Creepy - Day 1 - The Costume Makes the Man & He Walks Me Backwards

Episode Date: October 1, 2025

The Costume Makes the Man***Written by: Ashley Hill & Adam Wright and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***He Walks Me Backwards***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Guest appearances by: Tanja Milojevic and Adam Peacock***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.

The 31 Days of Horror 2025 starts. Now, this is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened

or simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories made, contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Deepi presents the 31 days of horror. Day one. Morning, everyone.

I know it's early. I appreciate you being here and awake, more or less. Uh-huh, define awake. Their point. Let's keep it simple this morning. Just a check-in. Name, sleep status, and if you're brave enough, how close you are to snapping. Do we not use a scale for that?

Yeah. Like 10 being full breakdown or 10 being, I'm all good, ready to leave here? Hmm, let's say for the sake of today's session, 10 is, I flipped my mattress and set it on fire. One is I'm doing fine, I don't think I need to do any more of these sessions, and I'm totally not lying. Got it. Then I'd say I'm a solid 8.5. Mattress is still intact, but the matches are out. Oh, I'm Jimmy.

Do I really need to share my name? We all know each other. Please humor the process. Michelle, four hours of sleep, maybe. Same dream, same ending. Wake up gasping again. Four hours sounds like a luxury. My name's Nicole. I've got 30 minutes and a phantom dog bite.

Lucky. I didn't even make it to sleep. Just hovered on the edge like my brain was buffering. Oh, my name's Megan. My name is Cole. I had sleep paralysis. Again. Couldn't move. Something was standing in the corner breathing like it had asthma. Oh, good. So it's visiting you now. Tell it I said hi next time.

My name is Owen, and I'm addicted to cheese. Owen, we've gone over this before. This isn't that kind of support group. I still feel like it's something we should revisit at some point. It's a lot of cheese. I'm JV, and I have no. idea when the last time I actually slept was... I'm Rissa, and I barely ever remember my dreams.

I've just been waking up really anxious and unsettled lately. Mine's been just one scene on repeat. Nate, by the way, no variation. Like being locked in a loop with no exit sign, but I was have a hard time remembering what it was when I wake up. Sounds like many of you are dealing with Pattern. recurring dreams, sensations, visitors, even shared elements. Can't wait for the campfire kumbaya moment where we all realize we're psychically linked.

We'll get there. One at a time. If nothing else, you're not alone in this. You're here, together. Now, I don't want this to sound condescending, but does anyone remember why we're all here? Oh, that's easy. John Grills. Now, now, what have I said about assigning blame? A blaming others is just excuse ourselves. That's right.

Now, you are all here because of the stress that has accumulated from your jobs to the point that it has started to interfere with your dreams. Sure feels like it's John's fault. It usually is. It's not really fair to blame someone who can't. be there to defend themselves, don't you think? Sounds like the perfect time. We're the ones in here.

Where the hell is he? Has he even come to visit anyone? Definitely not me. I don't know. Right. I think we need to focus on what we are here for. We can discuss your employment more at one-on-one sessions throughout the week. These group sessions are meant to remind us that we are not alone and that we are in a safe space.

where we can share without fear of judgment. Who wants to start? Anyone feel ready to walk us through one of these dreams? I will. I can't really shake it anyway. Maybe I do need to talk about it. I think it's starting to bleed into the waking part. It starts with something about how the costume makes the man.

Take your time. Start from the moment you step into the dream. This fall I turned 40. I think it's today, in fact. Let me just glance at my phone quickly to verify the date. Yep, today is the big day. In case you weren't picking up on my overwhelming levels of sarcasm, I say big day with as little pep in my voice as humanly possible.

What does one do for such a milestone occasion? My answer? Nothing. However, surprisingly, I have received two gifts already. Okay, one isn't so surprising at all. It's a midlife crisis. But the other truly is. A random package has been left at my doorstep, sender unknown. Rather mysterious, but in my world, this is the only excitement that exists. Worst case scenario, it's a bomb that blows me to bits. Would that really be so bad?

