Creepy - Cry for Help & Just an Idle Walk

Episode Date: December 7, 2023

Cry For Help***Written by Juan Cardenas and Narrated by Nate DuFort***Content Warning: Suicide, Violent Family Death***Just An Idle Walk***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***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.

No. 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 are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. which listener discretion is advised. He presents.

Cry for help. Written by Juan Cardenas and narrated by Nate DuFort. I was in the country, the woods, the forest, the great outdoors. I do not see the appeal.

I never have. It was too cold or too hot. There were too many bugs, no plumbing. no consistent source of heating or cooling, and the uncomfortable dirtiness and mess were killing me. I could never wrap my head around how qualities that you could sue your landlord for were also qualities that people sought out for recreation.

Yet, here I was. I was parking my sedan outside a drafty old one-story cabin full of cobwebs with a dusty porch held together with rusty nails and hope. It looked almost sick against the greenery with its constant creaking and its rotting wood facade. It was 2003. I'd driven out here out of familial obligation. Two months ago, my uncle Geraldo, who was five years younger than me, attempted suicide by hanging in his family's Brooklyn home. Luckily, he had done it on the fire escape and in plain view of several helpful, if traumatized, basketball-playing youths,

He survived due to their quick action, but the attempt left his throat in pretty rough shape. You could see the crimson band of broken skin against his light chocolate complexion. Naturally, my grandparents, my mom's sister, and her husband took to his side at the hospital. Day and night they attended to him, spoke for him, and signed him out of the hospital under a heavy load of painkillers. The staff had wanted to keep him for his safety, but the galvanized front of my grandparents, aunt, and uncle, sidestepped protocol. They used every trick in their arsenal, legal threats, religious exemptions, and just plain old persistence. They wanted him home.

They convinced us all that this was a cry for help, that the life he was leading was slowly decaying him from the inside out. So they took him to the one place, he was himself, as they put it, the one place where they were sure they could restore him to his best self. The cabin was his beloved childhood summer vacation home, where he'd play among the trees and the river, fish, hunt for rabbits, build fires, roast marshmallows, and do other Tom Sawyer shit. My silent uncle was confined in a wheelchair now, and he definitely wasn't going to do any of that stuff. He languished in that chair.

His arms were thin rails with multiple scar lines and bruises from where he had torn out IV drips. He sported unkempt, wild, shiny, oily hair with a curly, scraggly beard that didn't grow in certain patches. In the first week of his convalescence in the woods, my grandparents brought several church members to pray, chant, and chase away the devils that plagued him, as they put it. They were getting on in years, though, and the family sought out others to take the watch on Geraldo. My cousin took her guitar and several books, played songs, and read to him for a few days. My great Aunt Lola spent a whole week with him, knitting him things and cooking soups and stews and the fire pit-style barbecue the place had.

Cousin Jose took an Xbox, GameCube, and his VHS TV combo to the cabin, and nearly fried its ancient generator. Then, as the number of family members dwindled, my mother looked at me, shaming me in the way only she could. I was in between jobs at the time, and the between part had been getting to be quite wide. She told me that while she didn't have the right to tell me what to do, she did advise me that, if I wasn't going to be productive, I could at least be making someone happy. That's how I wound up here. The fall was just starting. I should have been in a classroom or an office,

but my brush with my own demons meant that I, too, was feeling like I was in need of rehab, and this was to be my recovery as well, though I didn't tell anyone that. When I saw my uncle sitting in that wheelchair, staring out into nothing on the porch, I knew I was in no position to be talking about my problems. With brief pleasantries,

the two relatives here took their leave, and I took my suitcase into the cabin. Uncle Geraldo barely acknowledged I was there except for a sideways glance as I dragged my things in. Instant coffee, two Carlo-Rosey jugs of moscato, microwave dinners, heated blanket, flip phone, junk food, and journal. The essentials. He was not the uncle I remembered. Of course, I didn't know much about him except the little we, interacted with almost 20 years ago. Then he was the little boy who I thought was my cousin. Nobody talked about our grandparents having a child so late after their other kids. Still, he was family,

