Creepy - Day 1 - A Carnival in the Woods & Videophile

Episode Date: October 1, 2023

Featuring the cast of Creepy as well as a special guest appearance by Peter Lewis***A Carnival in the Woods***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Videophile***Written by: ZugZuwang and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Videophile***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/***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.

Can I take my mask off yet? Why are you even wearing a mask? I thought it was a surprise. Then why are you wearing a hockey mask? To be fair, we've all gotten used to being blindfolded when we have these company retreats. Oh, come on. Name six other examples. Well, just the two times we've gone to camp.

That's what I thought. You can only name two. You aren't even a real fan. Fan of what? John, are you having a stroke? Sorry. Just a close. excited. October's usually such a hectic time a year. But I think I found a way to finally streamline

it all so it isn't pure stress for me from August and November. Are you going to tell us what that is? We're going to a haunted house! Yeah! Wait, why was I the only one to say yeah? Because it's John. What's that supposed to mean? You don't exactly have the best track record of planning things for the group. Whatever. Bet you can't name 11 examples. What's with all the gatekeeping, John? That's not really like you. Sorry, Heather. I'm just feeling a little defensive. I went through a lot of work to get this set up. Not to be the one to rain on the parade before it starts, but how does going to a haunted house make October easier? Glad you organically asked that question, Megan. Not only are we going to a haunted house, but it's also a house that I had completely wired for sound.

I got the idea while touring Paisley Park. What's Paisley Park? Seriously? Paisley Park. Prince. Prince who? Are you kidding me? Prince.

The Prince. The artist formerly known as. His royal badness? The High Priest of Pop? The purple one? Purple Rain? The best Super Bowl halftime show ever? The Charlie Murphy's story where he beats him at basketball,

then makes pancakes. Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's right. Game blows. Anyway, he rigged his home slash recording studio, Paisley Park, for sound, so he could record wherever he was. Oh, I get it.

We're going to take a tour of pastel park and sing songs. What? No. How did you... Never mind. My idea, Owen, was that since we're a horror, Fiction Podcast, we would go to a haunted house to tell our scary stories this October and record them for the listeners.

Question. Recognized. What stories? You haven't given us any stories this year. We can't make up 62 stories from nowhere. Yeah, about that. About that what? Sorry.

I was really hoping we'd arrive right when I said that, so I wouldn't have to explain that. Oh, thank God. Is that it? Yes. There, ladies and gentlemen, is Koshamar Manor. Which means the 31 days of horror officially starts. No. Yes, 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. Listener discretion is advised. All right. Everybody out. Oh, here we go. What are we doing? What are you doing? Why are you still sitting there?

Don't get me wrong, John. I think it's a really cool idea. But this place looks... Condemned? Held together by Tetanus? Like you couldn't think of any other. ideas so you shoehorned us into all this? Stop that right now.

No more filling in each other's sentences. Besides, it's supposed to look that way. It's for the aesthetic. Thank you. Ah! Oh, shit. I'm sorry. You scared the hell out of me.

Where'd you come from? He's been standing there since we got off the bus. He can't be standing more than a foot away from you. Ten inches. It's never done inches. Hey, it's too really. to go blue. Pace yourselves. Anyway, ladies, gentlemen, and Owen,

this is our host for the month, Mr. Coshamar, the owner of Coshamar Manor. Call me Frederick, please. Thank you, Nate. Um, I'm John. Oh, my apologies. Simple mistake to make. Eh, not really.

As you said, Koshamar Manor has been in my family for generation. And until recently, you've been a bit of a black sheep and an often overlooked aspect of my family business. What do you mean until recently? Well, let's just say that a house like this tends to draw a certain dark and foreboding type, looking for a good scare. That is, until things began to escalate. Please come inside as I exposit for you. Originally built in 1886, this house has fallen victim to many, shall we say, unfortunate events.

The first of which started during construction when 11 workers all perished within a one week period. Oh my God. Was there some kind of curse or something? Oh, indeed. Untreated syphilis is a horrible curse. horrible, so painful. Only John would take us to a house haunted by syphilitic ghosts. Siphlytic goats are the worst kind. I'm sorry, exactly. How is this place haunted? Were there murders here or something? Murders? My, no, nothing official at least. However, there have been more than a few borders and renters who have passed away over the years. I'm afraid this is isn't the sort of haunted house you may be familiar with.