I know one thing's for sure. It's the only sort of birthday blowjob there's any chance of me receiving this year. I must admit, the wrapping paper is quite interesting. It looks like a brown paper bag smeared with bloody handprints. Now that might freak some people out enough to call the cops and turn this box over to their custody. For me, though, it's merely the ultimate clue as to its possible contents. Halloween is right around the corner, and I've been dropping some pretty emphatic hints around my siblings like that. about wanting to go to a Halloween party or something of that nature,

to actually do something fun for a change, to feel young and free again. The rut of adulthood just seems to open up one day unexpectedly and swallow you whole. Sometimes it takes an event as extreme as a midlife crisis to claw your way out and back into the realm of spontaneity and possibility. To escape the middle-aged malaise and experience a return to youthful exuberance, I tear the exotic paper off like a kid on Christmas morning to reveal what's hiding beneath. A plain cardboard box, long and rectangular, now sits between me and my birthday treasure.

I slice through the tape with a pair of scissors and lift the flaps to get a glimpse inside. And what do you know? I'd say my hunch was basically spot on. Underneath all the mystery lies what appears to be a costume. One I will wear this Halloween, whether I find a party to attend, or just sit at home alone watching a marathon of horror films. I guess my not-so-s subtle hints did the trick for me to get my treat. I pull out the contents one piece at a time.

The first is a midnight navy jumpsuit that's tattered and torn and appears old enough to carry the bubonic plague in its fibers. Stains from what must be meant to look like dirt and blood model the garment, and it has a name tag with intricate stitching that reads, grave digger across the left breast. And of course, any grave digger outfit requires the accompaniment of an old, rusty, pointy-headed shovel for moving some serious amounts of earth around. Man, this retro digging tool prop is the real deal.

A credit to my kin for sparing no expense on this gift. The quality is amazing. It even has a realistic layer of crusted on dirt and blood, adding to its legitimacy, making one think it could have actually graced the grounds of many a graveyard in its day. It may sound stupid, but this gift has got my blood pumping. I'd say more than anything has in, well, sadly, years. What does that say about me? Actually, fuck it, who cares what it says about me?

I'm sick of thinking of myself as some limp dick who thinks a thrill is eating a dessert on a weekday. I grabbed the costume again, holding it up so I can take in every magnificent detail. I can practically feel the potential exuding from this costume. I just have to keep myself from squandering the opportunity to make it something unforgettable. I pick up my phone to text my siblings and spread the word that the demonic duds have reached their destination,

but in mid-sentence, something better comes to mind. I quickly delete the thread and place the phone back down on the table. What would be better than a text? Yes, of course, a picture of me in the costume. I can't believe I was just going to send some lame text after the creative concoction they supplied me with. I gather all the contents of the box and head to the bedroom to change.

Amidst all the excitement, there's also an unexplainable feeling that seems to be creeping in on me. It's as if the costume is beckoning for me to put it on. I place all the items onto the bed as I disrobe. Each piece of clothing removed Only makes the urge to place the grotesque get up onto my skin Even stronger

Like an addict getting his fix I feel the euphoria wash over me As I stuff each portion of my aging physique into this outfit It fits like a glove I'm starting to believe they had this bad boy specially made just for me I admire the fit and authenticity As I stare at myself in the mirror Just one thing missing.

Ah, yes, I gripped the shovel in my hand and hold it up menacingly. Suddenly, the urge I was feeling before dissipates, as if an it itch has been scratched. I try out some poses in the mirror, preparing to capture the badass qualities of this costume in a selfie. Finally landing on the perfect one, I snap away. Pleased with the photo, I sent it out in a group chat. As I wait for a response, I can't help but notice an odor that wasn't there before. I put my nose up to one of the large stains on the sleeve of the jumpsuit and inhale determinedly. A strong metallic smell with hints of earth floods my nostrils, and I give way to a cough.