and he was an energetic little troublemaker. He definitely went along with the whole religious thing. But I knew deep down, he wasn't like that. He swore, disobeyed, and terrorized the other kids, after all. It was all in good, goofy fun. Rather than religious, I remember he was incredibly superstitious. He liked to carry around a rabbit foot and leaf clover and avoid cracks in the sidewalk. I used to torture him by taking him to Dad's garage and forcing him under the ladder that was propped up against the wall. That was years ago, a lifetime ago. Now I couldn't even look at him for too long. The injury around his neck made me uncomfortable. I thought it pulsated as he breathed.

I plopped down all my stuff in one of the rooms in this place. The other room was where Geraldo slept, and, of course, there was a living space with one rather strained outlet connected to the generator. The whole inside had cobwebs, dust, and critters going in and out of the cracks on the boards, and there was a long unused fireplace as a focal point for the room.

There was a sudden shift in the room as the stale air had just had a sudden gust blow through. I hadn't heard so much as the squeak of the wheels when I turned, gasped, and nearly fell over to see my uncle right behind me.

He wasn't looking in my direction, just to the right of me, staring at something beyond me. He had somehow zipped in here in under a minute without making a sound opening and closing the door and wheeled himself in here. He held a cup of water, just barely lifting it in a subtle gesture towards me.

I took it warily and nervously went to fill it with water from the fridge. Instead of drinking from it, he just put it between his legs and slowly wheeled himself into his room. Though the rail-thin body he inhabited seemed to say that he didn't eat at all, he did and drank, But when? I wasn't sure. I was not exactly curious at that point. I warmed up some Salisbury steak dinners,

leaving one right outside his door on the chair placed there specifically for that purpose. I drank myself into a good buzz and started to work on some writing I'd started in my journal. He came out later on, didn't touch the food. While I still couldn't bring myself to look at him all the time, I'd started just talking. Talk, talk, talk, talk.

I was rambling on about myself and the circumstances of my latest embarrassing firing. I didn't know much about email then or BCC and C.C. It was a whole thing. He was impassive and didn't move or do anything. Yet, as I spoke to him, I felt as if words were just spilling out of me, swirling and flowing like water leaking out of a bucket. He just sat there still. I realized I was crying. I started to feel, really feel like these highs and lows of joy and sorrow, on wee, and ecstasy. I must have been drunker than I thought.

I forced myself to stop talking, but felt compelled, like a force was sucking my mind out of me. But it stopped. It stopped suddenly, and like I'd been rolling down a hill, I struggled to maintain. consciousness. Without putting up much of a fight, I fell asleep. That night, I dreamt of a midnight deluge, a sudden rainstorm that came down hard, practically banging on the windows and walls. The furniture shuddered as the wind and rain attempted to breach the dry cabin. I saw Geraldo. I knew this was a dream. I don't usually have lucid dreams. I guess I realized since I I saw him that he was as he was so many years ago.

A school-age boy and shorts in a basketball jersey, neatly cut short hair, and the stain of a bloody scar, just slightly visible on his neck. He stared at me angrily. I asked him, and I beseech him to let me wake up. I didn't know why this was an urgent concern of mine, but I went along with it.

He molded over. Then he looked concerned. He stood in front of the roaring cabin fireplace and cast a small shadow that flickered in and out of existence. It's not up to me, he said in his youthful voice. It's up to the dark man. Who is the dark man? I asked. In the dream, I got up to approach him. He shrunk away, literally shrunk, tiny and tiny.

He was all. Always with me, as I reached for him. It is almost his time. The shadow grew. It covered the rug, the walls, the almost broken windows. The rain fell silent, and a deep voice emanated from where the fire was. Sanguice, Bibimus, Corpus, Edemis, Tole. Corpus

Set an knee I blacked out The cabin was at night time It was pitch dark And I found no one there When I reached out to where Geraldo was I stumbled around And burned myself just slightly

Having stepped into where the fireplace was It had been put out though I definitely haven't lit it I looked for the light switch But it didn't work I knew there was a flashlight somewhere. My hands grazed the walls in furniture, shewing away the soft, prickly, and even sticky bits

of unseen moving creatures in the dark. When I found it, I lit it to find that the place had been overrun with hundreds of thousands of moths lined up on the wall. They flapped their dusty wings in the beam of life, creating little floating particles that shone white in the air. They twitched almost in unison, or maybe not. It was hard to tell.

