Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2025: Day 9 - East Side Lake & The Creek & Eclipsed

Episode Date: May 1, 2025

East Side Lake***Written by: Laughing Jake and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***The Creek***Narrated by: Nicki Brumback***Eclipsed***Written by: NM Brown***Special thanks this month to: Scare You To Sleep, NoSleep, All in the Cards, Thirteen, Observable Radio***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. Okay, I'll concede. Things have gotten worse. Oh, you think? Which part?

The fact that none of the vehicles were, the fact that we're out of food, the fact that it's raining blood, or the fact that everyone is in full-on panic mode at the moment. All of the above? You know it isn't really blood, right? It can't be. I've heard of blood rain before. It's something about the rain being filled with dust or dirt or something, so it looks red. And that's common in Louisiana? Well, I don't think it's ever happened in the United States, but that doesn't mean...

Oh, great. The chainsaw's in play. Anyone get a good estimate on the number of bodies out there? Why is everyone looking at me? Oh, I see. Suddenly Owen is the man in the know. as if I've been spending this entire month keeping tabs on everyone's movements just in case this all devolves into some... Some... Ah, forget it. Let me check my notes.

Oh. Well, I don't have any hard figures, but there is a very large pile of bones at the Southland of camp. A pile of bones? Is that what that is? Yeah, but I can't quite get a good number on how many bodies that would be, since... Well, everyone keeps kind of running around like Kermit the... frog, it's so hard to get a good tally on things. But my best estimate is that it has to be the remains of about 30 to 40 people.

30 to 40? Were there even that many people here in the first place? Yeah, about that. But that would mean they'd all be dead and in that pile right now. Then where did all those bones come from? Who wants to tell a story? Now? You want to tell a story now.

while a world around us is effectively ending? Once again, what's my favorite part of Titanic? When the band keeps playing. Exactly. This is our moment to keep the torch burning while all around us falls apart. Maybe it'll help calm everyone. Anyone got a story left? I do, I guess.

I think it's in really bad taste at the moment, but okay. It's about the creek I used to love summertime. There was nothing I was more eager for than the months when school let out. I longed for those long, hazy days when the sun would shine down bright and hot, and the whole world seemed open to me. I would imagine that I could hop onto my bike and just go anywhere my heart desired. Usually I wound up at the creek with my friends. We played pirates, bandits, outlaws.

Sure, there were other games, but we really wanted to be those figures that lived outside of the law. Fugitives living on land. Sticks became swords and Tommy guns. Ricky's mom was at the end of a rope because he kept using his shirts to make sails and flags. Yes, summer was the very best time of the year. Until that summer. The summer of 1988. I was about to turn 13 years old.

That was the year when everything changed. Our numbers had dwindled over the year. Ricky's family had moved up to Pennsylvania. Had dad set to work up on a plant in one of those cities where the jobs were more freely available. John and Ben had both gone on to hang out with older brothers, trying to sneak cigarettes behind the bowling alley. Too cool to hang out with us. Frank's dad had gotten him a job sweeping in the family garage,

insisting it was time for him to learn some responsibility. Derek had found an interest in baseball the year before and was usually at practice. Marcus' family was supposedly going on an extended vacation. But everyone knew that was just a story. Really, they were going on to his grandparents, placed in Ohio, because his sister had gotten pregnant and was giving up the baby for adoption. Yes, everything was changing. It was just David and I left, hanging on to childhood with a white-knuckle grim.

Everything between us was a little tense, fragile, as if we were aware without being aware that this was the year with that summer magic. Kind of magic that is only available to children, which allows them to build entire worlds and share those worlds with others. It was a bright June morning. A Wednesday, though I didn't know that until later. Time has a funny way of slipping away when you don't have every minute of it scheduled. I only knew Sundays, and that's because my mother would drag me out of bed to comb my hair and put on a tie for church. I learned the day later, but I remember the rest of the day with perfect clarity. We had been trapped inside for two days thanks to some sporadic rain and overcast skies.

That morning, though, there were clear skies, and I was eager to go outside. I choked down breakfast and rode over to Dave's house. I was stuck waiting on the lawn for him to get ready. He had been up late into the night reading. comics and had been difficult to wake. He stumbled out of his house with his hair a mess and an apple in his pocket for breakfast. We biked over to the movie theater, first to get a glimpse of what was playing. And then we went to the arcade and blew all our allowances on games that our mothers would have asserted were rotting our brains.

Only then, with the sun high in the skies at rapidly approached noon, did we go to our spot. The thick coverage of the leaves overhead provided relief from the sun. the heat, and the creek was a little high from the recent rain. The mud on the banks was already drying and starting to crack. We imagined that we were trapped in an otherwise uninhabited island after a shipwreck. We dug through the brush to find perfect little scattered limbs for spears. Dave slipped off his shoes and socks to wade ankle deep in the cool waters of the creek. His makeshift spear poised as though any minute he would pierce a fish.