Wow, they really went all out. The smell of this costume is just as realistic as the look of it. My phone begins to go off multiple times, pulling my focus. back to the message I had sent out. I quickly snatch it up, antsy to see their reactions. Their responses inundate me with confusion. All of them sent a comment back, but not one of them was one I had anticipated. They all replied a little something like,

That's incredible. Where'd you find that? Or, wow, how did you find such an original piece? So, if none of them sent me this costume, who the fuck did? Just as Jesus was baptized in the river Jordan and led by the Spirit into the wilderness, I too feel a spiritual power presiding over this costume, calling me to a baptism of my own. The difference being, mine will be an immersion of perversion. Ever since I slipped into this outfit, I felt myself undergoing some sort of radical transformation.

A darkness has gripped my soul that I can't explain. nor deny and the scary part is I don't want to deny it it's as if I live my whole life in order to embrace this specific life-altering event my dark side is awakened now fully alive and well under this spell it's as though I'm finally the complete version of my true self I stand in front of the bathroom mirror staring at the new me the me I've always longed to be. I turn and step toward the bathtub and hover overhead. I wield my shovel as though it were a sword and slash my wrists.

The sharp edge of the shovelhead is my guide and penetrates my skin at just the perfect depth to turn my veins into leaky faucets that begin filling the tub. I drop my shovel and climb in and bathe in the blood. I recede evermore into the darkness until it claims my full consciousness. When I rise from my period of death and rebirth, my wounds are closed, somehow already scabbed into sacred scars. I stand back and go to the mirror. My eyes are pitch black, and all that inhabits me now is pure evil. Immediately, I must head out to my own wilderness,

one that shudders at the very thought of my coming. I go straight to my local graveyard and feel at home in a way like never before. I'm led to a specific grave site in the midst of the cemetery, and once there I begin putting my sidekick to work. I dig six feet deep without a break, without even so much as the slightest pause. I've been endowed with an other-worldly strength and stamina from a realm beyond.

I was born for this task. I am the grave digger. No other version of me exists any longer. In no time flat, I unearth a body that has lain in this soil for centuries. I ripped the skull from the skeleton and hold it high in the air as if it were an offering to the gods. I lower the decayed head over my own, and it fits like a helmet that was personally designed. designed by some underworld tailor. My costume now feels as complete as I do,

since uniting with the force that brood in me like a spot of tea, as black as the night. Now, steeped in utter darkness, it's time to let my inner evil boil over and stain this world red with blood. I'll march all over this wilderness and leave behind a trail of bloody bootprints in my wake, but fear not, all you neat freaks out there.

for I shall bury each corpse that I make exactly where it lies. I stared down at the naive town from the hilltop. The scent of candy and unholy spirits forms an intoxicating aroma, and my veins dance with adrenaline. I take in the scent with one more breath before descending toward the chaos. The devilish date of October 31st has arrived, enhancing the desire to pack the earth with fresh remains. I feel as if I'm in a trance, with nothing but bludgeoned bodies and bloodshed on my mind,

cocooning each thought in crimson. With a night like this, there's no need to hide. Camouflaged in plain sight with all the other ghouls and goblins. How delightful! I stalk the wooded perimeter like an animal, stealthily selecting my prey. It doesn't take long before I spot a particularly pathetic. soul. He's letting his child run far ahead as he plays on his phone, too fucking lazy to even attempt to ensure the kid's safety. I know. What about the kid, you say? Don't you worry.

I'll be back for him later. I grabbed the fat bastard by the back of the shirt and drag him into the woods. Clearly taken aback by the sudden change of scenery, an open mouth awaits a scream that never makes it out. The second I have him out of view, I take the spear of a shovel and forcefully penetrate the annoying hole in his face, taking away the option for Piggy to squeal before the shock wears off. Even as the top portion of his head begins to slide away, his wide eyes meet mine, and the terror he conveys in that moment only confirms that I'm made for this. His eyes glaze over as his body falls limp. I used the tool at hand to complete my butchering, one limb at a time. I make quick work of it, the blade slicing through the meat and bones like butter. Just as promised, I dig the death pit

and tossed the curdled remains inside, feeding the earth the fiendish fertilizer. It so craves. I leave the protective shelter of the forest and get back out onto the street. That bastard, Jr. is scanning every direction in search of his bloated daddy, whose carcass may have recently stopped eating permanently. However, his bulging belly will now extend out even further to house the gaseous process of decomposition. Junior here already has a full sack of treats in tow and is gnawing away like a termite on timber.