I must have still been dreaming. I went to my room, but the door didn't open. Behind the door I could hear the rushing water. Haraldo's room was similarly walled. In the bathroom, I found nothing but a toilet with softly flowing water. The sound was soothing until it started to get louder and louder, and the water became red. and viscous.

I shut the door. But where did he go? I kept searching. The kitchen was overrun with small rats that squeaked loudly and gnawed at plastic and paper wrappings, having long ago finished the food inside. I hesitated to step in there, fearing that the creatures might try to eat me.

The only place I could really go was outside. So I worked up the cune, courage to step out. When I stepped outside, I found it to be incredibly cold. It's like midwinter cold. I clutched at my hoodie and zippered it closed. As cold as it was, there was no wind or any sound, really. The trees were all black, not like black because it was dark or winter, no, black bark with bare branches. The moths were gathered on the trees, opening and closing their wings, coloring some of them white or gray.

I squatted, having stepped on something fleshy. It was adult Geraldo's head, fully cleanly decapitated, right along that red mark on his neck, and his mouth opened to let out a cringe-inducing scream. Now I know I really woke up, because the weak light from the lamp was on, and the fireplace was definitely unymed.

I was alone in the cabin. I looked for my uncle again. The place was empty, though not full of moths, rats, and noises. I looked out to see the moon was barely out. It was a sliver, like the rim of a soda can. I called out to him. No answer. I put on my boots, took my flashlight, and started to trek outside and see what I could find.

There was nothing out here. I found a mass of bugs around a dead owl, first one, then two, then several. Other birds were littering the floor too. Was this a normal thing? Maybe this just happened in the forest, I don't know. When I saw the pile of bats on the ground, my concern grew. I thought I heard an excess of chirping and cricket noises and decided to go back inside. It was still dark, and there was a sign of him.

I had ventured into a perimeter of what must have been a few minutes away. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I felt weak and dizzy coming back. It must have been almost dawn because the complete blackness was giving way to a weak blur of light. As I approached the cabin, trying to enter again, I smelled something burning, something earthy yet sweet. like some aromatic herbs. There wasn't any mist earlier, but now the air was filling and darkening with the smoke of burning little stacks of herbs,

possibly sage, that were sitting in front of the house. The smoke continued, and I grew wary and panicked. I saw four figures in the smoke in the headlights of a white work fan going from glowing yellow to off. The four were chanting,

something I couldn't understand. I turned off the flashlight and approached slowly. They were blocking the entrance. It took a lot to propel me towards them, to fight the fear, nipping at my neck and legs, raising my hair, telling me to run. The figures were slowly swaying, more sensors enchanting, drawing sigils on the cabin wall, an eye, a match with a criss-cross design over it, and one of the overlapping circles. I didn't know what to think of this. What did they want with my uncle? Were they with my uncle? I cautiously drew closer. They wore antlered headdresses. Some had feathers in places. Some wore patchworks of animal skins. And they looked like what a kid's movie costume director would call a native shaman. I was spotted when I heard a familiar voice

call out to me among them. It was my grandparents, Geraldo's parents, and a few of my uncles and aunts, his siblings. There were more than four now. They must have crammed into the van. They looked at me sheepishly. It was just light enough now to see them clearer. I demanded an explanation. My grandparents looked down for a while. They were religious and this weird shaman act was not like them. Then they began to explain. They told me of the mysterious circumstances of Geraldo's birth, how he was not their real son. He was adopted, the son of one of the parishioners, a young woman who killed herself shortly after his birth, complaining of demonic possession and begging the church to exercise her and her baby.

