Creepy - Day 14 - Nowhere & Prison for One

Episode Date: October 14, 2024

Nowhere***Written by: Marcus H. Noir and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Prison for One***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. October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magically devious time of year. It's day 14 of the 31 days of horror,

a time of cool winds, falling leaves, costumes, and pumpkins rotting into twisted forms, shapes, faces, both familiar and strange. Faces we see in our dreams, our nightmares. When the veil between what we know and what we will never understand is the thinnest

and the darkness that creeps around the shadows is free to play. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, the scratching on the attic walls, the creep himself. You may have noticed our program runtime has been fluctuating, even getting cut short in places.

Seems as that there's something else in the air interfering with the show. Things beyond our control. Beyond our understanding. For now. But that's not going to stop us, is it? As such, I'd like to apologize to the following listeners who've supported the show that we couldn't get to. Chase Binger. Well, that's a thing.

Amaya Sanchez. Elizabeth Dahlrimple, Rora, Emily Jones, and Crochet Jones. We're halfway until that wonderful day, and this train ain't stop until the wheels fall off. So let's hit the air before those interferences and put a damper on our fun. Caller, you're on with the creep.

Uh, can you tell me what's going on? I was just telling our listeners that there have been circumstances beyond our control. No, not that. I heard that. I mean, I don't understand where I am. We've all had those kinds of nights. No, I'm not drunk. I don't think. I'm just having trouble remembering how I got here. It's dark here. Here too, caller. And while I'm far from a professional when it comes to solving mysteries, I've found myself in a dark place or two. So what's the last thing remember. I guess that would be nowhere. After moving in, I found a letter during my renovations. It was hidden in one of the outlets in the guest bedroom. In fact, the outlet was false. It was a safe.

It would have gone unnoticed if the covering was not cracked and needed replacing. Several white pages were folded into tight squares, and when unraveled, warning was written on one side of the first page in all uppercase in a thin black marker. The ominous title has me curious. So I begin reading. I had enough of being a rat in a maze and looked for a way out. I needed a reboot with white picket fences, a backyard bigger than my apartment, a place to raise kids and grow old. After a careful and exhausting search from questionable online and offline sources, I found my X on the map called Nowhere.

I know, I know, it sounds so cliche, but I didn't choose the name. You cannot find it on your own. It's not on any web mapping services like Google Maps or Ways. You must be chosen. Nowhere had checked off everything I was looking for, even a job that paid twice what I made before and allowed me to work remotely full time. The city was where times seemed to slow down, where you were. Where winds whispered peace of mind and prosperity.

Miles of endless, thick, virgin forests surrounded the town. Beyond the woods were the typical snow-capped mountains that cup the land, like Mother Nature held the town and the surrounding land in her protective hands. Nowhere was a small city without the big city problems. Of course, I know a lot more now than I knew then. Before relocating, I had to undergo a lengthy and extensive, review process and be interviewed. They provided no contact information, so I could not follow up.

Three months passed before I received the call. It was the happiest day of my life, so I thought. Apprehension took hold when I crossed the threshold into nowhere. The city was more remarkable in person. Everyone smiled and said welcome and was happy to see a new face. However, their eyes didn't seem to matter. their smiles. I could have imagined, but I saw pity. The days turned to weeks, then months, and I fell into a routine. During that time, I met Stacey Swang. She lived a few houses down,

and strangely in the same apartment complex I had resided in, but moved here three years prior. At first, she was a friendly face, then a friend, nothing romantic. Until recently, we decided to cross that line. A month before Halloween, Stacey told me that the city took Halloween very seriously. It's more important than other big holidays like Christmas, New Year's, and the fourth. Everyone is expected to decorate their homes to the best of their ability. Home is without adequate decorations will result in forced participation in the Halloween parade. Her last words held a note of mystery, a secret waiting to be revealed. At first, I dismissed the oddity as nothing more than a joke. Looked at Stacy with a, come on, you're pulling my leg. Surprised by her

sudden seriousness, she eyed me and said she enjoyed our budding relationship, did not want anything to jeopardize it. Wait, was this a threat, I thought? I agreed that we had a good thing going. and replied that this was not mentioned during the interview or in the welcome packet. She stared into my eyes. Hers filled with a, don't question it. Not wanting to make this an issue, reluctantly agreed as I reached out and pulled her in. Her demeanor immediately changed, shifting to playful.