His disgustingly grubby mouth was soiled with a candy bar that looked like a smeared turd coating his lips and rotten teeth. even without the aid of an evil costume, I think I would still deem this not so little bastard worthy of death. And of course, decorated as I am in the devil's garments, I know with every fiber of my being that the piglet must die. The thought of snuffing out his worthless existence from this world nearly produces an amused evil utterance out of me.

However, a noise such as laughter, whether maniacal or jovial is not in the cards. I'm not here to laugh. I'm here to kill. And so kill I shall. I ring the doorbell at an isolated house in the neighborhood. A house that doesn't look an out to be inviting. No lights on, though I'm sure there's someone home.

I obnoxiously ring the bell repeatedly. Eventually, I hear a voice from within. Go away! I smush my skeleton head against their window and respond, Not feeling very festive this evening? Get the fuck off my property, or I'm calling the cops! Rather than answer with pointless words, I let my size 12 steel-toed combat boot be my spokesman.

I kick in his cheap wooden front door and invite myself in. He turns to run, but I'm much faster. He books it up the stairs, and I'm in hot pursuit nipping at his heels. He makes it to his bathroom and slams the door in my face just in the nick of time. Not to leave my other foot without some fun action on this night, I kicked down this door with even more ease than the last. I stand there like a living nightmare and wag my finger. Did you already forget what I did to your other door?

What did you think I would just turn and go home after you fortified yourself behind yet another a low-quality piece of shit? As I stepped toward him, he begins to visibly shake and coweres low, begging me to spare his life. But sadly for this poor fellow, sparing life is no longer in my nature. I grab hold of his head with both hands and dunk it in the toilet bowl. Ironically, he flounders like a fish out of water, though this human fish is definitely submerged in a putrid slosh, tainted with remorse. remnants of old urine and fecal matter.

He ingests the swampy water into his lungs, and his fight is diminishing as he suffocates. After his last centimeter of motion ceases, I pull him out and throw the lifeless shell of a man down his own flight of stairs. I drag him out to the backyard and shovel him down to hell. As I'm walking past his front porch, I see something that I didn't catch before.

Old Mr. Halloween hater actually had a giant bowl of candy sitting out after all. Who knew? I steal his goodies and plan to put them to good use. Again, I locate the first victim's obese offspring and set a little trap. It'll be an offer he can't refuse. I lay out the stolen candy in a trail that leads directly to where his father's dismantled corpse has taken up residency in the soil. I predigigig his grave right next to dear old dad and watch and wait. Before too long, and just as planned,

along waddles the preteen whale, collecting his sugary treasure one piece at a time. After the last is taken up into his cold, clammy hand, he disappears into the hole. Only his oversized head hovers above the surface. Upon falling unexpectedly into a hole in the dark, His chubby cheeks flop up and down as if he's wearing his own face as a rubber mask

that's several sizes too large. I bolt over to the hole out of nowhere while winding up my weapon along the way and I swing it with all my might upon arrival. My sharpened shovel beheads him and his huge melon goes rolling like a bowling ball in search of pins. I retrieve the decapitated cranium

whose roundness reminds me of a pumpkin then drop it in the hole alongside the body on which it once sat. I raise my shovel overhead and smash it down onto the bloody neck of the youngster, cramming him farther into the earth before covering him up entirely. Now, father and son are eternally rotting side by side, giving the earthworms in the area a never-ending buffet of blood and lard. I stand in the middle of the neighborhood as the sun is on the brink of its debut, The scenic canvas in front of me is blanketed in blood.

