Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2025: Day 3 - The Hunt & Dark Woods

Episode Date: April 10, 2025

The Hunt***Written by: N.M. Brown and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Dark Woods: The Elmridge Grasp***Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Story link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Dark_WoodsTheElmridge_GraspContent is available under CC-BY-SA***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. listener discretion is advised. It continues at a slower pace than anticipated. Turns out that online course I took in camouflage was a horrible waste of $2,500.

Remind me to write them a terrible Yelp review and see if you can get store credit for the gilly suit. At the moment, it appears that the interlopers have solidified this facade. I still don't know why they're here, but I know that it can't be good. Nothing good can come from having this many podcasters in the same place at the same time, especially audio drama podcasters. My God, the feelings that will get shared.

The feelings. John? Ah! What? What's your doing up in that tree? Journalizing. Do you mind? I mean, kind of, yes.

you aren't writing anything down, you're just talking to yourself over our campfire sing-along. I'm almost positive that he doesn't have an inner monologue. Can't you go find a tree further away to come up with your doomed to fail plans? I don't appreciate that tone, Danielle. And I don't appreciate having to listen to you alternate between laughing and crying every five minutes. It's therapeutic. Not therapeutic enough. You know you scream when you cry.

Yeah, and when you vomit, too. When did you all hear me throw up? I think you screamed cried until you gagged a little, about an hour ago. You heard that? I was like half a mile away. I know. It's scary and impressive. Can we not talk about me for a minute? Not for nothing, but you were the one that wanted to come out here again.

Would you have preferred I pick a completely different place? Some place more isolated? Some place where it's even harder to find the bodies. Is that what you want, Nate? Is it? Um, no. John, you have to admit that you've been pretty riled up since we got here. Maybe it would be good if you climb down here to tell us a story.

You know, like you do when everyone thinks you're a normal person and not an unhinged tree dweller. Do you need help getting down from there? I can ask. Thank you, Megan. but I think I can manage to climb down a tree by myself. I mean, I'm the one who climbed up. Think he's dead? Hey, I heard once that polar bears scream when they poop.

Do you think John screams when he poops? No, I'm not dead. And no, I usually don't scream when I poop. Not for nothing, but I do have some experience with scary things. It takes a lot to rattle me. What about bunny rabbits? Where? Where? It was just a for instance.

Damn it, Jimmy. I told you that in confidence. John's afraid of bunnies? I don't want to talk about it. In fact, let's all just forget about everything that's wrong with me as a person for a while, shall we? Can someone tell a story, please? Yeah, okay. But I want to get back to this bunny comment. conversation after I tell you about the hunt. My father received the call at 4.18 a.m.

The shrill pierce of the cell phone rang throughout the entire upstairs of the house like a siren's call. Dad always hated sleeping with his door closed, but because my mother insisted on sleeping naked, he was often left with no choice. Now there was just the two of us. I was surprised he didn't remove the door to his room from the hinges entirely. Nealless to say, we both found ourselves shocked awake by the unexpected call. I only heard him say a few words. What happened? And for how long?

Followed by a soft quaking, good Christ. If the words weren't enough, the solemnity of his tone let me know that whatever happened wasn't good at all, and this was likely to affect us both. Granddad's road to recovery wouldn't be a smooth one, but we'd get there. After the accident, he spent nearly a month in the hospital, a place he hated almost as much as getting old. It was strange seeing him laid up like that. His body a tangle of wires and tubes, his once powerful frame reduced to something fragile and diminished. I started visiting him on the weekends, making the drive out to the rehabilitation center just to sit by his side for an hour or two.

Most of the time he just stared out the window, his gaze far away and hollow. The nurses said it was common after a bad fall, but it looked like something deeper had occurred within him. He was mentally gearing up for something, though I had no idea what. There were days when he'd hardly say a word. His face twisted in pain as he tried and failed to shift in his hospital bed. I'd watch him, not knowing what to say, the silence between us growing heavier with every visit. I'd make small talk, telling him about school, friends, whatever nonsense I thought might break through that iron wall of stubborn silence he'd built around himself.