No, this house isn't so much with the ghost, as much as it's a repository of sorts. Each room here has its own story. More importantly for our purposes, and I'm sorry to weird-ass property owner explain things, this house has 62 rooms in it. Okay, no way that's true. This place isn't big enough to have sixty-three.

two rooms, unless it's filled with dollhouses and you're counting those rooms? It's a, um, it's not filled with dollhouses. Is it? No, it isn't, is it? Just one, but that's in my room, and I would request you not go in there. Deal. Okay, I think I get what's going on. But you all are all over the map. Are you telling us that this is... Yes, this is the most haunted house in the world.

Then why haven't any of us heard of it? Shouldn't this place be all over the ghost hunting shows? Ghost hunters don't come here. At least not twice. Come on, Danny. I'll just go with it. This is supposed to be fun. That's the spirit, Joe. John.

Exactly. Now, as the leader of this rag-tag bunch, why don't you do the honors and step into the first room? So they may better understand exactly what happens here. My pleasure. John, wait. J.V., I'll be fine. Yeah, I know you will. I just want to make sure you don't do any of that horrible, faking, choking thing or whatever that people do for jump scares. Promise.

I don't get it. But how can there be that many hauntings in one place? And how does that help us tell stories? What you will witness this month aren't exactly hauntings, nor are they possessions. Possessions? I said not exactly. More like the memories of those who have passed through. Some who never left.

Those who spend any prolonged amount of time in our rooms, they suddenly find their mind full. filled with stories that aren't their own, but instead the echoes of past lodgers who left a part of themselves behind, or maybe the house itself just decided to keep those stories. One does not need to be a clairvoyant to feel the stories lurking in the rooms of this house. For reasons beyond my understanding, this house has always served as a lightning rod of sort for those trying to come to terms with the horrors they have seen in an otherwise unseen world. Seemingly beyond their own control, they come here looking for catharsis. They come here

looking for closure. Do they find out? Does anyone ever? All right, well, I'm sold you spooky fucker. What's up first? Your choice. Go to the room you feel drawn to. start with this one. So, do I need to do any sort of ritual or anything? My, no, nothing so theatrical. Just go inside. Then what? You'll see

or feel, I suppose. Everyone else can wait out in the hall with me. Well... Nothing. It's just... John, are you okay? Yeah, no. I'm fine. It's just...

You know, when you suddenly remember something that happened when you were younger, something you haven't thought about for a long time? Sure. It's like that. Except this never happened to me. Do you feel anything else? It's hard to explain.

You know when you drink way too much and kind of have to piece together what happened the night before? Of course. How do you think I keep putting up with you? I like beer. I don't know. I don't understand. It's like I can see something, but not.

What do you see? I see a carnival in the woods. We should have seen the signs. I mean, we did see the signs. We just didn't think anything of them. They were old and tattered and looked like they've been hung up on the trees for years. You could barely even read with them. they said anymore.

If you touch them, they practically crumbled. How is that possible when I know for a fact that they weren't there the day before? It simply read Carnival one night only, which in itself wouldn't have meant much, except for two small notes at the bottom of the flyer. The first had the day's date on it, the day we were standing there in the woods reading the sign. Second, dismissively, we saw a small handwritten note that said, help wanted. There were four of us there that day, two couples, myself and my girlfriend, Laura, and our friends Hal and Polly.

We were just on a hike before going to a local brewery. It was fall, my favorite time of year. The time we hear with that smell and feel that's just, it was always my favorite. I love the crunch of dry leaves underfoot. The weather is starting to turn. Just cool enough to need a hoodie when we started out, but warm once we started walking. Hell was the one to notice the sign. He and Polly were social media fanatics.

Most of their year-long relationship had already been documented on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube. I'm not sure anything significant happened in their lives that they didn't take a picture or video of and posted for their followers. So seeing the sign itself was enough to make him stop so Polly could pose with a mock look of excitement and a caption that read, Let's go to the circus. Never mind that the flyer said it was a carnival. Not that I knew the difference between the two. We milled around for a little while, making jokes and the off-spooky. comment before continuing on down the path.