And I feel like an artist who has just finalized a masterpiece, absorbing every detail with gratification. A once bustling area, now desolate and littered with fresh graves. It's truly a magnificent sight. The surge of satisfaction washes over me, and I decide that it's time to make my way back home before anyone stumbles upon the grizzly attack. I reach my house and let myself in, still in full garb.

When I step inside, though, I already start to feel the effects of being back in a place of discontent, that nagging rut looming over me once more. As much as I don't want to, I head to the bathroom to temporarily dethrone myself as the grape digger. I removed my cranial covering and set it aside. I reach for the zipper of my one-piece garment. and it feels like a second skin, wet and thick from the coating of dirt and human juices. It feels as if the jumpsuit has had a 10-pound weight gain since the feeding frenzy on the community. The minute it drops to the floor, a huge gas escapes my mouth, and I feel different.

I grab the bathroom sink with both hands and lean in closely to the mirror. The eyes staring back at me are no longer doused in darkness. No! I scream out. It's just me again. Just me. Just me. Just me.

I chant as I throw myself to the floor and curl up in the fetal position. The power's gone. All that's left is emptiness, an emptiness that's even more suffocating than it was before. My sobs of self-pity are quickly thrown into intermission when I notice something out of the corner of my eye. I move in for a closer look. and find a black tag with red writing sewn into the waist of the jumpsuit. I pick it up and it reads, For one night only, you have been chosen to do the dark one's bidding.

When your time expires, you must pass this uniform on to someone of your choosing. If you do not do so, or try to re-enter this apparel, you will not like what happens next. My despair deepens as I read this. The spark of life is smothered before ever fully igniting. My thoughts race as I try to make sense of this new discovery. Before I became a shovel-wielding murderer, I wouldn't have thought twice about this tag,

but obviously I know now there's something more at work here, and not being a part of it is simply not an option. So I quickly devise a plan to dupe this so-called dark one. I hop online and order same-day delivery for a navy blue jumpsuit, and I already know that I have a shovel in the garage. I take the box that mine arrived in and prepare it for a new delivery. I select a random acquaintance to send the package to, and while awaiting the arrival of the fake, I strip the original get-up of its name tag.

Just as the time to get to the store for the day is running out, the delivery arrives. I rush, doing a half-ass stitch of the name tag onto the replica, and quickly repeat the packaging, running out the door with it under my arm. As I arrive back home, night approaches, and I've come to the conclusion that no matter what, I will be pursuing another go as the grave-digger. I take hold of the crusty costume and begin to put it on, but there seems to be a difference this time. My desire is not wavered, but the beckoning from the jumps. suit is now non-existent. I ignore this alarming detail and continue to suit up. I slide the zipper to the top, sealing myself in. The moment the zipper does a rendezvous with the stop, I feel the surge of power wash over me once again. My eyes flicker black, but only for a second before they start

brimming with blood. The power flowing through me turns into an excruciating burning sensation, flooding my entire body. I scramble to tear the fabric from my skin to alleviate this unimaginable pain before I black out. My first rip is fast and aggressive, taking the sleeve completely off. The burning only intensifies. Upon looking down, I realize why.

Not only is the sleeve gone, but so is my skin. I've de-gloved the full length of my own arm in one swipe. Equal parts panic and insanity drive me further as I continue to rid my body of both suit and skin, howling ferociously until the job is complete. I toppled backward, landing in the tub, thinking maybe the cold porcelain will soothe my exposed tissue. But it does not. Suddenly, mass quantities of flies begin to pour from the bathroom faucet like water, packing the room with a violent buzz.

I writhe in pain as they. swarmed the bloodied meat market that was once my body. All I can do now is watch as they gorge themselves on me, leaving my own corpse to be the last that this gravedigger will ever see. Thank you for sharing that, Owen. It seemed like it really made an impression on you, huh? And what do we say about dreams? This is just a bad dream and it's not real.

I'm safe now. I'm in a safe space. That's right. And... Dr. Hall, I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're running late for your 10 o'clock. Thank you. I'm sorry. It looks like I completely lost track of time there.

