Creepy - Day 10 - The Thing About The People Under The Bridge & Iron Horse Transportation

Episode Date: October 10, 2024

The Thing About The People Under The Bridge***Written by: R. J. Taylor and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Iron Horse Transportation***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. listener discretion is advised. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magical time of year.

It's day 10 of the 31 days of horror, a time of cool winds, falling leaves, costumes, and pumpkins. And the veil between what we know and what we'll never understand is the thinnest, and the darkness creeps around the shadows is free to play. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your hope. The ghost, the knocking at the door, the creep himself. Caller, you're on with K-R-E-P.

Have I called here before? You tell me, caller. I'm not sure. And I don't know if this is the right place for this. But I keep seeing this phone number on the walls, and, well... What's on your mind, caller? It's about the... People.

under the branch. I know why you want to go under that bridge, kid. Double-formo. Fucking fear of missing out. You're curious. At the very least, you're looking for a confirmation that the thing is real. And it is. Everything that you've heard whispered around these woods is true.

Except that it is harmless. That part is a lie. That's why I can't let you or anyone go down there. Not tonight at least. Not on the last night of October. I know how you feel. I know that that creek has a sort of magnetic pull. And I know its regulars wield that magnet haphazardly.

I've lived down the street when I was your age. And within a week of living here, I was walking this trail every morning. The smell is addictive. The stillness is magical. The noise of 85th Street is just around the corner, but we can barely hear it from here. It's like these massive trees soundproof the place. When you pass the point where the sidewalk turns to gravel, you enter a hidden pocket of the world, where the air is equal parts oxygen and serenity.

It is easy to make this trail a part of your routine. And everyone who walks this trail sees people come and go from a moment. under the bridge. Most of the transient type, and you don't bat an eye at that type of person pushing a shopping car through the tall grass. But then you see the heavyset guy, shirtless and sunburnt, humming to himself as he stomps through the middle of the marsh and camping boots following a black lap. Like the dog is walking him.

About a month after I moved in, it must have been June. I passed a woman who looked like she could be someone's grandma. And I don't just mean age. I mean her clothes, her bob haircut, her wide waist. She just looked like a grandma. She sat in the grass right over there on the edge of the hill, and she was completely trenched. The reen had stopped less than an hour earlier.

It was practically streaming off of her. She was completely oblivious to my presence. And when I walked over the bridge again on my way home, she was stepping carefully down into the marsh. And that's when you become curious. Most people will shrug off this curiosity when they get home. They'll let the dog off its leash, and by the time they've made breakfast, the enigma of this forest will be forgotten until the next morning. They will declare that bridge outside their atmosphere and decide that they are far too busy to worry about what's happening on another planet.

But some of us become really curious. Too curious for our own good. People like me and you. We'll see those people float up the hill looking like their smack dab in the middle of the greatest high known to mankind. And their smiles will mock us. It'll make us feel like tickey-tacky-tacky insurance agents

who have never tasted a proper task. of acid, will be tormented by the urge to push the pedal as far down as possible without topping out. And if there's a second foot on that pedal, resistance is impossible. My second foot was named B. When I met B, I was about your age, and my life was probably not too different than yours. A stingy boy in the last years of his twenties. overindulging before he got too old.

The seasonal drink, vodka in the summer, beer in the fall, bourbon in the winter. A shroom here, a bump there. But everything was kept as controlled as possible. For example, anything involving a needle was off limits. I didn't have the balls for it. But a heroin high can be emulated by chugging a fifth of tequila and taking a hot bath. That was right up my alley.

altering the brain chemistry without completely letting go of the steering wheel, and never feeling the need for company. I didn't want any voices getting between me and the drug. But B had the type of voice that wouldn't go away without a fight. I met her outside the liquor store near my house, which was like a second home to me at the time. I didn't like bars, far too social. I wouldn't have seen her at all if I hadn't gone around the back to toss my empty into the dumpster.