When she died, my grandparents felt compelled to take the child in, to shelter him, literally, from the demons that supposedly possessed his mother. When I asked how she died, they said they didn't remember what they think it was by her hand somehow. They don't remember her name or what she looked like. If not for Geraldo's very existence and the logical conclusion that he had to have had a mother,

it would be impossible to remember her at all. They only had these threadbare memories of her that clung on. That still doesn't explain, all of this, I said, the cabin, the chance, the burning sage? That was also explained to me that they kept Geraldo in a pious, religious-filled life to keep him safe from the devil within him. Still, their control was fading, and it was slowly making its way to the surface that it was invading their dreams, that it was compelling them to tell it their secrets, that it was growing stronger. That's why Geraldo did what he did.

He thought that if he died, he could keep it from coming back. But that didn't work. Now, time was running out. Today was the fall equinox, September 23rd, and in the morning it was the time when nighttime overtook daytime and duration. It was a significant date in many cultures and religions, or so they hoped since their faith was failing them. Maybe this, the faith of their forefathers would help keep it at bay.

The sigils in smoke might keep the demon in the cabin. Well, wouldn't he need to be in there for that to work, I said. I came out to try and find him. He's disappeared. Everyone looked around, scared and shocked. They had assumed that he was in there, still in the wheelchair. The morning that was approaching seemed to stop. It was darker.

I could see a burning image of those black trees and moths flickering on the full foliage. The gathered group of my relatives huddled together and invited me to come in among them. They started praying, making the sign of the cross, chanting in an indigenous language, a desperate cacophony that echoed in the pre-dawn forest. That call was answered. In a deafening explosion, in the wind, that blew away the burning incense, lighting some of the drier pieces of foliage around and part of the cabin. We huddled and panicked as a roar bellowed from the forest. Half a man's yell,

half the cry of an injured beast, like a bull or a bear calling out. It was wearing Geraldo, like those character actors in Disneyland. From the red markings on his neck, you could see red skin and black eyes peering out. Hooves replaced his feet. The fire was spreading around and threatened to burn down the cabin, throwing smoke into ash into the air. Eminating from Geraldo, loud and terribly deep with trembling base, was a laugh that shook my innards. The creature, the thing that wore my uncle's skin, came for us. The chance developed into screams as it ripped flesh from bone without any effort at all. It tore into my grandparents' bellies and pulled out the entrails, everyone screaming as the blood-covered flecks rained

atop everyone. I felt sick. The people scattered, and Geraldo mercilessly ran them down, shoving my older aunts and uncles. Then they were in their 50s and 60s. They were mostly retired, church-going meek people, and they barely put up a fight as he ripped limbs and slammed a gray-haired woman onto a tree. I ran to the van they'd driven up here, one of those contractor's vans with a ladder strapped to the side. I had a moment of lucidity. I remembered the little boy in the dream.

It wasn't the equinox yet. If it wasn't morning, maybe something of him was still in there. So I tore at the straps, nearly slicing my fingers in the prize. but I got the ladder loose and stood under it. Geraldo was tearing the ribs out of my uncle as I called out to him. I saw the creature's eyes lust for my flesh. He dove at me. He couldn't get at me.

I saw the pain in Geraldo's eyes. Walking under a ladder's bad luck, I screamed at him. I was digging in my pockets. I had a few coins and threw them on the ground. Find a penny, pick it up, all day long, you will have good luck. The creature, Geraldo, was distracted, desperately trying to find the coins on the ground. I shuffled with the ladder to the van's rearview mirror and tore it off. Then I cracked it, mirror-side down on Geraldo's head.