Owen is clearly a very talented storyteller. I'm going to be moving our group sessions till Sunday. Until then, I'll be scheduling my one-on-ones with you all and posting the time soon. I look forward to speaking with you more. Pleasant dreams, all. Yeah, easy for you to say. Ten o'clock already. Is it?

I'm sorry? Is it morning? Yes, it's ten o'clock. In the morning? Yes, in the morning. Oh, okay. If you say so. Are you feeling okay?

Weird question, isn't it? Would you like to talk about it? Not really. How have you been sleeping? In a windowless room. I asked how, not where. I know what you said. I responded to your words, not your intention.

Judging by how you reacted, when you said how, you meant the manner or quality of my sleep, expecting me to tell you something like, not so good, can I tell you about it? Instead, I replied like you were inquiring about the circumstances or the environment. I wasn't grammatically wrong, because how can be interpreted broadly is under what conditions and, in a windowless room, answers that. Interesting. Not really. I just have a lot of time to think in here. Everything, nothing, I just, can you at least tell me why I'm here? round and round we go.

Does it feel like we've had this conversation before? Haven't we? Can't remember. It's like everything else. Like, I can remember everything, but the second that I try to think about any detail that just sort of fades away. If there are details in them that we can use

to piece this all back together. Does it even matter? Of course. We're here to help you. Then let me out. You know we can't do that. Why? Because of what happened last time you convinced us you were okay.

What are you talking about? You've never let me out of here. Are you writing something down? Are you telling me that you've let me out of here before and I don't remember it? Yeah, you don't say much, do you? We aren't here for me. Fine. You want to hear what I dream about?

You think there's some hidden message or code in it? Maybe you can tell me how my being here in this room has anything to do with how he walks me backwards. Look, I'm not asking you to believe me. I wouldn't either. But I need to say it out of me, even for a few minutes. I wasn't religious. Still not, I guess. but have come to understand some things out there don't care if you believe in them or not.

They don't wait for a ritual or some ancient book. They just arrive, quietly, slipping in through the cracks. That house had cracks. I moved in because it was cheap, because it was empty, because I didn't ask enough questions. That's kind of the nature of the market. Like that saying that you can have it cheap and fast or expensive and good. but you can't have cheap, fast, and good. A cheap house in the market was never going to be something

in the past inspection in a meaningful way anyway, and I was sick of being 35 single and living with my parents. Probably as sick of it as my parents were. The attic creaked like you remembered something. They told me it was rats. At first I thought I was just sleeping badly. I woke up sore, not stiff, but sore. My shoulders ached like I've been lifting something heavy.

My thighs burned like I'd run 10 miles. I can only brush it off as being sore from moving in for so long. Some mornings I'd find bruises on my hips like fingerprints. One time I reached up to scratch my neck and my left arm didn't move. Not because it was numb, because it was wrong. I looked down and the arm was rotated completely backwards at the shoulder. My elbow bent the wrong way. I should have screamed, but there was no pain,

just this terrifying stillness as if nothing was wrong. The heat hit me from out of nowhere as I stared at the twisted limb, a rising, tingling flush like a fever pouring down my shoulder. And right in front of me, without me doing anything. They're twisted back around. Snap. I'll wet crunch inside my skin and I was fine again. Not fine.

The pain passed out cold. I went to the doctor, told him what happened. The doctor just stared at me until I convinced him just to take an x-ray and see that something had clearly broken. When the skins came back clean, I left. Confused and embarrassed. I knew I hadn't imagined it, but I couldn't prove it. So I set up a couple cameras around my house. I didn't think I'd catch anything.

It was just for my sanity. But what I saw in that footage, it was a little after 2 a.m. I was lying there, breathing steadily, and then my legs twitched. One leg jerked hard, kicked out from the comforter and into the air, twisted at the hip and folded under me at this impossible angle. There's no audio, but I knew there had to be the sound of breaking bones. Yet, on that recording, I didn't even stir. And then my body stood up.