She was lying flat in a bed of a pickup truck, and when she heard the can clink against the metal, she sat straight up into a 90-degree angle like a vampire in an open coffin. Here was a person who shared my pursuit of hyerness. It wasn't even 5 p.m., and she was already drunker than I was. Her eyes were spacey and unfocused. There was a pair of glasses somewhere in the world that were worn rarely, but should have been worn constantly. Her hairstyle was so messy that calling it a bun would have been like calling a hang glider

an airplane. As she climbed down the wheel well, the rest of her was revealed, heavily tattooed, slimy with sweat, wearing Daisy Dukes over fishnet stockings that her thick thighs poked through. Her face was round and youthful. She was just beginning the boozy journey that I was near the end of. She reached into the back door the truck and pulled out an unlabeled body of greenish-brown fluid. The most potent absent in the world, she declared,

only legal in certain regions of Europe. She said it was impossible to drink without a lot. eyes. Asked if I lived around here. Then she started toward my house as if she knew where it was. I never saw that truck again. It wasn't clear whether it belonged to be or if she had come to the liquor store with someone else, and I never asked. The absent tasted like a pan-seared black licorice. After the first glass, we were trading quotes from Adam Sandler movies. And the corners of her mouth were barely lifting with her giggle. She looked like she was trying to smile, but her face was too numb. I told her about the people under the bridge, recounted every sighting I could remember.

She just stared at me. Catatonic. Astonished. Second glass felt like an oxy-high. By the fourth glass, we were entirely speechless, slumped over the couch like two ice cream sandwiches melting inside their wrappers. The next morning the house was empty, and I'd wondered if she'd been a hallucination. Then I found the near-empty bottle of absinthe on the kitchen counter and her number on my phone. A few hours later, she texted me and said she would come back that night with another bottle. She told me to leave the back door open for her. I did, but I hoped she wouldn't come back. I'd fantasize that she might just leave the absinth in the garage. and be on her way.

She didn't come over that night, and I never had another drop of that nasty stuff. But the back door remained unlocked. And about a month later I came home to find B. lying over the covers in my bed, hair still wet from a shower, wearing nothing but a flannel she had pulled from my closet. It was a welcome surprise on that particular night.

But then she started to come and go like a straight, cat, and I was always happy when she left me alone. I left the door open, though. If I had just told her to fuck off, then none of it would have happened. No way in hell I was going down there without her. I had a fear that she didn't. She was young, and she and the drugs were still in the puppy love stage. But inebriation and I were a decade into marriage. and I had seen her at her ugliest. I had had bad trips, convulsions, heart palpitations, and I had seen people swim too far out to sea

and never make it back to shore. Thank God for the fear that I developed. It's probably a thing that's kept me alive. That's the fear I'm trying to instill in you, kid. Because the thing down at the end of that creek is not worth the high. Don't get me wrong. It's the greatest feeling I've ever had. But there are things in life that can make you feel great without the risks,

and without the highs and lows. Get addicted to taking a deep breath of cool air and looking at the treetops. We've been sitting here, watching people cross that bridge for what? Fifteen minutes at least? And how many of them had stopped and looked at the treetops? That feeling that you get when you get when you're not. you walk past this path in October. Silent.

Watching the leaves turn bright red while the sun picks them up from the branches and places them slowly on the gravel. That's something you want to get addicted to. No calm down, no withdrawal, no overdose. Anyway, B turned up again in mid-October. The blonde in her hair had become slightly dirtier from the lack of sun. and she had grown a little pouch of a stomach that she concealed with an oversized sweater. She told me that she had been walking the trail.

She said that she had met a girl named Raven coming up from under the bridge. Raven had relayed stories about the thing at the end of the creek, but she had never seen it herself. She had been to the end of the creek a couple times, but the thing hadn't come out. According to her, there was one night every year when it was guaranteed to show itself. I asked B what night that was, but I already knew the answer. The thing always comes out on Halloween.

I knew she would show up on the 31st, but I couldn't bring myself to lock the door. In the late afternoon, she came into the kitchen with a smile and handled brown rum. Spiced Rome was the only substance that caused me to display a bona fide addict behavior, and B had a way of yanking me off the wagon. She knew that I wanted to see this thing as badly as she did. I just needed a little push. Half an hour later, her enthusiasm was already dwindling. She hadn't worn a coat over her sweater,

and the sneakers she was wearing were like moccasins. I started to get a different kind of cold feet. We sat just around the corner there, down that hill and at the base of the bridge. She started shivering almost immediately, pressing her nose into my shoulder and hogging the bottle. I let her have it. I knew that if she got drunk enough, she would be too sloppy to walk through the river. She'd get tired, have to pee, and we'd have to be on our way. back to my place in no time.