A few hundred yards later, we saw another sign, just as decrepit, with the same information. Except on that sign was a handwritten message that said, getting closer. Whether we were or weren't, wasn't really on anyone's mind that I could tell. But I'd be lying if I said that there wasn't part of me that kept glancing around, half expecting a clown or something to leap out for some shitty jump scare. But there weren't any jump scares. Nothing suddenly appeared out of nowhere, at least not in the traditional sense. No, we saw it coming.

We saw the tops of the Ferris wheel above the trees. But we weren't scared. Why would we be? It was the middle of the day. We all had cell phones. They all had reception, and we were young enough to be driven by the thrill and the oddity of it. Polly took the lead, almost running to the tree line ahead of us, and stopping short just before she disappeared from sight through a thick grove of trees well off the beaten path.

We stopped where she'd stopped for the same reasons she'd stopped. We stood at the edge of a clearing filled with what I can only think to call the remains of a carnival. If you looked up a picture of an abandoned carnival, that's what you'd see. The Ferris wheel we'd seen over the trees was rusted out. I could hear it creaking gently in the breeze even from the other side of the clearing. Must have been at least 60 or 70 feet tall. It reminded me of that picture of the Ferris wheel in Chernobyl that all those influencers want to take pictures of. In front of the Ferris wheel were all the things you think seem.

at a midway or carnival. There were food stalls, carnival games, even a ticket booths just 20 feet in front of us. The one-person booth had a sign over the front glass that said, one admission per ticket. Next to it was a turnstile, which seemed excessive since there were no fences or walls and we could just walk around it.

I can't speak to what Hal and Polly were thinking, but they switched into performance mode immediately. Polly squealed with excitement as Hal took out his phone to record her running up to the ticket booth and putting a hand on it, kicking up her heel and smiling at the camera. Hal could barely contain his laughter as Polly acted like a little kid, just bouncing around for pictures as if she'd been waiting her entire life to be there. She even reached her arm into the booth, against Laura's protest for fear of rabid animals, only to pull her arm out with a pair of baby blue tickets. She handed one to Hal, who made sure to zoom in on the ticket, before they both bounded into the midway through the turnstile. Laura and I walked around it. The two of us were a bit less excited, but it wasn't anything new.

No one could ever actually match Hal and Polly's level of excitement. At most, we were curious to look around. But only because it was still plenty sunny outside, we had two hours to get to the brewery anyway. It was weird. Not just for the obvious reasons, but also for the fact that it was an entire carnival, nor even close to a road. Hal shrugged it off saying it was probably some holdover from P.T. Barnum or something. Never mind the date on the sign, or the fact that everything, even as broken down as it looked,

was still standing. I didn't see spray paint on anything and nothing really looked any more out of place and what would happen to a carnival being set up and left in the woods for years and years. I wouldn't have gotten on the Ferris wheel for a winning Powerball ticket. But still, it was an okay condition. Hal picked up a rock and chucked it at a set of three bottles set up in one of the game stalls. Missing all three by a wide margin, and Polly laughing at the attempt, must have jabbed at his manhood or something.

Because he sort of glared at her for a second. and something caught his eye and he started grinning like a Cheshire cat. He lifted his phone, focusing on something on the other side of the rose before daring Polly to go inside. The building in question had a sign above it, written in huge, looping red script that said simply freak show. I'd never seen Polly back down from Adair, and she didn't start then. She simply scoffed at Hal and told him to keep up while she went to check out his family reunion

and probably didn't help the lar and I laughed at the comment. There was nothing particularly alarming about the building. It looked like something I'd seen before. Maybe at a circus when I was younger, maybe a movie. The whole place had this creepy vibe that felt familiar. Almost like nostalgia. So, I don't think anyone would be nervous. Just a run-of-the-mill abandoned circus in the middle of the woods

that no one had ever seen or heard of before. Totally normal, right? There were pictures drawn on the side of the building. Character-like images of the classics. The fat woman, the lobster boy, the world's shortest man. I wondered if any circuses or carnivals still did freak shows. Or were they called sideshows? Polly went through the door and walked entrance without prodding and Hal followed closely behind.

Through the doors we found ourselves in the near dark, with only the light from the entrance behind us to illuminate what I guess I'd call a waiting room. The place where people might stand in while waiting for their turn. Lara flat out said she wasn't going to wander through the dark and risk getting tetanus, and I agreed. The two of them could wander around blind on their own. Hal simply flicked on his camera light and started to say problem solved, but couldn't quite finish it before Laura screamed at the man standing in front of us. suddenly lit up by the light.