Not slowly, not like someone waking up, I just rose like something out of an old vampire movie, as if strings had yanked me upright from the ceiling. Both knees popped in the wrong direction, backward like an ostrich. And I walked. Awkward, stuttering steps. My spine curled in an arch. My arms dangled limp, then jerked forward in weird twitchy swings. It looked like something trying to walk without ever seeing it done properly.

Every movement was off. Deliberate, but not human. The worst part, I turned and looked into the camera, eyes open, and smiling, and the things that happened to my limbs kept happening, whether I was awake or asleep. They kept twisting and re-breaking before setting themselves again minutes or hours later. I couldn't believe that there was nothing the doctors could see. I went back and asked again from him to take x-rays and look, really, look at them. We sat in that office and went over him. The doctor said they didn't see any evidence that anything on me had broken. When I pointed out the slightly irregular white lines on my arm

and leg bones, the doctor just dismissed them, saying nothing was wrong that they were just old fractures healing strangely. There were at least a dozen different breaks. I told him to look at my file. There was no history of me breaking anything, not even a toe or a finger. But still, it was like they didn't even want to consider something was wrong with me. They asked if I had a history of sleepwalking. I said no. I was so mad by the end of it. I'd given up on convincing these experts of anything. So I didn't even mention the video. What difference would have made anyway? I started sleeping with the lights on. I locked my bedroom door from the outside. I even strap myself to the bed with an old climbing harness.

I still woke up on the roof three nights later, curled up in the fetal position and shivering in the morning air. My shorts and shirt damp with dew and sweat. I have no idea how I got up there. There were no broken windows, no damage to the door. The harness? As much as I didn't want to admit it, looked like it had been chewed through. And no, I'm not that flat.

flexible. My knees were bleeding. I was barefoot. The sun had just come up. I didn't scream. I couldn't. Because behind the fear, behind the confusion and denial, I felt something else. It was watching me. Moving my lungs like bellows, flicking my tongue across the inside of my teeth, just to see what it felt like, like a kid in a costume too big for them, except the costume was me. Have you ever thought about how complicated it is to just stand upright, to walk, the balance, the posture, the counterweight of your arms, your gait? It takes us at least a year to gain the motor functions to even do it from birth.

even longer do anything that would resemble mastering it. It takes time until it becomes muscle memory, more instinct than thought, but not for it. It watches. It studies. It has to. Then it tries. And every time it gets a little closer, I'd wake up thinking my hands had fused together. Palms pressed tight, fingers laced and frozen.

The bones had re-knit like that, crushed and bent and fractured, then mended into claws that locked together. No blood, just a grotesque and new shape. It couldn't pull them apart. I started panic thinking I had something like locked-in syndrome. I was okay at first trying to figure out how to pry him open, but panic set in. A strange kind of claustrophobia that I couldn't explain. I ended up pulling my knee up and putting my foot. foot against my palms to kick free.

And unfortunately, it worked. The fingers snapped free like breaking twigs. I screamed in pain as my fingers hung limply. I screamed again as I watched them twist and pop back into place. Every nerve lighting on fire to the brink of passing out again. Sometimes I'd feel my spine start to shift. Vertebrae by vertebrae. slowly curling, reversing until I couldn't sit, couldn't lie flat.

I'd crouch on the floor like an insect. And then just like that, it would reset. And I felt everything. I'm sure it goes without saying bones don't heal like that. But mine did. It wasn't trying to kill me. It was learning. All the pain it was causing me was just a happy coincidence.

I woke up once in the shower with the water boiling hot, skin red almost to the point of blistering before I managed to get out. Another time I came to holding a knife, just staring at it in my lap. One night I found myself in the closet, sitting with my arms folded backward, head pressed to my knees. My eyes were open, unblinking, staring at the mirror on the inside of the door like I've been watching myself. I could feel that I'd been sitting there like that for hours.

There was dirt under my nails. My mouth tasted like soil. I watched as my eyes blinked out of sink. I never understood suicide before. How a person could think that dying would solve anything. That was only because I'd never known pain before. Not real pain. Unrelenting pain.