Inwardly, I wanted to one-up him, contributing to the game something bigger and better. My mind locked in on a story my mother had told me about a boar hunt. I could picture it perfectly, a massive creature with coarse fur and thick tusks. I told Dave my plan and he jumped at the idea. We kept our spears at the ready, crouching and moving through the brush with care. We pretended to find bore tracks, communicating an imagined sign language, imitating as best as we could the signs we remember from soldiers and movies. Suddenly, Dave stood up right, saying that he smelled something strange.

I didn't smell anything at first. But as we continued, looking for the source, it hit me. It was rancid. It was like old meat, rotting fruit. I gagged. The scent felt like something physical. It was invasive. I argued that we should go back to our normal spot, but Dave wanted to find it.

Death. He said it smelled like death. Probably a dead deer. He wanted to see it. I had no interest in it whatsoever. But I didn't want to seem like a coward. Not now that it was just him and I. I was the one that spotted the body.

It was a man. He had no shirt on. His jeans were muddy and stained, with the rust-colored substance that I knew instantly was blood. I couldn't speak. Reaching out to grab Dave's arm. I needed to feel grounded. Something about seeing that body laying there made me feel

floaty, like I was minutes away from drifting off like a wisp of smoke. When Dave finally spotted the body, he made a strangled sound that reminded me of a wounded animal. Neither of us said or did anything. I'm not sure how long we stood there. It felt as though those moments stretched on forever. My heart was pounding, so hard that I was certain even Dave could hear it. I remember thinking that we needed to get an adult. Someone that could take this terrible, wrong thing and fix it. Someone who could make the world make sense again.

I wanted my mom and dad. I even wanted my annoying little sister here to hold my hand. I wanted to not have to come out here in the first place. We argued over who would be the one to go for help. And who would be the one to stay behind in case we couldn't find the body again. In the end, it was decided that I would stay. Dave was faster. I told myself that everything was going to be okay.

Dave would be back quickly with his parents or the police, and soon enough, I would be home. I tried to look anywhere up with the body. I thought about my comic books at home, about the ones. that I was creating myself. I thought about what would happen when the police came to investigate. Maybe Dave and I would be on the news. Maybe the police would catch the bad guy. They would call us heroes. Then I heard the whisper. At first I thought it was a sound of the breeze on the leaves above, but then it came again. This time a raspy laugh followed the words. It made me think of my grandfather. Years of smoking had taken a toll on his voice. The sound of it was roughed and dry

like sandpaper. I looked up and felt my heart skip a beat. The head was turned towards me. The body hadn't been facing me before. I could have sworn that he was looking towards the sky. I can now make out that he had a large, crooked nose and a thick mustache. His face was stained around his mouth and nose with a thick bloody crust. His skin was pale, modelled with strange, purple, greenish, and yellow marks. Don't? I haveverted my eyes quickly, staring down at my shoes. Of course he had been facing me the entire time. Of course. It's the only thing that made sense. What's the matter, kid? Please, I begged. Please stop. I cursed myself.

There was nothing to be scared of. It was all in my head. I heard the shifting of leaves on the ground and that horrible laugh came again. I just want to talk for a minute. More movement. I stepped back further, still staring at the ground. I raised my eyes up slowly this time. The body had moved again.

It was sitting. leaning against a nearby tree. From this angle I could see an open gash along his throat. And the way it... God, I could be sick even thinking about it just now. The way it moved. It seemed alive with maggots that wriggled within the torn flesh. I shut my eyes tight.

Pressing the heels of my palm against them until I saw stars. Part of me hoped that I would open my eyes and be back in my bedroom. All of this would be relegated to the world of dreams and terrible nightmares. When I opened my eyes again, I was still in the woods by the creek. The body was still there, leaning against the tree with the smile. His teeth were stained with blood and dried dunk around his mouth flaked. The name is Gary, Kid. You got a name.

My jaw ate, with how tightly my teeth were clenched together. A horrible laugh came again. I covered my ears against it, only to realize that the sound was inside my head. I had cracked for sure, I thought. Seeing the body had made me crazy. Or maybe there was nobody at all. Maybe I had wandered out here on my own. own and started to see things.

What proof did I have that Dave had been with me? Maybe Dave was never coming back. Maybe. Maybe I'll rip the flesh from your bones and drain your blood. You suppose that's how it works. Would that be enough to bring some life back into this old corpse? Your life. A hacking cough followed on the tail end of the laugh this time.

I felt sick as a fat squirming maggot dropped from the wound onto the body's throat. Do you want to know? Like to die? I shook my head vigorously, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. The image just came to me anyway. I saw through Gary's eyes as I was shoved into the back of a waiting car by two men. A third was already waiting in the back. everything smelled of cigarettes and grease and alcohol the man sitting next to me had his sleeves rolled up and i could see the tattoo of a scantily clad woman on his forearm the scene melted away and was replaced with another this time i was in a dark room the windows had been boarded up and i was tied to a chair one of them pummeled me with his fists another leaned again again again and i was tied to a chair one of them pumbled me with his fists another leaned again

the wall, lightly swinging a crowbar. I screamed, but I felt no pain. But I was certain that Gary had felt every single blow. One of the men approached. He had a wild gleam in his eyes that sent chills through me. Then the image faded, and finally we were in the woods. Although I could not feel it, I knew that my, Gary's, leg was broken.