Smiling, she said in passing, There is something else everyone must do on Halloween night. I threw my hands in the air and replied, Really? What now? She revealed that everyone must attend the annual parade and always wear their mask while in attendance. I huffed, my eyes rolled and asked, Why?

She shrugged and answered me solemnly, saying, Who knows? It's strictly enforced, and violators are dealt with. Besides, it's a lot of fun, and everyone parties like it's 1999. She started slow dancing and grinding her, body against mine, almost face to face. I grabbed her hips and followed her lead. Curious, probed further, and whispered, what's so special about this parade? She replied, not satisfied,

continued my questioning. Can you elaborate? She casually explained that there were floats, costumes, and entertainment. She told me I was asking too many questions and did just go with the flow. She inched closer and planted a soft kiss on my lips. That ended my interrogation. We went downtown a week before Halloween to purchase my decorations. I was surprised that the entire downtown area was heavily adorned. Whistled quietly and said, You weren't kidding.

You do take Halloween seriously. She playfully asked me if I thought she was lying. No, no, I believed you. voice trailing off we drove to a store called just in time for Halloween they're the largest retailer in nowhere for all that is Halloween

we entered the store hand in hand and were greeted by recorded howls and screams we looked at each other and giggled like school kids the store had the typical stuff characteratronics spooky yard scene props creepy dolls

the works while discussing what to buy we bumped into a burly elderly gentleman wearing a manager's tag on his shirt front pocket, firmly clutching a young teenage boy by one of his wrists. The young man pleaded with a flattened rubbery mask in his trapped hand. The manager indignantly told him his mistake would be his undoing, and he knew what followed. Stacey pulled my hand hard as we rushed past the duo.

Suddenly, a looming, gaunt someone. No, something with a strong. strange milky skin that seemed to glimmer. Its scabby head, bald with sunken film-covered eyes, and dressed in a black suit jacket, shirt and tie, and shiny black shoes, like it came from attending a funeral, entered with a faint scent of campfire. It towered over the duo and had a murderous look.

It focused on the teenager. For a brief second, it looked at me. Goose bumps ran up and down my arms. The teen quickly turned to it with a knowing look, then nodded nervously. The figure turned toward the door without uttering a word and headed out. The young man followed like a scolded child. I asked Stacey what had happened. She answered, saying that the boy would be punished.

I knew she knew more, but she would not say. As Halloween approached, the nights grew longer than the shadows deeper. I began to sense electricity in the air, but something darker lurked beneath the surface. On the afternoon of the parade, I noticed the eerie preparations throughout the city. All the businesses closed early. People rushed all about and whispered in hushed tones. Luck would have it. One of the whispers approached me in a drunken stupor after stumbling out of a bar.

He blubbered with his alcohol-filled breaths. The parade was wrong. When I questioned him further, he fumbled his words, saying no one has the balls to say or do anything. What's wrong with the parade, I prodded? He answered that the poor bastards should be in jail, not paraded around for all to judge. He mumbled that those who live in glass houses shouldn't, and then looked at me with recognition. His face changed to a look of fear. His lips trembled. Do you know me?

I asked, perplexed. Before he answered, Out of the corner of my eye, the bar owner heard the conversation while locking the door to her establishment. She charged, keys shaking in the ring held in one hand, with determination like a linebacker

attempting to sack an unsuspecting quarterback. Her green, almost emerald eyes, shimmered wide. Turned to brace myself, but instead she turned toward the drunk and yelled at him to shut up while slowing her pace. When she reached him, she shot a dour look at him. He put his head in his hands and started sobbing.