Occasionally he'd grunt or nod, but mostly he just sat there, lost in his own world. But then there were the good days too. Days when I'd walk into his room and find him sitting up, cursing the doctors under his breath for making him stay another damn day. He'd smile at me then, a tight, fleeting thing, but it was there.

On those days I'd listen as he ranted and raved about the old times, about all the things he still planned to do once they let him. him go. He talked about rebuilding the old hunting cabin, expanding the property, maybe even buying some horses again. His eyes would light up with that old spark, and for a moment it was like he was back, like the granddad I knew hadn't abandoned us after all. Sometimes I'd just sit beside him, staring at that same patch of sky he seemed to find so fascinating, letting the quiet stretch between us. He'd never been one for heartfelt talks or emotional confessions, but I think he appreciated the company.

He'd glance over at me every so often, like he was making sure I was still there, and he'd sigh softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. We didn't need to say much. Being there was enough. Then, just as the weather started to turn cold, Dad pulled me aside one evening after dinner.

His expression was lighter than it had been in months, a rare flicker of relief in his eyes. One afternoon my dad said that hospital called, saying that Grandpa was back to his old self. Apparently he gave the physical therapist an earful that morning and tried to walk out without clearance. Nearly succeeded, too. Dad chuckled as he reiterated the phone call. He added that they should be discharging him soon before heading out for the day. A sense of hope swelled in my chest, warming me from the inside out. Grandpa was tough, tougher than anyone I knew. If anyone could claw their way back from something like

that. It was him. But as dad turned away, I caught a flicker of something, just a shadow in his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared. A warning, maybe, or doubt. Whatever it was, he didn't say anything more. But looking back now, I wonder if he already knew, if he'd seen the signs of the change stirring in Grandpa even then. Because while my grandfather was certainly feeling more like himself again, I think we all missed the fact that maybe it wasn't the same self coming back. As the summer neared its end, the time for the annual hunting trip was upon the men and my family. Honestly, I would have... No, I should have spoken up then.

I should have questioned if we should go ahead with it, with Grandpa just having been in the hospital not that long ago. But I didn't. I didn't say a word because this year was the first year I'd be. invited along. It felt like a ritualistic gathering as the men in my family surrounded the table at the center of the cabin's main room. My Uncle Jacob approached a massive slab of oak first, his frame casting a long shadow across the faded family crest carved into the surface. He motioned to the others with his left hand, signaling for them to form a line. I took my newly rightful place at the end, though my intrigue and excitement made me wish I was much further ahead.

The air was thick with an almost tangible anticipation, as if the very walls of the cabin knew something momentous was about to happen. The eldest men of the family got their first crack at the artillery cabinet, each taking a rifle best suited for their individual preferences and skill sets. My father surprised me by nudging my shoulder during his turn, motioning that he wanted me to pick instead. Now I had taken a rifle and archery courses during a summer camp when I was 12, but that was a long time ago. Besides that, the closest I came was playing shooter video games. And holding a firearm in your hands and pushing triggers on an Xbox controller

were two totally different things. But doing the best I could, I was lucky enough to choose a weapon that no one really had anything to say about. Uncle Benny chose last. Begrudgingly so, in fact, and I wasn't sure if it was because he got last choice or didn't wish to be involved in the tradition at all.

His movements were sad, resigned almost. He trailed behind the rest of us as we headed off towards the path to the hunting grounds. My father and I landed somewhere in the middle, with family both behind, beside, and in front of us. A single shot rang through the air, gathering our attention faster than the bullet fired ever could. My Uncle Benny lowered the pistol gingerly into my grandfather's hands before settling at his sides. Grandpa yelled at us all to listen closely. The volume in his voice betraying the fragility of his age. His arms rose to the sky, allowing his cane to fall freely into the dirt.

He looked like a man possessed, his frail frame trembling with energy I'd never seen before. He began his speech with the word family, a word that would utterly change meaning by the end of that night. He went on to explain that he and my grandmother started this family all those long years ago, not knowing what their future would hold. And they definitely didn't expect. there to be so damn many of us. He laughed at his joke and we all followed suit, thankful for the moment of levity. He said that in that time they'd managed to give their children good lives, good enough to where they could in return live on to give their children good lives.