I just knew that if I looked, I'd see a ridge where the pants leg rubbed against jagged bone. One of the men was holding a flashlight, while the other two dragged me between the trees. They forced me onto my knees, and I felt the cold of a blade against my neck, white high. I wish I could say that the dying was fast, but it wasn't. I laid there. drowning on dry land. As the men marched on, they chatted idly, as though this was nothing more important to them than some golf game.

Long after Gary's heart stopped beating, his body became a prison. He did not flinch when the rain fell on his face. He did not blink as the flies crawled across his eye. All he felt was cold. I was certain that I would never be able to leave. I would be trapped as a ghost in Gary's mind forever. I wondered if perhaps we'd switched places. If he would go on pretending to be me and if anyone would ever be able to tell the difference,

I would never see my family again. I'd be buried and left a rotten casket for the rest of time. Only the distant sound of sirens. pulled me out of it. When I opened my eyes again, the body was back in its original position, facing the sky. The police did not let us go home right away. They had questions and I did the stupidest thing I could have done. I told them the truth. I told them everything that I saw. I finished my story and the two detectives and my mother all sat staring at me. They looked at me like I was an alien that had just come to Earth.

At the time they told my mother it was probably a story that I had created as a result of an overactive imagination. The psychologist they sent me to said that it was a way to deal with the trauma of finding the body, especially one that had clearly been a victim of such extreme violence. Only the questions started up again as the investigations progressed. The man in the woods was identified after a few weeks. And his name was indeed Gary. Once his identity was squared away and the rest of the case fell into place. Gary had gotten involved with a rough crowd and eventually led to his murder.

Three men were charged and their confessions meant that I didn't have to testify. Not that I would have made a good witness anyway. Some kid telling the story of how a man came back from the dead momentarily to reveal who killed him. Not exactly ideal for the prosecution. After that, investigators and psychologists concluded that I must have seen something in the days leading to Gary's murder. I must have buried it deep down, they said, so that it was buried in the back of my head and impossible to reach. But I know the truth. I know that that body, Davy and I found in the woods, sat up that night.

I know that he smiled at me. I still dream about it. David and I are still friends, and he at least believes me. We were inseparable that summer. And if I had seen something as important as a man getting kidnapped, he would have seen it too. He would have said something to our parents. I can't explain what happened that day, but I have learned how to live with it. There's nothing else I can do.

but hopefully that justice means that Gary can rest peacefully. I hope he has moved on. Free from that prison made of flesh and bone. Not to be a naysayer, John. But that didn't help anything, at all. I beg to differ. Y'all forgot about the seemingly end-of-the-world scenario that's playing out just yards away from us for a little bit, didn't you?

No. Damn. Worth a shot. Anyway, we'll be fine. Why is it when everything's actually fine? You freak out and act all like John-like. But then when things are actually bad, you go all zen. Just one of life's mysteries, I guess.

I have this tendency to spiral. You know, get something that's kind of bad news, but not really. And my mind decides to think of all the ways that things are about to go wrong. But if everything's already going wrong, I don't really have anywhere to go. Buy the ticket, take the ride, you know? Are you actually enjoying all this? I feel like I'm going to be judged if I answer that honestly. So can we just try to look at the bright side?

There's a bright side to all this? Of course. Megan Celeste narrate a story. John, I really don't think this is... Okay. I guess if you'd prefer, we can all go. go and see what that's about. Oh, oh yeah, I can't wait to tell my story. It's called Eastside Lake. There are woods just outside of La Pine, Oregon, where strange things happen when night falls.

When the last shimmer of light from the day's sun fades behind the treetops, that's when you noticed them. My father owned a cabin a few miles out of town. We stayed often through my childhood. My father loved to fish, and I loved to go with him. We would go to East Lake and sit on his boat for hours, waiting for a bite. My dad was in it for the sport. I didn't care about the fish. I wasn't even any good at it. I was there for my dad.

He worked all the time, always having to travel to different parts of the state, so I couldn't see him as much as I would have liked. But when he was home, he would plan these big adventures for us. We would stay in that cabin and hike the trails or collect agates that lay scattered throughout the forest. We had delved deep into a few of the caves that surround Central Oregon, yet we only ever went to the one lake. My father was insistent on it. He told me that lake called to him. He was enamored with it.

He would just stare at the water, the sun's reflection glistening on the surface. It was hypnotizing to watch the water ripple in an almost rhythmic pattern. My dad loved to do a lot of things, just about anything that involved the outdoors he was fascinated with. But his fascination with the lake seemed to eclipse all else. He loved to nighttime fish. That's when he could get the lake all to himself. He would never allow me to go along when he went out at night, saying it was the only time he could really think.