She turned to me, apologized, and said to ignore his ramblings. As they walked away, she patted his back while saying, I'm so sorry. I watched them walk down the street and met with the exact alien figure. It had the same towering presence, attire, and glaring scowl. together they disappeared around a corner later before leaving for the parade stacey handed me a heath ledger joker mask i felt ridiculous wearing a costume so i went in street clothing she on the other hand wore hers wow she looked amazing in the star trek next-gen later seasons red command uniform with some modifications a tight fit which hugged her in all the right places a thought crossed my mind to skip the parade altogether, but the foreboding warning from Stacey quickly erased that thought.

She reminded me that we needed to put on our masks before leaving. She did the same with her purge-like mask as I placed mine over my face. My brows narrowed under my mask, seeing the odd combination of my girlfriend's costume. Oh, well, to each their own. Everyone exited their homes in unison and in complete silence, wearing masks. Some were store-bought, others homemade. Not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, we joined and followed the quiet procession. The evening sky was clear, and the moon became more dominant as the sun retreated.

Smells of autumn, pumpkin, spice, and other baked goods filled the temperate air. All were heading to the parade route like automaton's. Shortly after, both sides of the route were packed with eager spectators. people parted for us like Moses parting the Red Sea as we shuffled our way to the front my uneasiness grew it was as though evil hung heavy in the air suffocating with its venom i wanted to flee with stacey but she patiently waited like everyone else with muted excitement children and costumes stood in front were perched on their father's shoulders some holding balloons or eating cotton candy i spotted a few marvel DC and Disney characters in the crowd. Some of the adults wore costumes, but many didn't. Those who wore them went all out. Many were homemade, but at a professional level. Though the atmosphere was celebratory, I could not shake that feeling. Halloween-themed music began to play, and the crowd cheered. A feeling of being watched to swath me. My eyes jetted about, searching for the source, but I turned to

Stacy when I felt a tug of my shirt. She pointed. I followed her finger and saw the first float approached, pulled by two massive midnight-colored horses. The exterior is enveloped in orange and black sheeting. Something earthy and dead floated in the air. Eventually, the float came into full view. It was rectangular-shaped, the size of a large motorhome. Four washed, weathered grayish white small tombstones entrenched before a ramp-shaped black dirt mound. At the upper end of the ramp were two throne-like red velvet chairs perched on a raised wooden platform. Each chair sat a snow-white skeleton donning a button-up royal robe, a king and queen with golden crowns. Their skeletal arms and hands somehow mechanically moves stiffly, side-to-side, simulating waving.

The crowd applauded quietly As if they were showing respect and adoration I reached for myself to record Stacey slapped my hand and waved a finger Her don't I left it in my pocket Notice no one took pictures or recorded As it moved on the second float approached

It was prepared like the first Low to the ground pushed forward without horses There was a small window toward the front like a window for a driver. The music morphed into something twisted. Someone in a hairless, naked, neutered, leathery, tannish costume, somewhat desiccated, resembled a mummy without the bandages from Egypt, stood and held a worn, matching medical bag used for house calls

during the 50s in one hand. The costume was tight as if the second skin would burst at the seams of the beefy figure. When the float arrived in front of us, It stopped. The costumed person held a small black chalkboard around their neck. Squinting, written on the board, James Smith, condemned in chalky white block lettering. My eyes moved to the costume again and widened in horror, realizing it was real human skin. Besides the figure, a person wore a rubbery mask of Michael Myers over their head.

Their legs duct taped to the legs of an old. wooden chair. The waist chained to the back. Torso leaned forward, arms and hand locked on a stained, aged wood table by thick metal restraints. Fingers are held down by small metal bands attached to the table and spread apart. The strapped person remained remarkably still. Surveied the crowd as they jeered and booed. The individual standing placed the bag on the table and turned to the crowd. Someone hissed Punish the wicked! One by one, others joined until the booze and jeers were replaced. I heard Stacey's voice echoed the phrase and looked at her in confusion.

