Creepy - Day 13 - Opossum Society

Episode Date: October 13, 2019

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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastors 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. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror.

Day 13. Possum Society. Credited to Chris Straub. My grandfather was a big car gambler and told us a lot of wild stories from his traveling youth. He mostly kept a five-card stud and was a master at bluffing. given the nature of most of his stories and how I believe them, I guess he was at least telling the truth about that. The story that stuck with me had happened in the summer in 1940, he said.

He was on furlough on visiting his parents a few miles east of Iker Falls. Landlocked and bored, he overheard at some dive that there was all-night gambling a nearby Indian reservation, maybe Moniton or Meta Pony, forget which. The story was that a local group of investors calling themselves the Possum Society gathered there one night a month and talked big policy in local events. The things had made them wealthy. Intrigued, my grandfather caught a ride near there and walked a couple miles on foot the rest of the way. Two things to remember about my grandfather.

He was as slick and charming as anything, and he hated to play sober. He said they poured strong drinks there, and by the time he had the courage to wander over to the lone table where anyone was still playing, he was worried they'd kick him up for being too drunk. The body must have turned down the charm because after 20 minutes or so he'd been invited to sit down. The game was five-cards stud. My grandfather didn't have much money, but he hung on... My grandfather didn't have much money, but he hung on in the early hands,

and after an hour or so, he had a tidy pile of chips in front of him, to the surprise of the others. The night wore on. The talk was lively and drinks kept coming. An old woman came around with a tray of shots of whiskey, which she placed in front of each player. Each raised their glasses and one man made a toast. To the possum society and to new friends. They all drank and the dealer continued with a new hand.

My grandfather said the tone of the game changed. All the din and small talk and high conversation was replaced with a quiet shuffling of cards, a clinking of chips. sensing this my grandfather bet conservatively but became increasingly difficult as the pot grew finally deciding the most he'd be out was the money walked in with he went all in on the next hand the entire table called and the cards came down although there was a clear winner and it wasn't my grandfather all eyes on the table turned to one of the other players who had trashed cards and no chips left sweating he pleaded with the dealer the others in the society even the old indian woman

You know the rules, said the winner. At this, the losing player burst into tears and knocking over his stool ran out of the place whimpering and moaning. The other players congratulated my grandfather, saying he played a good game, and that he had an open invitation to play next time they gathered. The old woman came around with another tray of shots and set them down when my grandfather said, No more for me, thanks. I've got to get home. But she insisted he drank. He asked why.

The winning player leaned in and told him, It's the antidote. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at Creepypasta WikiPi. and are protected by a creative commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.