But then, we saw feet descending the opposite hill. Two girls and one guy. They were in loose-fitting clothes that may have been their size at one point. The guy had a wiry beard. They took turns stealing glances at us. And I assume they would ask what we were doing down there. But they didn't address us at all. They just sat down.

down on the other side of the bank and ignored us, like we were strangers sitting in a food court. One of them asked for a lighter, and bees stood up and tossed one casually over the creek. The girl complimented Bee's glasses, and things fell silent once again. The dude was holding cigarette butts over a pipe and squeezing out the last bit of tobacco into the bowl. The two girls were whispering and giggling amongst themselves. And then one of them turned to the guy and asked if he was sure. All he said was, every Halloween, I've seen it.

And nodded without looking up from the pipe. Even I couldn't help but lean in. Bean was practically bursting at the seams. She asked if he knew where it was, and the guy smirked. He said he could probably find it. But that we should wait for Kurt. The sun started to set an hour later, and B had been completely rejuvenated. Raven had arrived with a guy who could have been her father and immediately detached herself from him.

I introduced myself as she unzipped her hoodie and spread it on the ground next to B. She wore a thin t-shirt that was cut off in the middle of a rib cage. Her thin stomach quickly broke into goosebumps. She dumped the rest of her Gatorade into a half-empty bottle of rum that B was still cleaning to. The three of us passed the bottle around and took in the scenery. Groups of two to four people started skipping down the hill every 20 minutes or so. And soon people were playing music and laying tarps on the roof to form tents. Guys were picking up girls and acting like they were going to throw them in the creek.

People were sampling each other's pills like they were cocktails. It was a tailgate party before the most anticipated game of the degenerate season. A networking event with no business cards and no cell reception. Overhead? The sunlight between the wooden panels was broken by shadows of passers-by. None of them seemed to notice the noise we were making. Magic of the forest, I suppose. Kurt required no introduction.

As soon as he turned the corner every smiling, I fell on him. He pushed his hair out of his angular face and walked around like a politician, mingling with every group in turn. Then he noticed B and I. It was like he could smell our inexperience. He sat down beside me and asked what we were drinking. Then he asked a bum a cigarette. He asked whether I had ever experienced a feeling so bad that it felt good. With every eye on me, I shrugged, chuckled, and said I didn't figure I had. He asked if I wanted to. I could tell that Kurt didn't really want B and I to go along.

It was obvious that we were not part of his circus, and he thought it unfair for us to buy one day passes. We were married to conformity, and to have a fair with anarchy was an insult. to Kurt's religion. But he didn't have much of a choice, did he? If he turned us away, there stood a possibility of us going to the police. Like a kid, tattling because he was excluded from the panty raid. So, when B and I said yes, we wanted to come, Kurt had no choice but to smile and ask what we were waiting for.

And everyone went absolutely berserk. The entire group. 13 of us in total, gathered on one side of the creek and set off along the bank. As we left the cover of the bridge, I looked up the hill and saw the rosy face of a man in cargo shorts walking the path. He slowed when he saw our wide little expedition, and the happy-go-lucky grin drifted from under his round nose. His life was as overtly mundane as his name, probably James or Richard. I smirked as I imagined Richard sitting at home that night, eating a starchy meal and wondering if invisible groups like ours were constantly off on adventures that would always

be out of his reach. Richard's sunny disposition had shattered before my eyes. I took a deep swig from the bottle and my chest burned. We were about two hundred feet down the creek when it became completely dark. of us had phones with flashes, and Kurt walked at the front of the entourage with a big round light that sent a huge beam over the water. Kurt didn't speak much, but occasionally a girl would skip her way up to the front and walk beside his slender shadow.