Hell swore and fumbled his phone. The light flashing all over the room before he caught it and focused on the man again. If you could even call it that, Laura had hidden behind me, but Polly stood completely still as this tiny man in a huge, torn and dusty top hat with a red jacket and tails stared at us. His face was wrinkled and looked like he was 100 years old. He couldn't have been more than about five feet tall if he'd been standing upright, but he wasn't.

His back was curved, almost to the point of being a hump, and his neck twisted in a horrible angle to look up at us. It must have been scoliosis or spina bifida or something, I figured. He spoke before any of us could find words again, saying simply, Thank you for coming. We've been working tirelessly to get the old. show up and running again. I'm afraid we're still a long way off with the rest of our carnival,

but this attraction is almost complete. I do hope you enjoy yourselves. He lifted his head just enough to see us, then tipped his hat, and with what I can only assume with his version of a flourish, extended his arms as if to present us with... What exactly? There wasn't anything there.

At least there hadn't been. Then with that he bowed even lower, his forehead almost touching the ground, before backing up out of the light and disappearing completely. The next few minutes involved statements like, No fucking way. Are you stupid? This is how people die. Connered with questioning my manhood and being called a pussy. None of which mattered as we all realized that the light in the room had changed.

that the door we'd come in wasn't open anymore. More than that, excessive punching and kicking at the wall where it had been showed us real quick that we weren't leaving. No. We still had to see the show. The curtain in front of us. The one the small crooked man stood before started to glow red. There was light coming from behind it.

Hal led the way, phone in front of his face. But his pace seemed more tentative. The phone more like a shield than a camera. The rest of us followed close behind, because where else were we supposed to go? It had to be a gig, right? Some performance art or something? Some YouTube prank channel or TV show that Hal and Polly were in on. Why were they so gung-ho for us to be there?

That had to be it. And for a minute, it made me feel better. Well, maybe not a minute. Didn't take us that long to see the first stall. The world's smallest man. But not. Sitting in a rocking chair, staring at us through watering eyes, was a man.

But not a man like I'd ever seen before. From his toes to his forehead, he couldn't have been more than three feet. My brain just couldn't process what I was seeing. At first, I thought it was someone who'd been born without arms and legs, but he had hands and feet. He looked like a normal man. No dwarfism or anything like that. But then I saw the stitches.

The chair squeaked slowly as it rocked back and forth from a small rotating mechanism attached to it. The way he was sitting or maybe standing made it hard to see at first. There were lines of stitches that crossed. crotch level. It didn't make sense, but somehow I knew his legs had been removed. His feet cut off and re-sown near his groin. His arms, relaxed thereof, were just hands, sewn onto his shoulders. The skin on his hands and feet was dark. I think it was starting to rot. It wasn't black, and I think I saw the fingers and toes wiggle.

But I didn't have much time to look before the light turned off again. And a light further down the hall turned on. We all moved forward. None of us speaking. Unable to comprehend it at all. I think I remember Polly forcing out a laugh. Trying to convince herself it was a joke. It had to be a joke.

It had to be. Right? The fat woman. There was a time when a morbidly obese woman might have been considered a side show act. Now we have TV shows about people who weigh twice as much as those acts ever did. But this. The stall was twice the size of the previous one. In the middle of it was a woman, I think.

I guess I couldn't really tell. It's just what it said behind her in tell red letters. To say she was overweight would have been an understatement. Even calling her fat wouldn't cover it. I'd never seen anything like it. Cable TV or not. She must have been wider than I was tall. If she was wearing clothing, it had been swallowed up by the folds a long time ago.

Most of all, it was what hung above her head. It looked kind of like a beer bomb if it was made out of a five-gallon jug and garden hose. Something dark filled the container. The hose ran down a few feet straight into her mouth. Not so much like a hamster water bottle sitting close to her lips, but actually into her mouth, down her throat. She couldn't fully close her mouth around the tube. There was a small chime and the woman's eyes went wide for a moment.