There was one night in particular that stood out the most. recently being laid off from work, he came home distraught. It was only me and him. My mother had passed away from complications of an appendectomy when I was three. Pacing around the kitchen, a heavy smell and his breath, which I would only later come to know as whiskey. That would have been my first sign of alert if I had only been older. My mother was an alcoholic in her late teens and early 20s,

and around the time she was pregnant with me, she had put herself in the hospital from alcohol poisoning. Had my father not been with her at the time, she would have died. It was during this stay in the hospital, they found out she was pregnant. Both my mother and father began going to AA meetings and following 12-step programs.

He hadn't had a drink in 12 years. That was the first time I'd ever seen anybody drunk, and I was too young and naive to know. With not a moment's notice, he was grabbing his backpack and fishing rod and reaching for the knob on the cabin door. I was used to his solo fishing sessions during the night. I liked to think he was talking with my mother while he was out on the water. When she died, we scattered her ashes in the center of the lake.

This was where he had met my mother. That lake held more significance to me than I had the ability to comprehend at that age. These are things I've only come to know in the years since my father's disappearance. things that finally makes sense. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, holding myself as if cold and trying to warm up. I was pretty uneasy about how my father had behaved the previous night, and I thought he just needed some space. When I awoke, I was still alone in the cabin.

I thought he might be out chopping firewood, so I flung the cabin door open and ran to the chopping block. It wasn't there. Dad, I yelled, running through the thick brush that surrounded the cabin. I made my way to the lake, sure that he was out fishing, still thinking. As I broke through the tree line to the edge of the water, I noticed his boat in the center of the lake.

I couldn't make out if he was in it. His fishing rod still placed in the holders mounted to the rail of the boat. Dad, are you over there? Assuming he had fallen asleep on the boat, the constant rocking of the vessel and the gentle wave of the water would make anybody tired. I ran the perimeter of the lake to get closer, only to find nobody inside. I dove in the water, not giving it a second thought, and swam to the vacant craft. Taking a minute to catch my breath once I got there, I went under the water a few times in an attempt to search the surrounding

area. But even with adrenaline and worry, I wasn't capable of holding my breath for long enough periods. One of the Forest Service workers must have seen me out there alone, because next thing I knew, I was lying on a gurney with an oxygen mask on, gazing into the water as police loaded up their boats to search the water for my dad, my uncle standing at my side. I must have dove too deep and couldn't break the surface before I ran out of breath. They never found my father's body, and I hadn't been back to the lake since. I stayed with my uncle in Bend, a town 45 minutes from the pine. All I could ever think about is where he could have gone, and why he would have left me. Ten years went by. Each day, passing in hopes of my father's miraculous return, I began to think

about my mother, and how I hardly knew her. I could barely remember the time that I had spent with her, but I could remember her face perfectly. I would ask my uncle questions about them. Hearing the stories made me feel closer to them. When I was 22, I decided to go to that, cabin. Maybe I would get closure, or at least understand my parents a little more. I hadn't gone fishing since my father went missing,

and I felt like he would be watching me, from wherever he was, and smiling, proud that his daughter was so much like him. I was on the water for a good five hours, with not much activity, and what I did catch wasn't worth the effort to reel in. I retired to the cabin for the evening, walking to the room I once called my own, letting out a remiss sigh as I peered through the doorway. I came to the conclusion that I would use my dad's bed. I had outgrown my old room. It was time I felt more like a woman. It was time I acted more like my dad.

Laying my head back on the pillow, I closed my eyes and started to slip into a place between dreams and reality. There was a faint creaking of the cabin floor, barely audible as my slowly fading consciousness began. Each squeak, acting as the metronome, counting down to my somnial departure. I couldn't tell if the creaking was real, but I remember feeling a cold wetness on my chest. I opened my eyes, and beside the bed was my father. Flesh, a discolored, bluish-gray, peeling from water-wrought and decay. His clothes, tattered and soaking. Dad, what are you doing here?

I asked my voice shaky from fear. He opened his mouth as if trying to speak, but only algae-filled water poured from it, with a gargling sound as if he was trying to breathe. I closed my eyes and said, Wake up. Then opened them to an empty room. I hung my feet off the side of the bed and placed them on the floor. A dampness pooled on the wooden floor.

As the moonlight shined in, I could see it reflecting off what looked like footprints. I followed them, leading me towards the door. I opened it with apprehension. my brain stirring with possible outcomes. Stepping onto the porch, I saw what looked like the back of my father, merging into the brush just ahead. Twigs snapping and leaves rustling as he moved out of view.

I chased after him, coming to a clearing close to the lake. Nothing. I walked the trail to the docks, my father's boat not tied as I left it. With the light shimmering on the water, I saw it in the center of the lake, rocking back and forth. I jumped in and swam in the direction of the boat. I had almost reached it when I felt the tug of my pant leg.