When Grandma died, the beat of his heart went with her. His eyes glazed over briefly as he explained that she's been in heaven, looking down on all of us while she anticipated his imminent arrival. and he didn't intend to keep her waiting much longer. He paused, allowing the words to settle. Uncle Benny scooped up his cane and handed it back to him. His voice was strong and clear as he continued to speak, saying that with all that out of the way, he wanted to get to the heart of the matter,

the reason we'd gathered there today. It was no secret that the men of our family have hunted for generations. It's something that always brought them great joy. Grandpa commented that this one would be a little different, as it would sadly be his last. But for one of us, he paused again, his gaze sweeping over each of us, locking eyes for just a moment. Then said that one of our lives will be changed forever, and that there were only two constants in this world of ours, life and death. My grandfather had known he would die for a long while now and had used that time wisely to save. and invest. He was fortunate enough to leave behind his home, land, vehicles, and enough money

for one of us to live comfortably forever. One of us? I wondered. What did that have to do with hunting? I thought he had finished, but there was so much more he had to say. With our grandmother Imogene, her affairs were already put into place before her passing. His, however, would be a little different. He didn't assign anyone specific because he said it's up to one of us to decide for him. All one of us would have to do was win this hunt. The winner will automatically gain access to the metaphorical key to my castle, along with all the cash I've saved, stocks, as well as the gain from investments that have paid off in the past. A murmur of voices broke out, confusion and disbelief swirling

through the group. But before any of us could object, a dark smile spread across Grandpops' I should mention again that this isn't your usual hunt, Grand Pop said, his eyes glittering with something both fierce and unsettling. This year, man will hunt man in the biggest hunt of your lives. My heart pounded, a thousand questions crashing through my skull all at once. What was happening? What did Grandpa mean? Man against man, who were we hunting?

Was it some dangerous game? something illegal? But why the secrecy? Why the bizarre tension that crackled in the air between us like electricity ready to ignite? What exactly does that mean, Grandpa? I asked, voice shaking despite my effort to keep it steady. He turned to me then, eyes softening,

and the expression on his face was something I hadn't seen before. Something akin to sorrow, mingled with a deep, almost painful pride. He reached out, placing a hand on my shirt. shoulder the touch heavy with unspoken words. I glanced at my dad, expecting him to intervene, to ask what the hell was going on, but he just looked away, jaw clenched tight. You're hunting me, son, grandpa said gently, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the rising tide of panic swelling in my chest. Everything inside me froze. The world seemed to tip sideways, my thoughts spiraling in a frantic whirl, hunting him.

I shook my head, swallowing hard, but the words didn't make any more sense, no matter how many times I tried to process them. The words hit me like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath clean out of me. What did he mean? Commotion swept through the group like wildfire, our stunned silence,

quickly morphing into a low murmur of disbelief and unease. I looked around, expecting to see the same thing, same wide-eyed shock in my uncles and cousins' faces, but what I saw instead made my stomach churn. Resignation. The older men, dad, Uncle Jacob, even Uncle Benny, shifted uncomfortably but didn't speak up. Like they knew. They already fucking knew. You can't.

What are you talking about? I stammered, looking desperately at the other men. This is a trick, right? we're not actually But their faces were grim Eyes downcast or flicking toward Grandpa with a mix of reverence and something else Something darker

Uncle Benny nodded once, slow and deliberate As if this whole insane idea was perfectly reasonable Grandpop apologized, squeezing my shoulder while apologizing for the shock of it all He wanted us to know that this was an honor no, a privilege, for the chosen one to inherit and for him personally. He smiled, but it was sad, the lines around his eyes deepening. He was proud to offer himself up, proud to die knowing that his successor will be one of us,

someone he loved, someone he trusted. The air left my lungs in a rush, and I staggered back a step, the room spinning. This couldn't be real. It was sick. Wrong. But Grandpa just stood there. His gaze steady and resolute, as if he'd already accepted his fate. The other men nodded, some with grim acceptance, others with a flash of something like hunger in their eyes. And that was when it hit me. They were going to do it. They were really going to hunt him, like some twisted right of passage, for the wealth, for the power, for the inheritance. Why? I whispered, voice trembling. Why like this? They didn't answer. Instead, he stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men one last time. He said he knew this wasn't easy, and it was a lot to ask, but it was necessary for our family's survival. He turned, locking eyes with me. But remember, there can only be one heir.