She stared at the float, chanting, and a fist fervently pumped skyward. Like sheep, others followed. I returned to the float and watched the person wearing the corpse's skin, open the medical bag, and reach for something inside. rising from within was something metallic. It was a large, sterile butcher knife. Confidently raised the knife with one hand above their head, paused, and the crowd became louder. The seated person jolted, noticing their situation, and began screaming.

Somehow, I heard the begging from him, and my eyes widened, and my mouth opened to form a small o when I realized the person trapped was the young thief. Wait, stop! I pleaded. It was no use. My plea went unheard. Watched in horror as the costumed person swung the blade down and onto the right thumb. The teen violently jerked in place, trapped like a fly on a web, and continued to scream. A wave of cheers resonated. The extremity was cut off clean, slightly rolled aside as the blood oozed and pooled around the fleshy exposed, bony severed digit. The float began to move and continued its root as another finger was severed.

With cupped hands, leaned in towards Stacy and said, What the hell is happening? Without looking away, she told me with gravity that the Punisher always wore the preserved skin of past criminals. The dead returned to punish the present, no matter how insignificant the crime. Despite the immediate cacophony, somehow I was able to hear her. My eyes widened in shock at the revelation. As the float passed, the third appeared as I tried to process what I had just witnessed and heard. It is like the previous, with someone wearing the skin of another sexless corpse.

The sign read, Betty Thompson condemned 1984. On the same float was another heavy wooden, worn, hoary table. And lying face up and tied down by thick leather restraints was the drunk from before. Someone shouted, Do not spread falsehoods! He squirmed, and his head jetted in all directions while a metallic retractor kept his mouth wide open.

He looked in my direction, then directly at me. We locked eyes, his filled with terror. Tears pricked at his. I looked away, ashamed, powerless, and afraid to help. As he struggled, an arm became free, swung upward and connected with the costumed person's jaw. A piece of the leathery dried skin from the lower jaw broke off and fell,

but not enough to reveal the identity. They staggered backward but quickly recovered, rubbed their chin as the drunk frantically worked to free his other arm. The costume person reached for something hidden under the table and revealed a large axe. In a blur, it rose upward and down onto the trapped arm, in a fluid motion, narrowly missing the other arm. The crowd and music drowned out the victim's screams.

Blood exploded and spattered everywhere as the detached limbs separated. The costumed one dropped the axe, produced a glowing red, white antique flat iron with a wooden handle, pushed it into the open wound, and held it in place for a while, cauterizing it. The victim juttered as the smell of blood and searing flesh made the bile in my seat. stomach churn. With blood spattered across the attacker's torso and face, they looked at me with their green, almost emerald shimmering eyes. My mouth dropped and my heart stopped when I realized who it was. She licked at the blood on her exposed lips and curled into a small smile. The iron was cast aside as the drunk went limp. The bar owner grabbed the free arm and strapped it to the table.

blood pooled as she reached for a drawer set under the table, opened it, and removed a pair of surgical scissors. The other hand reached into the open orifice, searched, pulled the victim's tongue outward, and paused. The crowd went wild. Then the tongue was cut with the scissors haphazardly, like cutting thick, chewy meat. The victim choked as blood began to fill and spurt from his mouth. The sick woman forcibly turned the drunk's head to one side while tossing the detached piece of the tongue to the eager, waiting crowd. Blood emptied as the drunk violently coughed and collected around his face and the table.

The face, a mess of blood. She waltzed herself to the other side, facing the unconscious victim's face. She leaned in, used her free hand to shove the index and middle fingers to probe the inside of the bloodied mouth and pulled the remaining tongue. She raised the scissors and began to cut again. As she continued, the float started to move as another piece of the tongue was thrown to the crowd. The next float arrived and slowed to a crawl. On the float stood two people.