Suddenly, I was being dragged below. I kicked frantically, hoping to free myself. Unsuccessful, I reached down to remove the obstruction by hand. Glowing yellow eyes looked back at me from deep black sockets. The face had skin peeled back from the lips, revealing jagged shark-like teeth in a water-logged humanoid face. A bony hand clamped to my ankle with bits of flesh hanging off of it. From the depths I could see more yellow glows appearing toward the bottom of the lake and starting to rise. As they got closer, I could make out dozens of rotten human bodies,

barely visible in the murky moonlight water. I kicked the face of the creature that had hold of me and kicked the arm a good few times. Finally, I felt it give, and I broke the surface of the water. I didn't even take a moment to climb the side of the boat and paddle to the dock. As I stepped out, I realized that grotesque hand was still clenched to my ankle. I pried it off and threw it in the water. Running to the cabin, my only worry was to get the car keys and leave as fast as possible.

I peeled out as I accelerated on the loose dart that surrounded the cabin. Glancing in my rearview mirror as I pulled away, the corpse of my father stood and stared as I left his sight. The yellow glow of his eyes still visible to me when I close mine. Is this really it? Is this how we do? die? Maybe. I just, I just don't understand how things got so bad, so fast. You mean how once resources became limited that fear overtook reason?

That the moment someone's perception of what life is or what it should be like change that they were willing to resort to violence instead of discourse? That people pulled apart instead of coming together? Is that what you mean? Well, yeah. No clue. Never could have seen something like this coming. All I know is I am certainly not to blame. John, you are almost definitely the cause of all of this. I'm just saying that nothing in human history suggests that this sort of thing could possibly happen.

Pretty much all of human history suggests that this sort of thing has, does, and will continue to happen over and over again. Then why the hell is everyone so surprised? Besides, it could be worse. How? How could this be any worse? Well, for one, this could all be like what happened in... Eclipsed. The trailhead sign had warned about wilderness conditions, unmarked paths shifting terrain, the risk of losing my way. But nothing about this.

My girlfriend just broke up with me, something about me being too clingy and her wanting to take some time apart. So I figured I'd go out on my own for a little while. If I stayed home, all I do is look at my phone agonizing over whether or not she'd call me, or worse. Call and text her more times and should be legally applicable. They say grief comes in stages, and the barrage of text I wanted to send her would run the gamut of them. I'd ingratiate myself, tell her I didn't appreciate her enough, and text up a list of empty promises

I intended to fulfill if given a second chance that was ten times the length the United States Constitution. Then I'd calm down, tell her that I understood why she felt this way and saying that I probably have done the same in her situation.

Hell, you might even apologize for pushing her to the point where she had to hurt me because I know she didn't want to. After that, the anger would inevitably set in. I'd tell her that she'd never find anyone that loved her the way I did or make her a mark about how she wasn't good in bed anyway. Rinse and repeat.

It was with that in mind that I packed up a bag, grabbed my tent out of the basement, and hit the road. An eclipse was coming the following day, and I remembered hearing about people camping during geological or lunar events such as the Northern Lights before. It sounded peaceful enough, and it wasn't like I had anything else going on. Service in this area was absolutely terrible, too.

Maybe the sudden no contact would be a jolt to her system and leave her wondering if she was indeed the problem. Maybe she'd already be waiting for me by the time I came home on Monday. Our Schrodinger's cat of her relationship was both alive and dead at the same time. By the time I got back, I hoped to know for sure which it was. But because I'd be out of reach for three whole days, the chances of us both staying broken up or getting back together were, to me, equally tangentially. Not true, but not entirely untrue. Maybe she'd text me. Maybe she wouldn't.

Ignorance was bliss, and I needed to feel bliss. So I get there, and at first I don't see anything worth noting. Evening was coming fast, and I needed all the natural light I could get. Thankfully, I had enough to see that a section of grass was lower than the rest, like it had been well-traveled. The surrounding brush thinned out about half a mile in, revealing a vast area that would be absolutely perfect for at least three people to set up camp in comfortably.

But so far, I was, thankfully, the only one there. Surprisingly, the clearing was perfect, wide, flat, and silent. The kind of silence that presses against the skin. There's something unsettling about the void, the lack of noise leaves behind. I mean, I couldn't hear a damn thing. No wind, no rustling leaves, not even a single crickets chirp. But the sky was cloudless and the air was dry. The temperature of the air couldn't have been more perfect. I'll admit that. The trip back to the

car wasn't a long one, and by the final track back with the last of my supplies I was able to walk there from memory. The tent was a pain in the ass, but they always are. with one person. Then I enrolled a sleeping bag before stepping out, filled a fire. Rubbing sticks together with nothing but a hope and prayer with no result wasn't something I was interested in. Luckily, I'd had the wherewithal to grab not one but two lighters. So before long, all my camping goals to that point have been successfully achieved.