one leader, and I'll be damned if it's not someone who understands the price of what they're taking. What if no one wants to? I choked out. I already knew it wasn't an applicable question, but desperation was clawing at my throat. Grandpop just smiled, sad and serene, before saying then he'd die on his feet alone. But he doesn't think that's going to happen. He proudly stated that I had the family blood in me and the fire. And if he had to die to bring it out, then that was the death he'd be proud of. It would be a death that meant something. He looked around, meeting each set of eyes in turn. You all know the rules. You all know what's at stake. It's time, boys. Let's see who has the strength. to take it. And then he turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving us standing there, stunned

and horrified and already calculating, already hunting. The forest, alive with the colors of autumn, felt like a trap as we split up. Shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally long, twisting and curling at the edge of my vision, and the summer air buzzed with the tension that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. That's when it started. The gunfire. First, a single isolated shot, followed by a scream, high-pitched and desperate. The sound of feet crunching through dead leaves erupted in a flurry of chaos. A second shot cracked through the trees, and then a third, each accompanied by more shouts. My Uncle Bobby staggered into view, clutching his side.

Crimson bloomed beneath his flannel, spreading like an inkblot on paper. He looked up, eyes wide, just as another shot rang out. His head snapped back and he crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from the gaping wound between his eyes. No! I shouted, rushing forward. But it was too late. The shooter stepped into the clearing. My cousin Richard, rifle still raised at where his father stood seconds before. His face was twisted with something savage, something dark.

He lowered the gun, eyes locking onto mine. His face contorted in an evening. evil snarl, as he said it was either him or me. Richard, what the hell are you? A snarl erupted from somewhere behind me, the roar reverberating through my bones. Richard's eyes widened, and before I could even turn, something massive slammed into me, sending me sprawling. The beast was on top of me, its weight crushing, teeth flashing as it snapped its jaws inches

from my face. I screamed, shoving it back with everything I had. its fur was coarse beneath my hands bristling like steel wool one of its claws raked across my chest tearing through my shirt and skin in a blaze of agony and then as it lunged again its teeth scraped against my arm just a grazed but the pain to follow was like fire i kicked out adrenaline surging and managed to roll free the beast turned its attention to richard who stood frozen in shock run i shouted but he didn't move. The creature lunged, jaws closing around his neck. There was a sickening crunch,

and then Richard's body went limp. I scrambled to my feet clutching my arm. The wound pulsed, heat radiating from the scrape. But I didn't have time to think about it. I took off, sprinting through the trees, the sound of carnage echoing behind me. The forest erupted into chaos. Gunfire, screams, and the guttural growls of the beast filled the air. I stopped the stumbled upon Uncle Benny next, his body torn open, ribs gleaming white against the red ruin of his chest. A few yards away, my father fought off Uncle Jacob, my uncle, the two of them grappling for control of a rifle. You're not taking this from me, Jack! Jacob roared, slamming the butt of the rifle into Dad's face.

Blood sprayed, and Dad staggered, but he didn't fall. Enough! I screamed, but it was like they couldn't even hear me. like none of this was real. A nightmare unfolding in front of my eyes. My dad fired a bullet that took out the side of Uncle Jacob's neck, spurting blood, sinew flapping as he fell to the ground. His eyes remained open for just a few moments before he died,

just long enough to fire a shot toward my father from the ground, hitting in between the stomach and the chest. Before long, I was the only one standing, the only one left breathing. And through it all, the beast watched. Its eyes, Grandpops' eyes, glowed in the shadows, tracking my every move. It began to approach me, its plotting footsteps slow and gentle. The creature bared its teeth at me, but refused to charge like it did earlier.