As we saw the dark liquid slowly ooze down the hose into her mouth. She was so big she couldn't move beyond a slight shaking of her head. Before her eyes rolled up and the last. lights turned off again. There was no more light, just silence. No sound seemed worth uttering for a long time. Hal was still holding his phone up, suddenly commenting at how amazing the display was,

that it was Hollywood Special Effects level. I found myself agreeing, because it was easier to believe. Or maybe not easier, but maybe I just had to think that the next light turned on

and we shuffled our feet to see the conjoined twins whoever came up with these names was sick the titles displayed over them didn't even come close to accurately describing the displays I like to think that I have a pretty high tolerance

for scary stuff haunted houses all that but this being alone in the dark in a place that felt impossible. I felt like I was going crazy. The twins, as it were, looked to be two different people. Jesus, I don't even know how to describe it.

They look like they've been fused together, like some science fiction experiment gone wrong. The body of one sort of passing through the other. Imagine a person standing up, bright, even though they weren't, but it'll help me explain. One man stands up and another man runs at him as fast as he can and tries to dive through the first man's belly button, but halfway gets stuck. Half of him coming out with the man's back and the other half dangling from his stomach.

They were propped up on an inclined table. I don't think either of them could stand on their own. My skin was ashen. the legs of I'm just going to refer to them as Stander and Jumper Well, Jumpers' legs dangled from Stander's stomach

But they're almost purple Worse than the hands of the shortest man They hung limply The top half a jumper they twisted to face us His eyes open But he looked dead Stander just stared at at us, blinking slowly, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

Just before the lights turned off again, I swear I saw Jumper's eyes blink. For a second, I thought Polly was screaming, but she was squealing. She started talking about how they were going to go viral. They'd be the first ones posting about it. They'd be famous. She even called out into the darkness to tell whoever she thought was listening to us that she was going to make them famous. The only response was another light turning on.

And so I went. I'll spare the greater details because honestly I'm sick with thinking about them, let alone trying to go into depths describing them. The lobster boy. A man with split arms. I think it's called bifurcated from the webbing between his middle and ring finger all the way down to his elbow. So his forearm flopped open like a limp lobster claw

Sitting in a kitty pool of water Chains on his ankles The three-legged woman Two legs dark-skinned One hanging out from between her skirt white Arms tied to a crossbeam With her legs just far enough off the ground That a gentle rocking back and forth

Cause the legs to dance in a horrible dangling twitch The Fiji Mermaid A man sewed what looked like the tail of a giant carp. He had a rope tied around his waist, submerged in a water tank. The rope pulled up and down, creating a sort of swimming motion for the figure. Couldn't be real. But it was the best dummy I'd ever seen. The eyes looked clouded with cataracts.

Through it all, I'd all but forgotten about Laura. More than until my shoulders served her that I realized that she'd realized that she'd been hanging off of it for, I don't know how long. Her body hung to it like a koal on a tree. She was shaking. I tried to pat her hand to reassure her, but she leaned close to my ear and whispered that she wanted to leave. As if on cue another light turned on.

But it wasn't to a display. There was a red glow to our left. A small sign that buzzed with the words, Way out. I don't remember if Hal and Polly said anything. I'd turn to reassure Laura and myself that it was over. And when I turned back, they were already pushing at the door under the sign. The two of them had to lean against the bar, bumping their shoulder into it for the door to give.

And when it did, they fell inside. I only got a brief glimpse, but it wasn't the door to the outside. The room looked tiled, white. sterile. There was a gleam of metal for just a second. It looked like what I'd think of as an operating room. Whatever Hal and Polly saw in there made their eyes go wide, and I swear Polly was just about to scream

when the door slammed shut. I ran to the door, dragging Laura with me, pounding on it, throwing my body against it, trying to get it to open. But it was like hitting a brick wall. Laura was one who noticed the light first, pulling me away from the door to look back the way we came. Sunlight.

Freedom. Like fresh air to a drowning victim, we ran to it, bursting into the midway again. Laura was crying, but stayed together long enough to call the police. I ran around the building a half dozen times trying to find another way in. At first, thinking I'd run into hell, laughing his ass, off or whatever joke he played. But we never saw them again.