In a moment of pure weakness, I climbed up on the bridge because I thought maybe. Maybe if I ended it, it would die with me. And the pain would end. I stood on the edge, wind in my face. I didn't feel afraid. I felt as at peace as I'd ever felt or remembered feeling. Then everything stopped. Not around me.

In me. My arms twisted. Elbows locked the wrong way. My spine snapped back in an instant pulling me away from the edge like a puppet yank too hard. I couldn't move. I couldn't fall. My mouth opened and my voice, but not my voice, rasped out. I'm not done with you yet.

I stopped leaving the house. Not by choice. I can't anymore unless it wants me to. to parade me out and show me off. Gravity feels wrong now, like it's pulling at me sideways instead of down. Every step I take is forced. My joints twitch and spasm like a glitching video game character.

People stare. They pretend not to, but I see it in their faces. My walk is jerky, staggered, like I'm lagging behind reality by a half second. One morning I made my head rotate 270 degrees. It didn't even hurt anymore. Pain had become relative to life. My vision just blurred, then I blacked out.

I woke up facing the right way again. Neck warm, like cooling wax. It talks to me sometimes. Not in words, not always, but... sometimes in reflections, in the sound of my own breath. Your knees are incorrect. I will fix them. There is no elegance in your shape.

You are crude, but useful. When I understand how you work, I will spread. That's the part that scares me the most. Not what it's doing to me, but what happens? After. I think it's getting close. It knows how to move now. The arms, the legs, the voice. It's refining them. It understands how bones bend, how breath works, how muscles stretch and contract. This morning, I woke up without ribs. No blood, just soft skin over a slowly beating heart. I could see it, thumping in the open, against my flesh, like a red eye,

looking back at me, I couldn't sit up. Every time I did, I could literally feel my organs pressing against my skin. The pain wasn't even pain anymore. Just a blinding light. So I just had to lay there, wondering where you'd moved my ribs to. Every time I shifted, I felt my insides turn and twist, and I thought this was it. It was finally done with me and letting me die. By evening they were back, crooked, uneven, but back.

I laughed, a short barking thing. First human sound I'd made in days. In a strange way, I think I've come to understand it. I don't like it or appreciate it. I want it to suffer if that's even possible, yet I don't think it's trying to hurt me. It's not angry. It's curious, even playful in its warped way.

And when it finishes with me, it won't need to learn any more. It'll be ready. You're having so vivid dreams. Vivid? I think this goes a few steps past vivid. It feels like it really happened to me, but obviously it couldn't have.

Dreams can be incredibly powerful. sometimes so vivid that they feel just as real as waking life. That intensity isn't uncommon and usually means your mind is working through something very important. Instead of seeing it as something to fear or dismiss, it could be helpful to explore what those dreams are trying to communicate or feeling they're real. could also mean your emotional experience in the dream is mirroring something meaningful to you. Right now. That doesn't mean you're losing touch with reality. It means your inner world is speaking loudly together without judgment.

Yeah, well, maybe I'd know what my dreams are trying to communicate if you could tell me some things. What sorts of things? Oh, I don't know. Like my name? How I got here? Where here even is? This one moment, edit. You're not sure who you...

Where you are before. I want you to know. Unsettling feeling. Talked about some of these things with you again, some other time. And I feel that it's more important to help you feel grounded right now. If you're comfortable, let's slow down and work through this together. Yeah, yeah, I guess so. I need to attend to other matters right now, but when I come back, I'd like to talk more.

Super. I'll be here, I guess. Any progress? He still doesn't know who or where he is, but I think his mind is starting to open up more. What happens when it opens up completely and he remembers? We've been over this. Should that day come? Come, I'll handle it.

And what happens if he or any of them realize the truth about the dreams? I said, I'll handle it. Now here, take this microphone and compile it with the recordings from the other rooms. I want to have the footage from each day independently stored in case the worst happens. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story of all consideration. Please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative common share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast

or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast. production team and the story's author.