He collapsed in a heap, and I shoved the broken mirror into his face. Seven years of bad luck, I said, then dragged the ladder over him. He was writhing. The mental anguish of what I was doing brought me back to the bullying I did to him when I was younger. I said a silent apology, then looked in the back of the van. I found a heavy, large-sized wrench, and with a blank mind, I started to beat the life out of my uncle. He looked terrified as I did it. I didn't stop until he stopped moving, and the body started to dissolve into a bubbly mess. The demon or spirit or whatever had been in him must have disappeared once he

past. I wondered if he forgave me. Eventually, I managed to find a cell phone that worked among the dead. The cops weren't helpful, of course. They documented the bodies and took my statement. I sat in a small room with my hands cuffed to the table for what felt like an entire day as they picked apart everything I told them. My story made no sense to them. There was no other person at the cabin. The injuries were all seemingly done by a bear or maybe a mountain lion, and they just wanted me to tell them what animal I might have seen that did this, not some ghost story about devils. It wasn't an animal. He tore apart my family members. Who is this him I keep referring to? I won't learn this until after I am let go,

after I learn that I can't be charged with anything because there's no evidence. I learn that there is no Geraldo anymore. It's like he never existed. He has no social security, birth certificate, or family photos. They even went so far as to expunge as freshly made MySpace account. Even the text message chain between me and my mom about coming here was just a garbled threat of nonsense. The only sign of his existence is my memories.

It has been 20 years, and I still have nightmares. Every time summer dies down, as autumn officially appears, and the night increases to meet the day and duration, I can hear his screaming. I can see the look of dread as he died, as I answered his cry for help. Creepy Presents. Just an idle walk, written by known of consequence, and narrated by J.V. Hempton Van Sant.

Right out of college, I landed a nice job with a securities company doing IT work. Their main office is downtown, and with the large salary they were starting me out with, I was able to afford an apartment nearby. Even a studio in this area costs a pretty penny, and I managed to score a two-bed, two-bath without a co-signer. Back in 2020, for obvious reasons, my job became 100% remote. I turned the spare room into an office and worked from home in absolute comfort. Even though things have gotten moderately back to normal in society, work decided to keep not only my position, but the majority of the company working from home. From what little I was told, they downsize the main office to a third of its original size. I'm not going to complain. They increased my salary to accommodate my in-home workspace,

and sent over all brand-new equipment comparable to what I used to have in the office. Now I don't have to deal with idle chit-chat with coworkers. I always struggled to remember their names anyway. Being cooped up inside all day started taking its toll back in the pandemic. I did a lot to flood my office with things from the outside world. desperately trying to make it seem like I was anywhere but home. It worked for a time, but with the world taking down all the pandemic barriers, I don't have to stay inside.

I may have focused on my mental welfare, but I accidentally let my physical health deteriorate. Unfortunately, things in the securities world have got gotten insanely bad. Hackers are an issue now more than ever, and even though people are on the streets again, I am stuck inside. I've been having to update entire security firewalls in dozens of companies across the country. I've personally tracked down eight hacker firms in the U.S. and sent the feds after them. Working 80-hour work weeks the last two years has done a number on me.

I'm so pale from lack of sun exposure that my vitamin D levels are dangerously low. I've also been having trouble sleeping, and I'm in a foul mood all of the time. There's other stuff too, but I'm irritated just thinking about it. Basically, my body is falling apart. I went to my doctor for a yearly checkup yesterday, and she is none too happy with me. She says I've lost weight, my cholesterol is a little on the high side. I'm pre-diabetic, in desperate need of exercise, and a bunch of other things. Dr. Logan says I need to make some drastic change.

or I'm going to prematurely die of old age. That's not an exaggeration. She's dead-ass serious. You need to ask yourself. What are you willing to do to regain your health? I tell her I'll do anything she tells me to do. Dying of old age in my 20s is a shit way to go. She wants me to start by going for a walk tomorrow.

Not only will the exercise do me good, but the fresh air will too. Considering I live deep in the heart of downtown, I question how fresh the air can be. After pulling another 12-hour shift at my computer, I stand up and stretch out my tired muscles and joints. The amount of popping I hear coming from my 26-year-old body is very bad. Disturbing. However, it's nothing compared to the groaning noises I make. That sounds like it should be coming from the mouth of a 40-year-old. Prematurely aging really fucking sucks. The clock reads 5.33 p.m. But there isn't much light coming in from around the curtains. It figures the first time I willingly go outside is on a day.

when the sun isn't out. A quick check of the weather shows that it's not going to rain, but there are strong winds and complete cloud coverage. With the weight loss and borderline anemia, I get chilly easily. I put on some jeans, sneakers, and a flannel shirt that's a size or two too big. Dread floods me at the prospect of going outside.

but I push past it. Doctor's orders, after all. As soon as I step foot outside, the wind catches me and a chill runs up my spine. The cloud coverage is absolute. And even though the weather said no rain, the clouds are an angry gray. The stupid weather forecast is wrong half the time.