He would meet her within aloof flirtiness, pinch her hip or smack her ass, and then she would fall cheerfully back in line. He kept scanning both sides of the bank, shining the light into every cove. He kept scanning both sides of the bank, shining the light into every cove and hollow, trying to remember the way. Once we found the hole, I wondered how it would have been possible to miss. It was darker than the others. There was some kind of energy coming out of it.

like an ominous breeze so tangible that you could feel it on your skin, sucking you in and blowing you away at the same time. It was about the size of an attic door. Dead leaves and soaked branches hung over the front like choppy bangs. It looked like it had been dug by a man-sized mole. It was slightly sunken into the bank and a portion of the creek had channeled off into it, causing a little waterfall that led into the darkness. I turned to be and looked her up and down,

from her thin shoes to her shivering shoulders. The loud, squirly energy had been wrung out of the group. Even the ones who had been there before, looking at that muddy nook in the earth, smelling its belch that was something like a cross between manure and wet dog, it was impossible to feel anything but dread. Kurt stood silent,

letting the weight of the hole fall on everyone in the party as he tied his hair into a short ponytail. He then handed his lantern to the girl standing next to him, and reached an arm into the hole, and jumped down. The girl handed the light back to him

and disappeared into the earth. We heard the sloshing of a stream disturbed as the group filed in one by one. I raised an eyebrow and turned to be, expecting her to say that she had had enough. But I only saw the back of her head as she lined up behind Raven. The hole had a domed ceiling with hanging roots that could be used as ladder rungs. I swung down and found myself in a muddy cave, barely tall enough for me to stand up straight, but too narrow for two people to walk side by side.

The spill of the waterfall was deafening. And that malevolent air coiled itself around me from waist to throat. When my light landed on B, she forced to smile, turned ahead and plunged forward with the current. After a few strides, the floor of the cave began to descend. Within moments, the cold water was up to B's waist. I called ahead of the man who had come with Raven, asking if it wouldn't be easier to pinpoint the destination on a map.

and find a different way of getting there. He said they had tried, but it was too easy to get lost in the woods once you left the creek's path. Then he scooped up Raven into a piggyback. He said the bed of the stream was going further downhill, and that bee wouldn't be able to touch at the deepest point. Before I could suggest bailing,

her grip was on my neck and she swung on to my back. Her breath was in my ears as I stepped forward. forward, trying to keep a foot on either edge of the ground for better purchase. The water rose to my neck and bees' teeth began to chatter. I couldn't tell if it was from the cold water or fear. She held on to my neck so tightly that I had trouble breathing. She hoisted her legs against my hips and my chin dipped onto the surface. For several full minutes, we existed as trembling heads inside a ground.

rhymy, tubular helmet. Beams of light bounced off the clay ceiling as people struggled to keep their phones held above the water. Just as I started, to imagine drowning in that little cave, the floor rose so fast that I almost tripped. When we reached the end and climbed out of an almost identical hole, Kurt was there to pull B-up. He let me climb out on my own as he wrapped his arms or

Rambi, pressing his cheek to her forehead. She slipped politely from his grasp and clung to me. That was the only time I ever kissed her just for the sake of kissing her. She let go my neck and her hands ran down the soaked sleeves of my jacket. We stood at the center of a small clearing beneath a circular break in the treetops. The rest of the group had gathered around a hole on the other side of the clearing. They huddled close to one another. and shivered in the wind. They huddled close to one another and shivered in the wind, but the giddy chatter had returned.

Kurt led us across the clearing until we reached a tiny stream, less than two feet wide. At the beginning of the stream was a circular grate, built into the hillside. It was vertically lined with black metal prongs that ended in sharp points. These tiny spears stabbed into the soil on every side. It looked like a gothic Halloween decoration.

Kurt lunged across the stream and sat down facing B and I. He let his legs hang over the edge and gestured for us to take a seat. The group sat in two rows lining the stream, facing one another, twisted towards the grate. Kurt asked if we were ready. I nodded as I ran my hands up and down B's shoulders, trying to warm her and she, her from the wind. We were miserably cold and ready for the payoff. He picked up his lantern and pointed at the mesh center of the grate. On the other side of the bar was a thick layer of gravel. But most of the dark little tube was full of empty air. It seemed to be an endless cylinder

moist cement. A small current ran over the rocks, feeding the stream that was so shallow, Our legs could hang over it. B squeezed my hand as we all leaned in, watching closely. The ceiling of the cave started to shift. Light reflected off something that could have been moss but looked more like wet fur. That dreadful feeling fell from the stars and smothered us from where we sat. This time, there was no warning. Kurt suggested, we all take a deep breath.