The wilderness and outside activities in general have never been welcoming to me before. I was a kid who'd much rather sit inside in the air conditioning with any of the electronic I could dream of, or that my parents could afford. But out here, even alone, even with night stretching out ahead, the area felt like home. I felt relaxed, at peace. Not like the loser my brain, and apparently Gia's brain, my maybe, maybe not girlfriend, told us that I was. My eyes slowly opened, revealing a sky that was about to be brought to.

to life by the morning sunrise. Streaks of pain shot down the sides of my neck as I brought myself to a sitting position. The last thing I remembered was laying on my back with my head resting on my backpack staring at the stars. I guess I'd fallen asleep without meaning to. I trudged in my tent in defiance, intending to sleep just a bit more in my actual sleeping bag. The damn thing was a pain in the ass to set up and I was going to make good use of it for the effort. A couple hours later I was on my feet and eating a camper's breakfast, the uncooked kind anyway. The beef jerky and dried fruit I brought went better together than seemed rational,

but I indulged nonetheless. I brought some canned goods for the fun of it. Seemed more authentic to bring them along, really. I've been especially eyeing a can of vegetables, which everyone knows you can eat right out of the can just fine. But if I ate everything I allotted for the day for breakfast, I'd be screwed by lunch and dinner. So I slammed a bottle of water instead and started out for a hike. It felt good to just walk around aimlessly for hours. I needed the quiet time to think in surroundings that reminded me there were larger things than myself.

In the grand scheme of it all, I was nothing more than a fleeting pissing. And I was okay with that. After getting turned around more times than I'll admit here publicly, the alarm on my watch began to beep incessantly. It was three o'clock. meaning the eclipse would happen in exactly 16 minutes. Due to my disorientation, I wasn't quite near my camping area yet. So I decided to experience it just where I was, determined to enjoy it.

At 309, the air grew heavy, thick, stignant water, shadows stretched to wrong angles. The eclipse was coming. At exactly 3.15, the first shift happened. branches curling like veins against the sky. I noticed that the path I was on seemed to elongate, lengthening, just enough to make me question the situation's perception. It's sad that the darkness won't reveal anything that's not normally there in the light, but if they saw what was taking place here, I bet they'd second-guess that statement.

The natural beauty and peace that accompanied it took a sinister turn. Everything that it previously seemed inviting now felt threatening. A crescendo of nature sounds swelled as the light of the sun near completion of its surrender. Then there was darkness. The woods around me seemed to hold their breath as a perfect circle of blackness swallowed the sun. I froze in that moment, trying to absorb every last second of it. It was the first time I hadn't thought about it. in a long damn time.

Too long. And then as soon as it seemed to happen, it was over. The light restored a positive connotation to everything it touched. The woods exhaled back into a rhythm of rustles, clicks, and chirps. A sharp pain stabbed through my brain as a vision overtook me. Like how the moon overtook the sun. I saw it all clear as day, and the emotions were so. so raw, so visceral that it left me stunned. I saw it all, as if I were there with them.

These woods were once a refuge until they became a grave. Over a century ago during a time of war and unrest, a family sought shelter within the dense thicket I'd set up camping. They were fleeing persecution. Their only crime being their beliefs, or perhaps simply being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The ethereal family consisted of a mother, a father, and their two children. A boy no older than ten and a girl small enough to be carried. They hid deep within the trees, constructing a crude shelter beneath the roots of an ancient oak. For weeks they survived on rainwater and forged berries.

Their presence unknown to the outside world, but someone betrayed them. One night under the glow of a pale moon, riders came. Faceless figures cloaked in darkness, carrying torches that cast long flickering shadows. The father was the first of fall, his body crumpling into the leaves before he could even cry out. The mother tried to run, clutching her children, but the men were swift. She begged, pleaded for their lives, but mercy was absent from the high. hearts of those who had come for blood. The forest bore witness to their final screams. The girl was the last to perish, hidden behind the roots of that towering oak. She covered

her mouth, held her breath, but her sobs betrayed her. She was dragged from her hiding place and her cries were swallowed by the darkness. When the night ended, only silence remained. The bodies were left unburied, the fallen leaves, their only shroud. Now, the woods will not forget. Hikers and hunters who wander too close to that forgotten stretch of trees speak of eerie occurrences. Some hear whispers, frantic, breathless pleas in a language they can't quite understand. Others see the rustling of leaves behind them, but when they turn, nothing's there. A few, the unlucky ones, report hearing the unmistakable sound of a child crying, distant but persistent, as if just beyond the veil of darkness.

Some have claimed to see shadowy figures darting between the trees, always just out of reach. The most terrifying reports come from those who linger too long. They speak of feeling something unseen breathing against the back of their necks, of hands gripping the same. their wrists in the dead of night. One man, a skeptic before his encounter, swore he saw a woman standing among the trees. Her face was obscured by darkness, her body motionless. But her eyes, those eyes glowed with a grief so deep it was nearly unbearable to behold. And then she screamed. The sound tore through the woods like a blade through flesh, shrill and desperate. The man ran, stumbling over roots and fallen branches, his ears ringing with the echoes of a century-old horror.