We were questioned for hours. The police had to break a wall down to get inside the sideshow. They saw what we saw. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a dream. It didn't disappear, leaving the police to stare at us incredulously thinking we were insane. They knew we weren't insane. insane was what they found

what we'd seen but they never found Hal and Polly Laura and I didn't last long after that we don't keep in touch but I hope she's found some way to get over what happened I know I haven't I still go out to the woods sometimes

hoping that I'll find them the carnival as it was got sectioned off but because of the isolation of the area, there wasn't much they could do with breaking it all down and hauling it away, so they left it there. Police watched it for a while, but eventually just turned into a place for the rookie cops. They have a patrol once a month or so.

So getting back there was never a problem. I wish it had been. If they'd made it harder to get there, I never would have gone back. I never would have found a new flyer nailed to a tree. Fresh and white, I could just come off a printer. It read, Carnival Under Construction. Please come back soon to see our newest featured act.

The amazing two-headed man. What the hell was that? That's not what she said it'd be like? I do apologize. The feeling is a bit hard to convey into words, don't you agree? I didn't know I was actually going to feel like it all happened to me. Are you okay, John? Yeah.

Yeah, I think so. We're all gonna die! How does it move so fast? It's the legs. Why are there so many legs? Kind of like waking up from a dream. I only remember parts of it. And you needn't worry, all of the rooms have been wired,

per your exceedingly strange request. There aren't any issues recording in here, right? I can't speak to that, as you are the first with this particular request. There may be the occasional hiccup here and there, but I'm sure it won't be anything you can't handle. So, let me get this straight. We're going to spend a month in this house, wandering around the rooms,

letting memories that aren't ours seep into our minds and tell those stories for the 31 days of horror? Yeah. You all cool with that? Fuck, yeah. Cool. Who's next? Oh, me.

I do love your enthusiasm. By all means, pick a room. Well? You're right. This is weird. It's like it happened to me. Except, that's not me. What do you mean?

It's about a... video file. The round red button starts at all. A lens, an all-seeing eye. A flashlight blinks as the display shows the souls of the innocent, the guilty, and the deceptive. One can see all the little movements, the subtle muscle impressions made by the face that we don't always see. The tiniest hint of discomfort, joy, or perplexion. One is omniscient behind the eye of the lens, always watching, hidden in plain sight.

The hilarity and ironic value of these facts is realized when the wider perspective is shown. Once you zoom the camera out, so to speak, for when you do, you will see more than the video camera situated on a tripod. You'll see me. If I were to tell someone about what I'm actually doing behind my camera, they'd likely call me a warrior, some sort of deviant. I would be a little more than a fiend to them. But they'd be terribly, terribly wrong. The ignorance of such words is funny, because a single glimpse into what I see would be more than enough to quell the comments.

The irony presents itself in that one might expect those who like to spy, to pry and peep, to invade privacy and to learn more about people than they know about themselves, to be in prison, or at least to be in the darkest depths of society, where they cannot act out these fantasies as brazenly. But again, they'd be so utterly wrong. I get paid for it. Even more bizarrely, people trust me in public settings. So I would implore one to truly assess the situation with me.

Here I am. My little blinking light documenting everything that goes on. I've been allowed in this place, hired even. It's wondrous how easy infiltration is. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. The newlywets are currently on the dance floor, drunk and disorderly. The ceremony was rather interesting. I videoed that too.

Drinking in each and every little expression they made, as soon as they said their vows. My zoom captures so much of it. It's utterly fascinating. Every blemish was in full focus, as I slowly zoomed in words, to rest on Mrs. Anderson's face. Outside of the camera, she's a woman in her prime, 25 and earning five figures. Truly, a role model.

I saw the wincing she made as the vows were recited in front of her. I saw as she slipped the ring on, how her fingers shook. Underneath it all, she's arrested and worn has been. A soul of an old maid inhabits her youthful body. And Mr. Anderson, the personal trainer. I saw that twinkling smile as they were pronounced husband and wife. The one he likely wears when he hits her, too. I know he's a sadist.

Takes one to no one. That chiseled, brown-haired man is a facade. A caricature of masculinity threatening to crumble. They show their true colors to me, persistently, and I intend to capture it all. They're doing it now, as they celebrate their marriage to the tune of losing my religion on the dance floor. My lens is trained on them. The subtle discomfort when he touches her waist. That desire to peel away.