On the other side of the Great, something unraveled from where it had been tucked in the ceiling. Gray, vascular wings spread out from a slender body, stretching from wall to wall. Two ears hung upside down. Its fangs flashed through the screen. and it let out an echoing screech. I scrambled forward and slammed into the grate. The metal clattered.

Each of us, even curt, flung backward in shock. I can still envision its claws gripping the holes in the mesh. It was six or seven times bigger than any bat I had ever seen, bigger than even a small dog. It couldn't even stretch its size. wings all the way out in that cramped little hole. It bit into the screen and yanked it backwards with all of its strength. Its gums bled.

It rammed its skull into the small pillars over and over again, howling viciously as it thrashed against the metal. Raven's head plummeted into the grass behind her, and no one went to her aid. There was no movement, no breath. No pulse in any of us. There was only terror. Thing made eye contact as if we were human. I could feel the mist of its saliva as it let out guttural screams.

It felt like the threat that every mother instinctively kept from her child. The reason that God had forsaken the earth. It didn't need to touch the body to infiltrate the soul. And just before panic stopped my heart, heart, something in me shifted. Parts of me that were in agony became warm. Lifting sensations started in my lower back and worked up my spine. My breath slowed.

My head hung backward and my mind became numb. I looked at the moon. I could still hear the creature mutilating itself in an attempt to break through its cage. But my fear had been a bit more. been taken by the current that ran below my feet. It was just as Kurt had described, a feeling so bad that it felt good. Kurt was the first one to regain function. He leaned over the stream and tapped Raven on the knee.

As she came to, he told her to ride it out. Within a few moments all thirteen of us were lying flat, looking dreamily at the treetops. somewhere in the cosmos. I heard Kurt whisper, empty adrenal glance, no feelings. Be rolled over to lie on my chest and I kissed her clammy forehead. We heard giggles echo over the water and I prop myself up just enough to see the end of the room. The man who had arrived at the bridge just after B and I was leaning over the grate. He was holding his lips, inches from the screen, but blowing smoke into the bat's face as it clawed at him. The girls he had come with, watched and laughed.

Lantern was still shining on the bat, and I could see the membrane between his fingers splitting open and seeping with blood. Man stood up and put his hands on his knees as he cackled at the ground. Kurt was mumbling at him to knock it off. Soon. Metal was groaning in the metal spears of the great were being dug from the earth as the man yanked on the door, prying the screen open.

In my periphery, I saw Kurt sit up, waving his hands and doing his best to raise his voice at the man. There was a dull sense of alarm throughout the group, but none of us could get past the high quickly enough to stop him. Overwhelmed by lethargy, I gave up, and lie back down beside B. She was already looking at me when I turned to her. metal sprung open and a shriek emitted from the hole, like the laugh of a hyena.

I stared into bees' pasty complexion, shiny in the moonlight. Something fell from the sky and plunged into her neck. A smile did not leave her face as the bat's snout burrowed into her throat. I heard its lips smacking and its knuckles cracking as it climbed further into her. Half of its body became buried in the girl. And then the animal froze. The worst part was that I didn't even feel bad for her. I didn't think about how much I would miss her

blame myself for being there in the first place. All I could feel at the moment was the liquid tranquility of the best trip of my life. I'm not sure how long I lie there, staring at her frozen navy eyes. But when I sat up, everyone was gone. Eventually I got up, went back the same way we had come and walked home.

I just left her there. It wasn't until a couple of days later that I leveled out and realized what had happened. I ran to the trail and followed the creek for hours, but I could never find the cave that led to the grate. I know they still go down there, though. I haven't seen any of the people I went down with. but I've seen faces float up from under that bridge with a look that could only be caused by one thing. I'm sure it's still there. I'm not sure how, but it is there.

Trap behind that screen once again. And I have a feeling that Kurt is still leading the expeditions. I doubt he feels an ounce of remorse. He probably thinks that's what you get for stepping out of your marriage with conformity. He probably thinks there's no way to get a taste of the thrill without taking on the risks. And who can call him wrong? If I had heard about some addict dying in the forest by the creek, would I have flinched? Those people practice tempting death every day.

That's why they're so good at it. That's the thing about the people under the bridge, kid. They have nothing to lose. So, you're telling me after every. Everything I've just told you. You're still going down there. Ha, fuck it. I'm coming with you.