A roar resonated from deep in its throat as it stood on its hind legs, exposing the most vulnerable areas. The thought occurred to me that this was a sentient choice. Somewhere deep inside, my grandfather wanted me to be the one to win. So I raised my eye to the scope, took the shot, and won. It's been a year since that day, a year since the hunt. The money came through, the property transferred, just like Grandpa promised. For a while, I thought it was all going to be okay.

More than okay, really. Life felt good, better than it had in years. The changes started off small, subtle things that could easily be overlooked. I moved into the old house on the hill, the sprawling estate my grandfather had loved so much, with its wide verandas and endless acres of dense woodland. The land was pristine, the kind of place you'd only see in real estate catalogs movies about the American dream. There was even a private lake, ringed by tall pines that stretched up to meet the sky. For the first few months, I threw myself into renovating a place, pouring money and time into restoring it to its former glory. There was something almost sacred about bringing the old property back to life, like I was fulfilling some unspoken promise to Grandpa. I found his old

journals too, tucked away in the back of a dusty closet, entries about the history of the land, the people who had worked it, and his endless plans for its future. His voice was there in every word, and reading them made me feel closer to him, like he was still guiding me somehow. It was comforting, grounding. I started to believe I was doing exactly what he would have wanted, living the life he'd envisioned for me. I got a dog, Molly, A scrappy little mutt with mismatched eyes and a tail that never seemed to stop wagging. She was astray I found wandering the property one morning. Something about her felt right, like she belonged here, just like I did.

We took to exploring the woods together, trekking through trails that snaked between the trees, discovering old hunting blinds and forgotten paths that seemed to lead nowhere. I'd end each day with her curled up at my feet, exhausted but happy, the firelight dancing across the walls of the old living room. It was like the land itself was healing, like we were healing. For a while, I let myself believe that the worst was over, that I'd survived the horror of that night

and come out on the other side stronger, whole. I started to think that maybe I really was the man Grandpap had always believed I could be, the one worthy of the mantle he'd forced on me. I'd rebuilt. I'd endured. I'd won. But then things began to change.

It started slowly, creeping in at the edges of my perfect new life, like rot spreading beneath a fresh coat of paint. One morning I woke up to find the barn door hanging open, the heavy lock twisted and mangled as if something massive had forced its way inside. Molly was trembling, ears flat against her skull, staring out at the tree line like she was seeing something that shouldn't be there. I wrote it off as some wandering bear, cursing myself for leaving food scraps out. Then there were the dreams.

They came without warning, dark, twisted things filled with snarling shadows and flashes of teeth. I'd wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding the taste of blood sharp in my mouth. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and swear that my eyes. eyes looked different, brighter, wilder. But when I'd blink, it was gone, replaced by the same familiar reflection. I brushed it off, told myself it was just stress, the strain of running the estate, of holding everything together. But then I started waking up elsewhere. The first time it happened in late spring. I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled in the middle of a clearing deep in the woods, mud kicked to my clothes, the scent of pine and decay thick in my nostrils. Molly was nowhere

to be seen. My head spun as I staggered to my feet, trying to remember how I'd gotten there. The last thing I recalled was falling asleep on the couch, the fire burning low in the hearth. I chalked it up to sleepwalking, an old childhood habit come back to haunt me. But the second time, I woke up by the lake, the water lapping at my bare feet. There was blood on my hands, dried and crusted under my nails, and no matter how hard I scrubbed, the stains wouldn't come out. Molly was barking wildly from somewhere far off, and when I finally found her, she recoiled, tail-tucked between her legs, a low growl rumbling in her throat. After that, the changes started coming faster, harder to ignore. The land, my land, felt different somehow, like it was watching me.

waiting. Sometimes I'd catch glimpses of movement out of the corner of my eye, a flash of fur, a dark shape slipping between the trees, but when I'd turn, there'd be nothing there. And then there was the hunger. It crept up on me slowly, a gnawing emptiness that twisted my stomach, clawed at my insides. No matter how much I ate, it was never enough. The meat in my freezer started disappearing faster than I could restock it, and raw steaks became my go-to-midnight snack. I tried to ignore it, tried to tell myself it was just a phase, just stress, just grief. But deep down, I knew. The hunger wasn't normal. It wasn't human. It all came to a head last week. I woke up in the middle of the woods again, my body aching, my skin stretched tight over near.