He wishes she was more drunk. Maybe then she'd make him excited. I pan away for a few moments, surveying the guests at their tables, analyzing their movements, their gestures making for interesting pieces of this puzzle. Sarah, the sister, sits to my left, arms expressing a story she's recounting. I can zoom towards her made-up face, watching the intricacies of the laugh lines upon her face move. It's focused with her in frame now. and separate from the other hubbub in the room.

I watch her lips hearing the sounds when I really concentrate on her. She's talking about a childhood story. Her and Mrs. Shirley Anderson had an altercation, some sort of comedic value involved when the former fell over while arguing as children. The words don't matter, though. Not as much as her face. The twitches she mentions her sister's name. Small, tiny lip movements when accepting compliments about her sister's husband.

She knows quite a lot. Next, the blinking recording device shifts to the table to the right. Where Mrs. Anderson's close friends are all situated. Settling on one particular. A lean man. Mousy-haired, mild-mannered and polite as he should. shares a joke with his peers. As I zoom, I notice his eyes fitting to the newlywads on occasion,

struggling to engage with his fellow friends as his focus has drawn elsewhere. Marcus is his name. His words are caught by my ears as I watched his lips with intense interest as he talks once more. Something about the Andersons being drunk. That he'd like to go for another. the drink soon, that perhaps he might dance soon. It seems the idea of being up on the dance floor makes him happy. His expression seems to soften as he moves his gaze once more, aimed at the dance floor, towards the new Mrs. Anderson, and that fleeting hint of apprehension

as his eyes move from the bride to the groom. I know quite a lot now. Of course they're none the wiser. I'm just here to document their event. At long last, the party is over. I begin to pack my things away, ready to head home, alone in the room, but for one. He comes up to me, the groom. Paul Anderson in his navy suit, red tie and brown shoes. Even without the lens, I can see his grandiosity,

is but an illusion. You did just as I asked. Well done for not getting in the way too much. I nod and smile, replying as I continue to put my things away. No problem. I'm just an observer. That's all right.

The man returns with a jovial smile and heads out of the room, tapping of his feet audible as he goes. I wasn't lying. I'm simply just an observer. My laptop displays the contents of the video, ready for editing, displayed in full. I watch intently at the screen, eyes fixated on each and every change in expression, reveling on the documentation that I have of each interaction. I play back the scenes like a movie, stitching together my narrative. I've created a fall from grace,

the ceremony with the snapshots of the couple, all the smiles and the fragility they both bring. Next, the meal. Morsel swallowed down as small mouthfuls. Mrs. Anderson's apprehensiveness to eat in full view. Her husband looking little too, intently at her as she swallows just for a second. And of course, the dance.

The dance is the best part yet. The trailing of his hands up her body as they dance to the rhythm. Her face full of telltale reluctance and tolerance. That's what she is, really, a woman of tolerance. The music just masks it all in a shroud of celebration. Eyes locked as she tries to break away, his arm, keeping her firmly in place. Now, why do I care so much about people I hardly know? Their plaint, you see, is the most interesting part. The fascination lies in their unspoken language. The words they share with no sounds.

I know so much about them through my third eye, and they hired me, so I must finish their story. The last part is yet to be completed. The fall from Serenity to Boiling Point is there, but their ending has been untold. I don't usually break my own rules, but the Andersons have really enthralled me today. And so I switched tabs to my camera feed monitor. A small sigh escapes my lips. They're sleeping so soundly. Not a single peep.

Naturally. They're not embracing. But it's serene sleep nonetheless. I switch them off as I leave. My long coat following me as I go. This ending requires more than just watching, you see. A more personal touch is required. Strolling through the darkness is where I enjoy life.

The cold air on my face as I trudge along the hard sidewalks of the sleeping city. I cast my mind back to the pre-wedding meeting. Miss Shirley Roberts, as she'd been known before Paul became her husband, sat in front of me in their nice, tidy lounge. Discussing the details of their celebration. what I'd need to bring, pricing and such. I'd had the measure of them before they'd even started talking. The touching and locking eyes were too performative,

as if both were trying to fool one another. Their story was begging to be told, and here I am. Once again, at the abode they allowed me into. Both knowingly and unknowingly. I creep into the backyard, duplicate house key in my left hand, and the other key in my right. Advancing up the stairs is a slow process. Every sound I make risks waking up the two slumbering protagonists in my narrative. I make my way ascending with careful footing.