It's a hell of a high, after all. And now a word from our sponsors. We're back on the air with KREP. Unfortunately, it looks like the signal has been getting a bit spotty. So back to the mailbag we go with a tale from a caller who works for a company called. Iron Horse Transportation. How often in your life do you really think about trains? I guess the average person doesn't think about them at all if they don't see a train derailment

on the news or have to stop and wait for one to pass. Both times probably elicit the same sort of responses. A head shake, maybe annoyance, maybe worse, some ill-conceived comment about why do trains even still exist anymore? For a second, let's forget about the impact they had on the actual expansion and settlement to the United States. Don't worry, I'll get back to that. Believe it or not, freight railroads are the most fuel-efficient way to move goods over land, transporting one ton of freight nearly 500 miles on a gallon of fuel.

Says so right on the American Association of Railroads website. Over a billion tons of cargo are transported every year via trains. and they're still a pivotal part of the American supply chain. Yes, even almost 200 years since the first tracks were laid, railroads are still important. They just aren't as awe-inspiring as they used to be. Work on the first operational railroads, that is to say, the surveying, mapping, and construction started in Baltimore in 1830,

with 14 whole miles of tracks. Today, the number is up to about 100,000. 160,000 miles of tracks. Personally, I don't much care where your thoughts lie in the ideal railroads and their impact on the development of the United States. Yes, I know history. Yes, I know the exploitation involved. The danger? The brutality.

It was worth it. Judge me all you want. It's easy to look down your nose at someone when you never see beyond your own face. For about 500 years, leading up to the invention of the railroads and steam engines, horse-drawn carriages were just about the only former reliable transportation there was. And for most of the public, that was just fine. They didn't know different. That doesn't mean that something better wasn't needed.

See, I work for a company called Iron Horse Transportation. It's sort of an unofficial name, but there's a logo and paperwork and all that. Kind of important to have these days. You never know when some asshole with a camera is going to get a video of something. Maybe he wasn't supposed to and start some trendy bullshit that makes my job that much harder. Unofficially, the company started back overseas sometime in the 1600s. I don't know when, for sure. Not sure if anyone in the company really does.

Back when it was horse-drawn carriages. War wagons, you might call them. Armor-plated. Just not the way anyone. had used them before. Back then, the armor was used to keep people out in a way. But the company was all about keeping what was inside from getting out. More dangerous and valuable than anything else there's ever been.

Supposedly, it came from somewhere in Europe in the late 1600s. After the Pilgrims did all their dirty little deeds to survive. Back when America was still a place to send people in things that Europe didn't want, Australia before Australia Sort of thing, I guess. If I had to guess, the idea was probably to keep it on a ship, but sailing wasn't exactly foolproof back then. And since it was the heyday for pirates,

a company couldn't risk it. I wonder if they ever think of going back to it, the constant motion and all being so important. From ship to stagecoach, the first stagecoach on America, soil, too, at least 30 years before history would tell you. History never remembers the important stuff anyway. The first crew worked in 12-hour shifts doing all they could to keep moving,

stopping only long enough to switch horses before moving again. Nothing too fast, not like they were in a hurry to get anywhere. Just had to keep moving. Always moving. Never let it get its bearings. Men spent five, ten, twenty years of their lives just riding around in circles, trying not to die from some random disease or native war party. As the frontier expanded and more and more people came over,

along with more and more stagecoaches, it was easier to blend in. But the new world came with a whole lot of conflict. The Revolutionary War, Cherokee American Wars, Northwest Indian War Tecumpses War War of 1812 Creek War

First Seminole War Arikaro War Winnebago War Black Hawk War Second Seminole War Texas Comanchee Wars Mexican American War Navajo Wars

Bleeding Kansas Pet Sound War Yeah I haven't even gotten up to the Civil War yet It's not like the company could just go back to the water Wasn't any safer

even without pirates After the revolution, you had the American Algerian War, quasi-war, First Barbary War, Second Barbary War, Pig War, and on and on. Be honest. How many of those have you ever even heard of or remember reading about in history class? And that doesn't even begin to count all the chaos and violence and upheaval regular people were dealing with every day just trying to survive. And all the while, the coach kept moving, always moving.