One wore the skin of the deceased, wearing a sign with the name Michael Hartman, condemned 1995. The other on this float wore a dark robe with a hood hiding the face. stood so still as if tied to an invisible pole, hands and arms firmly to the sides. The corpse wearer turned to the crowd and slowly rotated with his arms raised upward. Then lowered his hands and raised them quickly to signal to quiet down. The crowd silenced like someone pressed the mute button on the bloodthirsty monsters. A deep, booming dark voice said, here stands a violator.

She decided not to abide by the rule of always wearing your mask during the parade. A chorus of booze exploded from the crowd. It finished by saying, Breaking a founding rule, she will be punished. The skin wearer approached the robed individual and reached for the hood. Slowly pushed the hood backwards to reveal a tearful, attractive young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties. There was a white mask on the top of her shaved head.

The victim focused on the skin wearer, malved in between sobs. Please don't do this. I'm sorry. And stop! The skin wearer raised a hand and waggled a finger close to her face, then placed the finger on her lips to shush her.

She continued to beg as the skin wearer removed the finger and went for the mask. This action caused the woman. to struggle, but invisible shackles restrained her. Those dead shriveled hands went for the mask and pushed it downward until it covered the woman's face. Now that the blank white mask had settled, the crowd became eerily quiet. A sound came from the float, from the woman. She stopped struggling and stood there as a soft fizzle sound reverberated. After a brief pause, something was happening to the mask.

Dark features swirled and eventually congealed. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was the woman's face imprinted on the mask. Once the face was completed, the skin wearer backed away, turned to face me, and took a bow. The crowd cheered in delight. The skin wearer rose and approached the silent woman as the cheers dissipated. It held the woman's head gently, like holding a fragile vase, with one hand and pulled the mask upward with the other.

An involuntary gasp escaped from me to reveal a blank face. No eyes, nose, mouth, eyebrows, just an empty facade. The face was as blank as the mask before the transfer. Screams erupted from the uplifted mask, and the crowd cheered wildly. The victim slowly rotated 360 degrees and came to a stop. That fiend pushed down the mask as the woman loudly wept. The float continued the route, and the lifting of the mask repeated. Another floating nightmare arrived from the conveyor belt of horrors.

It had another corpse wearer holding a whip and a pained older man kneeling on gravel, slowly rotated with his arms aloft and tied to a long, thin, naked tree branch. Two sharp twigs placed behind the knees came into view. My mind was overloaded with the mindless violence, and I needed an escape. I tried to pull Stacy to me, but she was immovable, enthralled. I attempted to flee, but the mass of humanity surrounding me acted like a wall and prevented my escape. All I could do was close my eyes as tears rolled beneath my mask and detached myself from reality. I'd stumbled on something more pretentious than an innocent, family-friendly event.

At the end of the parade, everyone left in an orderly fashion. The excitement lingered, but slowly eroded like dew in the morning sunlight. The scent of blood and burnt flesh dawdled in the air. I made up my mind. I had to leave with or without Stacy. As soon as I closed my front door, I removed my mask and threw it aside. I looked at Stacy, seeing her differently. She, in turn, creepily looked at me.

me silently with the eerie mask. My cell rang, the sound echoing in the tense silence. I removed it from my pocket, placed it on my ear without looking away from her, and answered. Hello, I said Curly. On the other end, a male voice, inhumanly deep like distant thunder dripping with sarcasm, asked me if I enjoyed the entertainment. Caught off guard, I didn't know what to say, now looking at the phone. The male voice continued, saying that he would take my silence as a yes,

and that I was expected to partake in next year's festivities. My heart hammered in my chest as my attention returned to Stacey. The voice almost seemed to smile as he continued explaining that Stacey is the reason, the reason that I'm here. She sponsored me. They've watched me for a long time before extending the invitation. I was being put on probation, and once I fully participate, I will be completely integrated into the community. My mouth went to gape as I looked away from her.