That's why I grab my umbrella just in case. It's one of those sturdy ones that looks and feels like a cane. My health isn't so bad that I need a cane, but after walking for a while, I'll end up using it as one. If she were here with me, I'm sure Dr. Logan would tell me to walk against the wind because it will be good exercise. I decide to move with it because the damn wind is threatening to knock me over, and I just got out here.

I wouldn't be able to make it a block before giving up. The wind pushes me down the street, and I have to put my free hand on a lamp post when I get to the intersection. If the wind had its way, I'd go right into traffic, but I can't dodge a wrench, let alone traffic, so I stop. Most other people on the sidewalk don't seem to be having as much trouble as I am. When the crossing light turns, I rush across the street. Pretty much as soon as I plant a foot on the other sidewalk, the wind changes direction and pushes me down the street I just crossed. Thankfully, that's the way I wanted to go. There's a nice deli down that way.

and I'd rather have dinner there than try to make something at home. The wind, however, has other ideas. I'm about to reach for the handle on the deli's door, but another strong gust kicks in, pushing me further down the street. This is getting ridiculous. I haven't felt winds like this since the last hurricane. Then again, I... I had no reason to go outside at that time.

There are so many delivery apps, I can get virtually anything I need delivered nowadays. I let the wind continue to push me about. Sometimes I go right across an intersection. Other times I'm forced to change direction. This goes on for a while, and the entire time I'm shivering. My umbrella helps me stay vertical when I need it, and it makes me sad how often it's necessary.

I huddle inside my oversized flannel, unwilling to uncover a single part of my body that's covered. After a while, I get curious how long I've been letting the wind push me around. Poking my left hand out of the sleeve, my watch. says it's been over an hour. I lost track of how many blocks I've gone, and my legs are getting damn tired. Barely managing to make it into the bar's doorway, I pull out my phone. The Maps app says I'm nearly two miles from home, and that surprises me. There isn't a chance in hell. I don't be able to walk back home. I decided to pull up a ride-share app and order a car to take me home. Once again, the wind has other ideas. The coldest wind I've felt yet swirls into the doorway,

knocking me against the wall. My phone slips out of my frozen fingers and bounces down the three steps into the sidewalk. I watch as the wind hits it and sends the expensive rectangle further down the street. This is just what I fucking needed. Bracing myself, I leave the doorway and try to retrieve my phone. I can understand papers and trash being blown down the street, even a soda can or water bottle. How in the hell is my phone being swept down the sidewalk by the wind? It's not like smartphones are light enough for that. I just hope the protective case will prevent the screen from cracking. I make it down half a block before catching up with my phone.

Getting down on one knee, I scoop it up, but don't get a chance to use it. Another strong gust pushes on me, but this time it doesn't carry me further down the street. An alley mouth that I was unaware was behind me is where I find myself. The subpar lighting of the dying day fades as the ten-foot space between buildings surrounds me. The stench of garbage and urine invades my nostrils as the wind finally stops pushing on me. I can hear it rushing past the alley mouth, so loud you'd think there was a tornado out there. I stopped shivering enough to pull up the Rideshare app on my phone. As it tries to connect to the server, the sound of hinges, in desperate need of oil, assaults my ears from behind. I whirl around,

startled by the sound. I'm expecting to see a restaurant employee with a bag of trash coming out, but that's not the case. The guy has to be over six feet tall. I'm assuming it's a guy because, from head to toe, he's covered by a black hooded cloak. What little of the doorway I can see past him is shrouded in darkness. From the shadow of his hood, I can see two eyes catching what little light there is in the alley. They glow at me, and my breath catches in my throat. When Dr. Logan suggested I go for a walk, I don't think she took into account the amount of missing people in the city. I don't pay as much attention to the news as I should.

but I do know that the disappearances are on the rise. Looking at this guy and his glowing eyes that look to be orange, I have every intention of ordering myself a can of mace or pepper spray when I get back to my apartment. Other than his imposing size and those glowing orange eyes, the man isn't doing anything to frighten me. I'm frozen to the spot, but it has nothing to do with the cold. With as tired as I am, he could be on me in seconds, and there's nothing I could do to stop him.