corded muscle. My senses were sharper, clearer, the scent of damp earth and animal musk filling my nose, the sound of water trickling somewhere nearby like a living pulse. And there, not ten feet away, lay a deer, or what was left of one. Its body was torn open, the flesh shredded, bones cracked and splintered. Blood soaked the ground, still warm, and the smell of it. And the smell of God, the smell made my mouth water. I stumbled back, bile rising in my throat, but then I caught the sight of my hands. They were coated in gore, thick and sticky, my nails longer, sharper, almost clawed. The realization hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

I wasn't just waking up in strange places. I was hunting. killing, and I had no memory of it, no control. I tried to deny it, tried to rationalize, but last night I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring at a silver knife on the counter. I picked it up without thinking, and the pain was immediate, searing, like touching a live wire.

The metal hissed against my skin, blistering the flesh on contact, the burn spreading up my arm like wildfire. I dropped the knife gasping and stared at my hand in horror. The skin was raw, angry red, already bubbling. The scent of burnt meat filled the room, and that was when I knew. And now, as the full moon rises, I can feel it. Deep in my bones, in the marrow of my very being.

The change is coming. I'm becoming what he was. A monster in my own land. A beast. The next hunt is mine, and God help anyone who steps foot in these woods, because I don't know if I'll be able to stop. I looked in the mirror yesterday and saw the first patch of coarse fur sprouting along my jawline. My eyes are changing too, yellow like his. And some nights, when the moon is full, I hear that roar again, rumbling up from deep in my eyes.

chest. Last night I tried holding a silver chain. The skin bubbled and seared, leaving angry red welts that still haven't healed. I didn't just inherit Grandpa's estate. I inherited everything he left behind, including his curse. And now, as I feel the pull of the moon rise, I know. The hunt isn't over. It's just beginning. So, now that you're back in your element, any ideas. what's going on here? What am I, your shrink? I meant here at camp. Shit!

What? I'm supposed to interview a potential camp therapist this week. Um, do you mean a camp counselor? No, I mean therapist. You all got issues. So, what's the problem? I told her there were only going to be a dozen podcasters. There's no way she's going to stick to her initial quote when she sees how many podcasters

she's going to have to deal with. Oh, I'm sure none of that will matter. Personally, I appreciate you actually looking out for us for a change. Okay, is nobody going to ask him what he had planned for us that we could possibly need therapy for? Forget about all that. Not going to happen now anyway. Logistically, this is a total nightmare for what I had planned. What did you have...

Hey, this reminds me of that time JV told us a story. What are you talking about? Son of a bitch. Just do me a solid on this one so I don't have to answer that question and we can completely move on with all this without ever mentioning. it again. I never ask you for anything. You owe me so much money. Oh, since when did this all become about money? When you started paying us? None of this sounds like a distraction. A distraction that could give me time to pay out overdue invoices. Uh, fine. Have you all ever heard about the Elm Ridge Grasp? Massachusetts can be home to some of the most magnificent autumn.

This year was no exception. Traveling east from Spencer, the bus passed acres upon acres of untouched forest. All in the colors of brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, golds, and purples. I was on my way to Elmridge to meet an old friend of mine, someone I hadn't seen in at least three years. The bus had stopped at Elm Ridge around an hour. and a half previously, where, upon arriving, a ravenous hunger had overwhelmed me, along with something else that I hadn't been able to recognize at the time. Without a car and without directions, I had decided the best way to find my way to my friend's

place was to get directions. With little pleasure, I found out the hard way that the people of Elm Ridge did not take too kindly to out-of-towners. So, the next best thing, I figured, was to wing it, do nothing but walk around town and hope I find the right house. I know the address at least, 28 Walnut Circle. Well, I found it at 8.30 at night. Dinner was good, as good as leftovers get. Sleep was fitful, as I couldn't shake the damned feeling of being watched all night. When I did get to sleep,

I was plagued with nightmares. Every time I woke up, a feeling of sheer dread swept over me. And for some strange reason, I knew this was a portent of things to come. Let's go get your rifle. My friend commanded. Where are we going?