He told me that I cannot leave because others have tried and paid with their participation in the parade. There was a short silence, letting the words linger, like smog blanketing a city on a summer day. He then asked me to ask Miss Swang. Last year, she was Le Vement Principal. She was the talk of the town for months. A chill raced up my body like fire following a trail of accelerant. At that moment, Stacey's sensual voice caught my attention and pulled me from the sheets I was reading.

She was telling me that she couldn't wait to see me in action. She'd even give me a few pointers. I swallowed dryly and slowly looked at the maskless Stacy, with her lips curling to a sinister smile. Unexpectedly something interrupts my reading, looking up and to the side, approaching bare feet on solid wooden steps. My heart pounds in my chest, mouth dry, my mind numb.

With trembling hands, I quickly crumple the letter, place it deep in my pocket, and close the outlet cover. As my girlfriend, Stacy, approaches. And now a word from our sponsors. We're back on the air with K-R-E-P. Do you feel that? Whatever's in the air that makes the world feel different?

Look outside. Is it how you remember it? Is the world ever how you remember it? The colors, the sounds, the shapes. The world you remember? The one you love or the one you hate? Is it ever the way the picture in your mind tells you it's supposed to be? Or is it something different?

Something ever-changing. A shifting, writhing mass. A form all its own that doesn't abide. Yeah, yeah. I have an email from a listener who stumbled across a prison for one. Part of growing up is being an idiot. I'm not bothered by kids these days. Some of my coworkers will complain either about new Gen Z workers

or whatever's going on with social media and the silly trends that pop up. Can you really blame them? Personally, I feel bad for kids now. They have it so much harder. Not only do they have to contend with the seemingly constant changing fashions and language, but also all the trending bullshit out there to navigate. Stuff like the cinnamon and tide pod and milk crate challenges were big enough and stupid enough for the masses to notice and laugh at.

But that stuff is popping up every day. It's too much to contend with. If we did something stupid, or horribly stupid if you're being honest with yourself, it wasn't going to exist for all time as a video or a viral social media post changing our lives forever. Usually just sits in the back of our minds to suddenly shiver about it the most random times. The single dumbest thing I ever did was back when I was 17. It's not something I talk about much, at least not outside of the Halloween season. You tell a story in October that sounds unbelievable and it just lends itself to the time and mood of falling leaves and cool breezes. You tell the same story in March, and you're just weird.

Though maybe these days it would have been the start of my own YouTube channel. I didn't really belong to any clicks in high school. Not for lack of trying. I just didn't really fit in. So I was relegated to sitting on the sidelines, literally and figuratively, and looking at things I wished I was a part of. Enter Raven. Her real name was Janice.

One day she showed up to school wearing all black clothes. clothes and eye shadow and hair with a purple streak and told everyone her name was Raven. Most of it was met with eye rolls, poorly hidden chuckles and general dismissal, except with the other Goths who quickly heralded her as their queen. Oh, and me too. Raven was hot, hot, hot, hot like you'd see on some popular cosplay celebrity sort of hot. at least to me I can look back in my old high school yearbook

and sort of see what I saw back then but not really weird how much things change over the years isn't it the hottest person in your school is now probably just okay and the ones you barely notice they're smoking hot

okay I need to stop talking about high school like that I'm starting to weird myself out the point was that I was at the stage in my life for a lot of reasons that I was willing to do just about anything to get noticed by Raven. I heard rumors that Raven and the other Goths like to sneak into old abandoned buildings. I don't know why or what they did there.

In hindsight, I'm sure it was just their acts of rebellion. But the rumor mill made it sound like they were having sex and performing satanic rituals. And if Raven was involved? Sounded good to me. The gist is that I wanted to impress her. This was years before the term urban exploring became a popular term for trespassing,

so I didn't have videos to watch to know what I should bring, what I should avoid, what I should watch out for. There were no videos or websites. There were no online maps for locations already explored, places with good security, etc. I just did what kids do. too much.

It wasn't enough to sneak into the place it'd already been. I wanted to go to a place that no one had ever been to. And in my town, that was the old abandoned prison. This is still a couple of years before MTV's Fear debuted. Remember that show? I love that show. Even after what happened. So it all felt new and, frankly, fucking terrifying.