I doubt I could swing my umbrella hard enough to deter him if he means to do me harm. We stand like that for what's, seems like a long time. Finally, he moves, but it's not in a way that I expect. He steps to the side of the open door and lifts his glove hands in a right-this-way gesture. I don't get it. Was he waiting for someone specific to come along, or does he do this to all the strangers pushed here by the wind? When I don't move, a deep voice comes out. If you'd kindly come this way, we may begin.

I look around to see if there's someone else here that I failed to notice. When I find no one, I point to myself and ask if he's talking to me. Yes, you are expected. Okay, I've seen enough movies to know this can't lead to anything good. I take a step backward, but the wind decides to kick in again, propelling me to him. The others are waiting. Gripping my umbrella with both hands, I reluctantly go through the door.

At the very least, I can. get out of this damn wind. Hopefully this is one of those back-alley bars I've heard are gaining popularity. Speak-easies are coming back in a big way despite there being no prohibition. Though that doesn't explain the part about people waiting on me. The space I step into is as dark as it looked from the outside. The doorman steps in and closes the door behind him. It gives a loud metal clank as it closes, and he slides a heavy deadbolt across it.

That metal bar is as thick as my thigh, and I have no hope of opening it myself, even if he wasn't standing in the way. dim light begins to fill the space, an eerie red that seems more appropriate for developing old film than lighting an entryway. It allows me to see the stairs in front of me, leading the way down. The walls appear to be a light color, but the handrail on either side looks black. reluctantly, I slowly start descending the stairs. After eight steps, I find myself moving into a fog of sorts. It's thick enough that I can't see the steps at my feet, and I start getting the feeling like I'm leaving reality behind.

This feels less like a speakeasy and more like a dungeon. Once I'm completely immersed in the fog, I reach the bottom of the stairs and start moving on a flat surface. The red lighting is brighter here, and I find a long hallway stretching on before me. It's lined with doors on both sides, and as I approach the first, I start hearing things. The sounds are muffled and hard to identify. Could that be moaning? Is someone tied up and getting tortured with a gag in their mouth? Did I wander into one of those damn torture dungeons I've seen in horror movies?

Why the hell did I allow myself to be bullied into coming here? My mind races with possibilities as my inner voice berates me. I reach out a shaking hand for the first door's knob, but a gloved hand beats me to it. This is not the door for you. I hadn't realized the cloaked figure was still behind me. I ask what's behind the door, and what the sound is. but the deep voice only says, Pleasure beyond your understanding.

Yeah, that definitely sounds like a torture dungeon. Here's hoping it's a sex thing and not a murder thing. I don't have the stomach for that stuff either way. When it comes to sex, I'm very straight-laced. We walk further down the hall. Every door is closed and more odd sounds come through. At one point, I swear I hear a whip followed by a voice begging. Did it say, more please, or no more please?

I can't tell and don't linger long enough to find out. I start muttering to a deity I don't believe, in for this to not be how I die when I reach the end of the hall. There isn't another door, but a black curtain. The cloaked figure reaches over me and draws it aside, silently encouraging me forward. A dozen or so people stand in the room beyond. There are wall sconces with torches lit, but the flames and light they give off are an unnatural red. It's the same shade that dominated this place since I stepped foot inside. Flames don't give off that kind of color, and I wonder what kind of fuel they're burning for the effect. The people all turn to look

as I enter the room. Their clothes are black and shining. like leather or vinyl. It's all skin-tight and showing a lot of flesh, but these aren't the kind of people who can pull off the look. Some of them are old and wrinkly with stringy, oily hair that desperately needs to be cut. Others are overweight and spilling out of their clothes. Please, please, don't let this be a sex thing.