I asked, nervous not because I had never been hunting before, but because of a lack of information. My friend was good at not giving information. Birchfield Woods, he said impatiently. I know that, dipshit. I just mean, specifically, like, are we going to a specific stop where we will set up? Or are we just going to walk around and shoot whatever walks in front of us? That's not how you typically hunt.

With you, there are no certainties. All right, here's the plan. We're just going to walk around and will occasionally stop to wait and see if anything comes by, he said. I shrugged. Sounds good, I guess. Just one thing, he said after a long pause. If we get separated, keep running. You might end up at a cabin, and if you do, get inside as fast as possible.

What? Don't ask questions. Let's go. He said in a suddenly brighter tone. Believe it or not, about two hours later, a dense fog rolled in, and not long after that, we got separated. Completely ignoring what my friend had said, I just walked, calling out his name hoping for a response. I was growing desperate, and it was growing dark. Running out of hope, I started heeding my friend's advice and started running in a full sprint. The next thing I knew I was on the ground, blacked out.

As I came to, a low growling could be heard from the bushes directly adjacent to me. Startled and jumping to my feet, the bushes started rustling. The growling grew louder as I drew my sidearm, a Smith and Wesson 38 special. However, I knew it wouldn't do a thing. Terror setting in, I ran in the other direction with the growls growing dimmer. Then, a sudden shriek, louder it seemed than anything I had heard before, emanated from above. And as I looked above, all I saw was a gray-black mass practically flying from tree to tree above. I saw the cabin about 170 yards ahead, and I gave it all I had in a desperate effort to get to the cabin.

Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I remember nothing after that, just waking up in the cabin. My friend was looking at me with a worried face. I thought you were dead, he said in a somber tone. What the fuck is happening? Like, Halifano, all I remember is, after you came barreling through the door, I looked out the window and it was just out there, pacing, waiting. I'll go check to see if it's still there, he said as he got up. Whatever, I said, glumly.

He threw open the window, And the shutters. And not even a minute afterward, a small choking noise came from him. Worried, I silently walked up to him and hesitated. I knew something was wrong, and I somehow knew what I was about to see would be the most fucked up thing I would ever see in my entire life. My hands were shaking. I pulled my friend back.

And to my shock, found that he had no face. It looked as if it had been just ripped off. Chunks of flesh hung, hanging. Vains and arteries were still bleeding, the blood making a gross hip sound as it hit the wooden floor. I was terrified, but I was even more scared to look up, out through the window, because I knew it would be there. I couldn't help but look up,

and I was not shocked to see it staring back at me. Mouth agape, and with a mass of flesh in its hands, it seemed to revel in what it had done. I couldn't tear away from its gaze. Then, in an act of instinct, I slammed the shutters and windows shut and got into the furthest corner of the cabin. Everything then began shaking. The shuters swinging open and shut, open and shut, open and shut in an almost rhythmic pattern, and slamming against the cabin windows.

Outside, I could see the thing. just standing there with its mouth, that damned black pit of a mouth stretching open to an impossible size. The door was vibrating, and I feared that it would break off its hinges. Then everything stopped. Not thinking clearly,

I barreled out the door and just kept running. I could hear the growling coming from every bush and the tops of every tree. There was nothing I could do but pray. I had found myself becoming more and more religious as this whole ordeal took place. The next thing I knew, I was on the pavement, again, blacked out. That's when I got the fuck out of Elm Ridge and never looked back. It seems you are not even safe if you aren't separated in the woods. See, was that so hard?

Oh, does that mean you paid out our invoices? For the love of God, someone please play the outro music. That only worked when we had a two-story-a-week format. We do, on Wednesdays. What days today? Oh, son of them. For more information on this podcast, including how. to submit your own story for consideration.

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