I didn't know what I was doing. all I had was an idea in my head I didn't have a plan or goal beyond how to sneak out of my house and to bring a disposable camera to get some pictures to prove I was there I have to skip forward in the story a bit because I don't want anyone to know

where I'm from or what prison I went to not so much because I'm scared of breaking the law I'm sure the statute of limitation on trespassing has long since expired as much as I don't want you to let him out, people just can't resist anymore. If I'd told someone the devil was trapped in an abandoned prison in our town, I think people would have been too scared to go, or thought I was crazy or dumb.

Now, you'll get a fleet of cell phone cameras marching right up and there's no scenario I can think of where it would end well. He's hard to find, at least. He wasn't on the main floor. He was down a set of stairs I found near the back of the prison. It reminded me of that scene where Clarice goes to visit Lecter in silence of the lambs. A set of stone stairs that led down to a hallway with five or six prison cells set into the wall. Why would I go into a prison basement?

Why not just take some pictures inside the front door? Because I was there. And once I was there, scared or not, I was even more scared to show pictures that would get me laughed at. Some part of me knew that I had to go further than anyone else had done before, or at least further than anyone in high school would have gone before. He was sitting with his back against the wall at the fourth cell. I hadn't seen him when I scanned my flashlight around

and didn't notice him at all until the flash of my camera made him flinched. and raise his arm to his eyes. I can't tell you what I said or what he said at first. I think I was near tears. Not sure if I should cry or run or scream or laugh or piss myself. Any or all of those would have made perfect sense in the moment. I think I remember asking him if he was okay and he just looked me in the eyes. And his weird accent said something I didn't understand.

If he spoke English, he never did to me. And when I told him I didn't understand, he just rolled his eyes at me and shook his head. I'll admit it, I was fucking scared. But I felt trapped too. He'd seen me. It's not like I could just slink away and pretend I hadn't. Maybe it was some gig set up to make me look dumb, some gotcha show. But that was the last thing.

on my mind. If he was trapped in there for some reason, why was he dressed like that? His clothes were dirty, torn, ragged, weird baggy clothes that reminded me the old prison outfits from the gangster movies my grandma used to love watching. I'm pretty sure I forced out a laugh trying to diffuse the situation or show that I was in on the joke. The guy just kept staring at me, mumbling something I couldn't understand. I started to walk backwards away from the cell, apologizing for some random thing like

bothering him or something, fully intent to forget it had ever happened to me. But right when I got to the doorway that led to the stairs, I heard something bang against the bars. I spun around and saw his arm reaching out through the bars. Something was in his hand. I just watched it in the light. waiting for who knows what to happen. The thing that happened was that he dropped a piece of cloth onto the ground.

His armor tracked it back inside the cell. I knew he wanted me to get what he dropped. Why else do it? But what could it possibly be? I walked forward, slowly, hugging the wall, until I could just see him again at the back of the cell, as far away from the bar as he could be. He didn't say anything.

He just stared at me. Before I knew it, I'd snatched up what he dropped and was running out of the building. I couldn't tell you if I was sweating or crying by the time I got home. Probably both because my face was soaked. I'd never been, and still have never been scared that much in all my life. At least not until last week. When I found a note again, It never occurred to me to do anything with it after I got home.

I was so scared my mind went to just about every consequence you could imagine. First, it was gag, some Halloween stunt or TV show. Second, it was an unhoused person who lived there and didn't like people around him, or maybe an illegal alien hiding from immigration. And it went on from there to it being an actual murderer who'd seen my face. the ghost my imagination you name it

it was all enough to worry about in an age where you worry about everything anyway that I didn't ever think about going back and I never really looked at the scribblings on the piece of cloth he dropped I assumed it got thrown away what's the whole joke

I was a millionaire but then my mom threw out my baseball car collection the least she could have done was throw this out too. But there I was at a box with my old yearbooks. I didn't even remember putting it there, but I did, like a bookmark, on the same page as Raven's picture. I couldn't tell you why. Maybe as a reminder, or maybe I meant to show her or tell her. Spoilers, I never did. Through the joy of living in a future teenage me could only dream of, I suddenly had all the world's languages at my fingertips. All I had to do was take a picture, upload it, and...