Of course, there is no perfect system. Mistakes were made. Escapes happened. People died. A lot of people died. I'm not going to speak to the details because details aren't exactly what this company specializes in. Go ahead and let your imagination run wild about all the mysterious disappearances that have happened through history. the 9th Roman Legion, the lost children of Hamlin, where the story the Pied Piper came from,

the lost city of Atlantis, the Roanoke Colony, the Franklin Expedition, the crew of the Mary Celeste, or any of the hundreds and thousands of mysterious deaths and disappearances that have happened around Europe and America over the last few hundred years. Some might even be connected. Here's what we don't know about it. We don't know where it comes from, but we think Spain. based on the tattoos, brandings, and other signs of torture

that strangely don't seem to heal or affect it. Just remnants of brutality. Some of the open wounds will sporadically leak blood or whatever passes for blood in its body, but it never seems to notice or care. We don't know how old it is, even judging from appearance. It's so far beyond anything we know as human.

that all we can say is how long we've had it for. It could have been around much, much, much longer. We don't know how to kill it. If we did, it'd be dead. The best we've been able to do is slow it down. If we can hurt it at all, it heals incredibly fast. It might look dead, but it isn't. It never is.

I've personally seen it shot, stabbed, punched, kicked, and thrown off a cliff. Technically, it was blown off the cliff by a grenade, but that didn't really seem to bother him as much as it did launch him. I've seen it gut a 50-cal, even point-blank from a forebore. What do you really think muskets would have done to it? We don't know what its bindings are. Whatever's written on them is in a language no one I've ever met seems to know.

something long since dead, I'd imagine. But they seem to work. Here's what we know. It's fast. Crazy, fast. In a dead sprint, it can easily hit 40 miles an hour. Its chest moves like it's breathing. But we know it doesn't.

Can't drown it. And it doesn't get tired like we do. It's strong. Like Olympic weightlifter strong. As skinny as it is, you wouldn't think, can be able to move under all the iron it has to carry around, but it can. It hates religion, all religions. Supposedly it can smell faith and belief, and it gets agitated.

Every person on the transfer team has to be an atheist. Not even agnostics are allowed. And when we talk to each other in its presence, we have to blaspheme, believe it or not. We don't say, open the door. we say, open the goddamn door. How it hears us, I'll never know. Maybe it's like a snake. The things attached to its ears are held in place by six inch long bolts that go directly into its ear canals.

Those same bolts connect the iron eye coverings, which in turn is attached to the mouth plate. I haven't seen it for myself, but supposedly that mouth plate has a five inch long curved piece of iron on the inside, not unlike a intubation tube that keeps it from being able to make any noises over a whisper. Supposedly when it's not in place, the thing screams and yells constantly. The most tormented pained scream ever. An old timer once said

it was the sort of scream meant for God to hear and weep. He followed that up like a good employee with. Too bad no one up there is listening. Some of us consider the thing proof that no God exists. And if he does and willfully would create such a thing or allow such a thing to be created, that is not a God we should worship, but a God we should fear.

Either way, ain't a man on the whole crew who believes anything anymore. Our job when it comes down to it is to keep moving, always moving, always shifting. Who knows who figured it. it out. But there's something about movement caused on transportation that disorients it. Maybe it's all the bindings too. But when it stops moving, it gets agitated. I guess in that way it's like a fully grown abomination of a colicky baby. One that will malle and eviscerate anything it can touch. What it does after? We still don't understand.

the things it does with the bodies something ritualistic something old the ones that don't fully die the ones who never will we keep them moving we'll see by train as much as we can because

well when was the last time you actually paid attention to a train passing by ever follow one ever do anything more than bitch that it's going to make you late We stay on rarely used or abandoned tracks. No slowing, no stopping, no waiting for other trains. Always moving. Every second we're stopped puts us in danger. Maybe someday they'll launch it into space or drop into an active volcano or something like that.

Then again, maybe they already tried that. Why else would we still use the trains? Just saying, the next time you're all, out late at night and a dark colored train that maybe doesn't look quite like how you think of when you think of trains starts to rumble by on tracks you barely even realized we're there. Take a second. Relax. Be patient. Because maybe that train and a troop of armed atheist contractors are all that stand between you and a monster that wants to make a statement with your corpse if you're so lucky. And that's all we have time for tonight, dear listeners. As always, this is the creep and you're

listening to KREP. Today, tomorrow, and for a... For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherylite 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.