I hear soft breathing as I near the top, a mumble and a shift in position. Good. They're still asleep. I'm inside the room now. Inches away from my muses. My hand is shaking a little as I placed the folder in my right hand in between the two sleeping subjects. I switch my eyes and ears in their house on before I retire to bed, the anticipation of what's to come making sleep difficult. Whoever wakes first will finish my story. I am not disappointed. Not at all. I'm an utter, unadulterated wonder. The camera feed displays blood-soaked sheets sprawled on the floor, fresh from a morning

struggle. Two equally disorganized bodies lie parallel to each. other with a blade by Shirley's hand. Cadavers leaking the very same fluid the bed is coated with, and just to their left lies an open folder, a picture of a slight, mousy-haired man, and a note scattered not too far from it. I begin to look over the footage from the beginning of the morning, watching the resulting skirmish that the two could not have ever foreseen. The awakening of Paul Anderson, his hands opening my gift, the realization, and of course, the mad rage-induced onslaught with now discarded blade.

I have outdone myself. My predictions were once again correct. I know these people better than they know themselves. I know their thoughts. I finally allow myself a smile. My work is almost done. Now, all that's left is to finish the video. To complete the happiest day of their lives,

my ending couldn't have gone any better. You weren't kidding. This is real. I think I'm going to throw up. Yes, that happens sometimes. Just let it happen. I'm not going to pretend like this isn't really weird, but it seems too normal for you, John. Is there an axe murderer wandering the halls?

Are we forced to stay in our rooms the whole time? What excuse do you give our employers about us being gone? Nate, it's no trick. My favorite time of year. And I get to spend it in a spooky us house with you all. As far as your job, since we have 31 days and 62 stories to come, Obviously, not everyone needs to work every day, which is why I told you bring your computers and whatever you need to work remotely. You can leave whenever you want.

Yeah, but I bet this place doesn't have any Wi-Fi or phone service, right? Not at all. We have 5G Internet. Reddit tells me it does wonderfully horrible things to our minds. So there's really no catch? We did to live in a haunted house for... a month. No, there's no catch. Unless you mean trying to find your way around.

Here we go. Oh, it's not that bad. It's just, I mean, maybe a little bit difficult navigating the floor plan. I do suggest you all pack a snack if you decide to wander around. Survellers haven't had much luck in getting the actual square footage of this house. Even the rooms that you feel you've already been in might not be what you think. You'll be surprised how big this house really is as you spend time in it. It may not look like much from the road, but it's really got an ass on it.

I think I've seen this movie. No, you haven't. Besides, that's why I have these walkie-talkies. We'll set up in the dining room, and if anyone decides they're going to wander off, just make sure you check in and go in Paris. Also, the rooms aren't marked, so when you go to one, please mark the door, so we all know not to go in there again. That good? Makes sense.

Yeah, sure. Yeah. Yeah, sure. Yeah, yeah, okay. So, does that mean you're going to record us interacting and searching the house every single day in October? Oh, God, no. Why would I possibly do that to myself? Just do like Jimmy and I just did.

I'll clean it up all in post and do the intro stuff later. All you need to do is let the story happen. No one really needs to know how we spend our time in a haunted house while our spirits and very sanity start to play tricks on us, do they? Of course not. All that sound cool? Uh-huh. Can't do. Yeah, sounds good.

I must admit, you all seem far more willing to be here than I expected. You kidding? I'd pay for this. You may still. What was that? He said, you may still. but really quiet and to himself like it's an ominous sign of things to come. Oh, cool.

This is going to be an interesting month, isn't it? Sure hope so. Kind of feels like I'm putting a lot more effort into this than I need to. But since all of this is totally happening, it's good to let listeners know up front. And hey, we'll have some behind-the-scenes stuff happen this month. People can see how real and authentic we are. smooth, John. Are you going to be hanging around, Frederick? No, no, I'm sorry, but I do have

other things to attend to. But I'll check in on you from time to time, perhaps on Sundays. Yes, that seems like a normal thing someone would do. Goodbye for now, Nathaniel. Cool, well, we've been over-explaining all this for long enough. Oh, well, my... last thing. By the end of this, one of you is going to be dead. 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 comments share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors.

No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the story's author.