I doubt I could stomach that. As I take a tentative step closer, they begin to part in the middle. I really don't want to, but they keep making way for me, so I keep going. Once the ones farthest from me start moving, I see something beyond them. There's a five-foot-long table with a black cloth draped over it. Candles and various items of occult paraphernalia litter one side. But other than the candles, I can only identify one thing. On a stand is a double-sided dagger.

I used to watch a show about witches back in the day. And I know this dagger is called an athemae. It's a ceremonial knife used in blood sacrifices and other archaic rituals. Since these people were waiting for me, and I'm the only one not dressed up like an extra for a Marilyn Manson video, I get the feeling I know why I'm here. My eyes were immediately drawn to the altar, so I completely missed that there's a person on the other side of it. It's another cloaked figure, but not nearly as tall as the doorman.

Whoever it is had been facing the back wall, so even if the altar hadn't grabbed my attention, I probably wouldn't have noticed them. The voice that comes from the cloak isn't like the one from the doorman. It's a woman, and she sounds oddly familiar as she greets me by name. This causes me serious concern, but then she opens up the cloak and lets it fall behind her to the floor. The first thing I notice is the clothing. She's wearing black like all the others, but this looks a lot more expensive.

On top of that, she's got a body appropriate for that outfit. Her flat stomach is exposed between the leather pants and the bottom of her corset. I don't know if she really is as well-endowed as the corset makes her look, but her cleavage is plentiful. I never noticed it before because it's usually hidden by a button-up shirt and a white lab coat. At least I know why she knows my name. Dr. Logan welcomes me to the gathering. Two others of the group stand at my bed.

back and drape an identical cloak to the one she dropped to the floor over my shoulders. Now that the guest of honor has arrived, we can truly begin. I seriously don't like the sound of that, but I find myself incapable of walking away. Not because the people around me are holding me in place. my feet simply won't listen to my brain telling them to turn the hell around and get out of here. Dr. Logan gestures to a trio of people to her right, and two leather-clad individuals lead a third to the altar. They remove the robe the young girl is wearing and reveal her naked body to the room.

She's awfully young, probably too young to be naked in a room full of adults. A chant begins to take the crowd around me, starting off low and growing in volume. Dr. Logan starts speaking in what I can only guess to be Latin. The naked girl looks to be in some sort of trance. She walks up a small staircase I hadn't realized was at her side of the altar. Standing before the room, naked as the day she was born, she stares blankly forward. The chanting is picking up speed and volume. Dr. Logan shouts something in that dead language and the room falls silent.

The girl walks to the far end of the altar, turns to face that side, and begins to lower down to the surface. I don't mean she lays down on it. Her body is rigid and stiff as a board, and as if invisible hands hold her, she unnaturally lowers to the altar. I watch as Dr. Logan picks up various items, shakes them over the vacant eyes of the girl, and sprinkles her with some herbs. She picks up the athamay, holds it over the girl's still form, but in a loose grip. She starts talking to me. Take the knife and sacrifice this tainted soul,

before those gathered. Give us her youth and relieve that which ails us. This really wasn't what I had in mind when I told Dr. Logan I'd do anything she told me to for my health. Nevertheless, I take the knife. Looking into the girl's face,

I wonder who she is and how she came to be. be here. Was she willing? Are they forcing her? Is her mind gone on some pleasant dream as her life is about to be taken away? I gripped the knife in both hands, raising them above my head. I am really tired of feeling like I'm 20 years older than I am. Can I really do this? Can I really do this? The knife drives into her chest before I can think about it too hard. It sinks in easier than I would have thought. The girl wakes up from her trance, screaming bloody murder.

The curses that come from that petite mouth are from something far older than she could possibly be. Her once dull eyes are now lit with fire and darkness, the eyes of a demon. I guess this is what she meant by a tainted soul. 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. 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

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