The town folk say no one who hears the final scream ever forgets it. And those who hear the child sobs in the night? They say she's still hiding, waiting for someone to save her, or perhaps, waiting for someone to join her. Then I made an inevitable, unavoidable mistake. I blinked my eyes, leaving them closed a bit longer than usual as my face turned skyward to soak up the brightness of the reemerged sun. By the time I opened them again an overwhelming, dark feeling sank into my soul. Something was wrong. It followed me all the way back to my tended area and proved that my instinct was right.

The tent I brought looked older. The neon green had faded to an almost khaki color. The seams were frayed. The zipper was rusted in place from what appeared to be a prolonged period of unused, as if it had been abandoned for decades. The sleeping bag inside was tattered, but appeared heavily used. I was conflicted with relief to see my pack there, but it was in the same condition as my tent, battered and torn.

An empty plastic sleeve sat by the cold and empty fire pit. I was able to recognize it as the bag that my jerky had come in. The material was weathered. The graphic on the front bathed in repeated layers of sunbleach. When I'd arrived the day before, I'd set up near one of the smaller trees outlining the clearing. My stomach twists as I take in how much larger it is now, as if years upon years had passed. The thought tugged at the corners of my mind that this had to be a different tree, except it was literally the only marker left that was recognizable.

The path I'd found was erased, as if forgotten by time itself. It was only one sign of activity present, a gathering of dirt by the bottom of the tree, and there, underneath that dirt, I recognized my name. It was carved into the base of a tree. The letters jagged, uneven. Beneath there was a date inscribed, but it wasn't today. It wasn't any day that made sense. Orange light enveloped everything around me unnaturally as the sun hung low in the sky.

I was certain that it should be higher, but time felt sluggish, uncertain. My watch is no help either. I read 317, then flickered to 542, then finally settled at 1203. That's when it happened. After what seemed like an agonizingly long time of silence, I finally heard my first unnatural sound. Not the wind, not an animal. Something else entirely. Turning around on instinct, something moved between the trees.

away with agonizing stillness for another sign of movement. And I saw it, a gaunt figure darting in and out of sight beyond the tree line. A sense of unsettling familiarity overcomes me as I look down at my clothes, realizing that it seemed to be wearing the same ones. I recognize the same coat and backpack, only well-aged and tattered, slung over his shoulder as it fully stepped into view. It's closed it indeed matched my own, tattered and torn by time and survival. Looked up at the sky, eyes darting wildly.

That's when I saw its face. My face. Only it wasn't my face. Not how it appeared normally, at least. Hollowed, sunken eyes burned with something primal atop gaunt cheekbones. The lips were heavily cracked, the surrounding skin stretched too tight. And then it ran towards me. I stumbled back, my body crashing into the tent.

I'm all so dry that it hurt to breathe. Burst of oxygen scrapping my throat faster and I could take them in. But I managed to gain my bearings enough to get to my feet. Thankfully, whatever it was disappeared. My thoughts broke into fragments of dread. Dread as the sun flickers, stuttering, stuck, suspended in place like a glitch in the sky. What happened next was a lot of repetition in dread. I heard another sound, turned and saw more movement, this time from a different direction.

Another figure stepped into the clearing than another. There were six of them. No, seven. All of them were different versions. Some skeletal, some half-starved, some with clawed hands and ragged breath, all dead. They all moved unnaturally. Their gait disjointed. All of the angles that a human body had were all too sharp.

Their facial features of still my own rippled across their faces, glitching in and out rhythmically from one expression to the next. The sun finally changed. I could feel the eclipse was coming again, but too soon. Way too soon. The group trudged closer. Lips apart, no sound comes out. Just visceral sounds of hunger.

The last sliver of daylight appears and then a sea of black. More versions of myself. Somehow more degraded and mangled to join the rest. Only they're all right beside me this time. Then behind them comes more movement. The trees ripple and in their depths I can see shapes of others. Newcomers, two families with children and a dog. Campers.

Fresh. Unknowing, I now know that I'm not the first. I definitely will not be the last. I am so... So hungry. What's that? Sirenhead. Everyone run! Stop! It's not Sirenhead.

He's in the Pacific Northwest this time of year. It's just a regular siren. What's it for? How am I supposed to... What? Are things going to get worse? How could they get worse? No. They aren't getting worse. It's over.

I knew it. Tuck and cover! No, not that kind of over. I mean, camp is over. Look, they're taking off their masks and ceremonial clothing, and they're all smiling? Oh, oh, they're coming over here. Get ready, everybody. Hey, John, I just wanted to stop by my way out, and thank you for this. I'll admit that it got a little weird, but it was fun. No problem, Phil Van Hest. Thanks for coming out.

Say hi to everyone else from Observable Radio for me. I'll second that. Let me know if you do anything like this again. We'll do. Thanks, Ashley McCannley. Let me know if you have any room for guest spots on and tall on the cards. This was one of the weirdest months of my life. I appreciate it.

