maybe she wanted to be alone for a little while too and just got to be too much.

Didn't go as she'd hoped and she'd lost herself in the bayou. Lost herself to the hypnotic song of the cicadas, the breeze, the balmy night air. I felt bad for her. I felt bad knowing that all I'd wanted to do was tell her to get off my lawn. When I could be a good person and offer her something to cover up with. Maybe call someone to come get her and take her someplace safe. Maybe give her something to eat. Um, miss, are you okay?

I said, carefully, now wanting to scare her, even though admittedly I was pretty fucking terrified. Sadly, there was no gauge for how careful is careful enough in this scenario. It began to shake, repeating the words louder each time. I'm here, monsieur. I'm here, monsieur. And the sound of her voice grew more shrill and more desperate with every syllable she spoke. until she jerked her head back, revealed her face, bearing what had been hidden beneath the length of hair that had been covering it.

She had no eyes, no eyes, just a mouth. Rose of teeth with black liquid dribbling down her chin and chest. Then she began to scream. Those pale, bony arms and fingers reached out for me again. inspiration for my story much. Yeah, you bet. My glass fell from my hand, rolled off the porch, and before it could come to a stop on the wet grass at her feet, I'd rush back inside the trailer, screaming, of course.

I was scared out of my wets, pushed against the door, attempting to keep it closed on the chance the woman, or whatever that was, decided to try to make its way in. I just stood there at the door, waiting. It felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. And she must have hurt it too because she started tapping on the door with those pale, bony fingertips in perfect unison with the beat of my heart. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I punched the door, hoping I'd scared the bitch away, but for every punch I gave the door,

she gave a harder one. And for every scream I made, she made one far more horrific and unlawful. haunting than I ever could. And it brought me to my knees. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It was too much. A sudden visitor in her face full of teeth. The frustration at not finishing the book

they've been rattling around in my brain since I was in middle school. The therapist that stopped taking my calls, the endless string of text and emails from friends and family asking when they'd be allowed to visit. I'd had enough. I was growing weary of waiting to feel the constant state of peace I wanted, and it was clear that I'd have no choice but to fight for it. She was screaming, and I decided to give her one right back,

quickly standing before pulling the door open with the fury I didn't recognize. I rushed outside of the intent to prove I wasn't going to be easily scared off. This is my fucking home! I shouted, breathing ragedly, spinning around to find her, looking left, right, even stepping off my porch to look at the roof, but she was gone. Save for the soft, eerie whisper on the breeze, it was in that moment that I realized I'd never truly be alone. And while others found comfort in that, I didn't.

Still don't. What's the point of having a presence with someone who doesn't even want to be present? You know, but I guess being here is better than not at all. I'd really hate to end up like her, you know. The Bayou Banshee, as I call her. It was the first company I'd had in months. And lately, she's been more polite during her visits. She'll simply watch from the trees or through a window.

As if she's letting me know, she'll never let me feel alone. Probably just as she's been for God knows how long. Sadly, the solitude I wanted was now just as suffocating as it had been living back home. But that's not her fault. This is my shit show. Can't blame her just because she's a demon or whatever. After that night, I still can't get to that. that image of her out of my mind. It was all I saw for days, weeks even. Literally, every reflection

there was. Every shadow cast by the sun or moon and every puddle in the mud after a storm. She was there, teeth and all, long-limbed and yearning with a thirst for something other than her own misery. Speaking of misery, I think I'm going to go back to town and leave you here. Oh. Okay.

You sure you don't want to come with me? Yeah. Yeah. Still lots of work to do and only like another week to do it. Uh-huh. I kind of thought you'd say that. And given what the other said

about the current state of your project, I thought you could use some help. Check this out. What's all this? Well, when all this started, John, I got to admit that it was pretty funny to watch you try to survive out here on your own. I think we all kept waiting for you to just ask for help or simply give up. But when you didn't, we chipped in our money to buy you all this. You bought me all these tools and lumber?

It looks like you bought out a hardware store. I figured that with the number of diseases you probably contracted from all the animal bites out here, it would be nice to not cut corners. Owen, I don't have the words. How can I ever repay you for this? Well, there's one thing I could really use. I don't have any Mardi Gras beads on me. Oh, damn it!

Well, I'll think of something. Did you want to stay and help me build the main cabin? Um, no. Oh. Okay, that's fair. How about just helping me unload all the supplies? Yeah, that's a hard pass. I have this lower back thing.

It's like really, uh, it's just, Yeah, not. Uh, okay. But how am I supposed to get all this unloaded by myself? Well, I figured I'd just keep the gate open and drive really fast, and it'll all fall out. I don't know enough about physics to dispute any of that. Let's give it a shot. Thanks, Owen.

Okay. Now we can really get to work. I wonder how all this stuff works. What the hell is a mite re-saw? For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative 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.