Yeah, thanks for taking my mind off. Well, just about everything this month. Ian, Brooke, you're always welcome back. In fact, I'm a couple episodes behind on the 13 podcast, so I know what I'm doing on the flight home. Thanks again, John. I haven't had this much fun since the last time I burned Nichols. Nice deep pet, David Cummings. No sleep is really the gift that keeps on giving.

Let me know if there's anything I can do to return the favor. Can I be Canadian? Oh, look at the time. Bye! Shelby Novak. Where the hell have you been? Glad to see you aren't dead. I'd miss listening to Scarier to sleep.

But what are you wearing? How dare you? question, my royal attire. But it's mostly just mud and leaves. I knew a peasant like you would never understand. She's still tripping balls, isn't she? I heard that. And yes, thank you.

Now, can someone please show me where I parked my horse-drawn carriage? Why? why did they all just thank you? There's no easy way to explain this, so I guess I should take off my shirt. Ooh, so I didn't care for either of those reactions. No, I just need to show you this. Is that writing on your stomach?

What language is that? English. It's my handwriting, and it's upside down. I tattooed it there, I wouldn't forget. And then I forgot anyway. Hold on. How come we didn't see that the first day when that explosion destroyed your clothes? Probably the second degree burns, but my skin grew back, mostly.

What's it say? I don't want to get any closer to John's naked torso than I need to. It says, hey John, it's John. You just finished watching Momento. That's why you tattooed this on yourself. How cool was that movie? Anyway, since it's November 1st, I know you aren't in the mindset to remember any of this, so come April, when it's time for camp,

remember that you sent out the invitations to all those podcasts with the added note that they aren't supposed to tell any of the narrators who invited them out. It'll be more fun that way. Also, remember to go rewatch the prestige. David Bowie and Andy Circus totally stole the show. Why would you tattoo such a long message on yourself? And why didn't you remember it until just now? Have you not taken a shower this entire time?

That's not important. What is important is that everything's fine and dandy with no lasting trauma and we can go home. What about the cars? None of them work. Yeah, that was the other part of the invitation. I might have planned this as a sort of immersive experience for everyone. Otherwise, people might just come and go as they please. And this way it helped everyone to stick it out for the entire moment.

month instead of just dipping in when we needed them to tell a story, then disappearing again without any reference whatsoever. I'd just be lazy, right? And the car has always worked. I just asked people to take out the spark plugs for effect. Oh, and that pile of bones are all just Halloween props. How did none of you notice the skulls all had googly eyes? Half of them are bedazzled.

What? No, no, they, they, let me. Oh, yeah. There it is. Pile of bones at edge of camp, clearly not real. Okay, let me see if I got this straight. This was all your idea the entire time. None of the danger we thought was real was actually happening.

People came here prepared to split into some kind of primal groups with ceremonial masks and everything and just pretended to run out of food. Well, that part was true. Again, podcasters, I should have been more prepared. But you know the rule of threes, right? Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food.

I know we'd be okay. Plus, you all are really going to tell me that you didn't have your own stashes of food that you didn't tell me about? No. Why would you suspect that me goes? Uh-huh. Well, I'm starving.

Anyone want to head into Nola for some grilled oasis? Grilled oysters, yeah. Hear me out. Karaoke. Wait, wait, wait, wait. So you've been lying to us this entire time, making us think that the other podcasters had gone crazy? But how'd you make it rain blood?

That was a lot of questions. Um, no. I wasn't lying, I just forgot. I always forget things I'd do immediately after the 31 days of horror. So, no, I wasn't trying to make you think anything. It was actually all recommended by the camp therapist. She was supposed to be here to help guide it all, but she died or got sick or something. I don't know.

I kind of forgot about her until right now. It's some sort of primal woodland nature or something. I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention. But everyone seemed to like it. I'm impressed they all remember to play dumb when asked who sent the invitations. I am surprised none of you put two and two together after last year when my no-sleep ringtone went off. It's okay. I'm sure no one noticed that or was thinking about that connection at all this month.

Or how any reference to that was so completely forced as if at some point I completely forgot what my original plan was and had to scramble at the last minute to explain it. Originally I was just thinking that inviting the no-sleep crew out here would be fun. But then I thought, why drag down just one other production? When we can drag down a half dozen. And the blood rain? Oh, that wasn't me. Just a happy coincidence.

Pretty cool, huh? What? You can't all be mad at me. No one died this year. Unless you all think that someone should have died? To which I say gross. But we can totally bring some interns next year if you need to satiate some sick bloodlust.

Seriously, do better. Okay. Well, I'm hungry. See ya. Did John just leave us out here? Yeah. Why is that going off?

Everyone left. I don't even see where the sound is coming from. Um, guys. Seriously? This is so ridiculous. He's just getting us back for last year. Guys. I'm sure he'll be back.

soon. Even John wouldn't abandon us out here. Guys! What's Owen? I think John was wrong about at least one thing. What's that? I don't think Sirenhead is in the Pacific Northwest. Oh, fuck! 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 Commons Share-A-Lite 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.