This is what the note said. Over 25 years after receiving it. The message itself is incomplete. Parts are smeared or look like they were never there. I don't know the man's name. It starts with My memory is waking on a field in Damascus. My wounds gone. Replaced by my curse. I have been put here for killing people. To truly be alive is to know you can die. I can die, yet I still live.

At first I thought it a great blessing from the heavens, a gift from a divine and righteous God. But I was wrong. to be an outcast never able to stay in one place for long, to raise a family without having to watch them grow old and die. Time aged others, but hardened my heart, turned my soul to dust. My faith was replaced with anger. I lived long enough to feel nothing but pain and loss.

There was no joy. The true joys in life only come when you realize, how fleeting those joys are, how rare true love is. Everything is just a matter of time. I walked the world. I saw the great wonders, saw the world wars, witness the great inventions and discoveries as well as tragedies and horrors lost to the history books.

Just inhuman acts that would make me question how humanity could have gotten to that point. sadness to anger to rage I spilled blood anywhere everywhere I gave no quarter and asked for none

I did not hide the blood on my hands they locked me away not knowing what else to do they tortured me killed me only to see my screaming return I felt it all and it only served to strengthen my resolve.

The world must burn, so he regrets giving me this curse for abandoning us. When you read this, I may still be in my cell, dying from hunger and thirst over and over, hundreds, thousands of times, suffering every moment of it

until the stone crumbles and I walk free again. And I will walk free until he admits his wrongdoing. There is no purpose or point to life with no end. In the waking nightmare of life, I dream. I dream of murder. Hundreds, thousands. Bodies stacked like cord wood until it reaches the heavens. My unholy tower of Babel.

And I will climb it and make him answer for his wrongdoings at doing this to me, at allowing me to do what I do to others. I know now that his way is a cruel one, and I must be just as cruel. I will. This part was unintelligible, but it ended with, at least in hell. I know I won't suffer alone. And that's where the rest of it cut off. Can't speak to how accurate the translation is, or if blanks got filled in by the

software, but that's what it said. Pretty good story, huh? That's what I thought. I like scary stuff as much as the rest of you, but to me, it wasn't anything more than a cheap Halloween prank. But what if it wasn't? Right? I never got the pictures developed.

I didn't throw the camera away. I was afraid someone would find it, get the pictures developed, and go find the guy. As far as I know, the camera is still in some dusty old box in my parents' basement. So it probably goes without saying that I never showed Raven the pictures or even told her I went there. I never even talked to her after that. I couldn't disassociate her from meeting that man, I guess. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I did show her.

But in my heart, I know it's nothing good. Last I saw of Raven, she was going by Janice again. She had a few kids and tries to sell crystals online to her friends. Funny how some lives turn out, huh? If you're wondering, and I'm sure you are, the prison isn't there anymore. It was turned into a parking lot years ago. I don't like going there. I don't park my car there.

Because what if? What if he's still down there? What if someone found him after me and realized what he was? What if the solution they came up with was to fill in the foundation with cement and pave over it? Sometimes I have dreams about being trapped underground. I can't see or move. I can feel my arms and legs, but I can't move them. And I can't breathe.

There's a weight on my chest. I realize that I'm trapped in a block of cement. I can't move, I can't breathe, I can't scream. When I wake up, my t-shirt stuck to me with sweat, it takes me a few minutes to shake myself from the panic. Then a new panic sets in when I worry that he's down there. Dying over and over again every few minutes, only to wake up in the same torture until the cement finally crumbled.

to time. And I don't know what's worse. Thinking that he's trapped down there? I'm thinking that he isn't. And that he's out there working on his tower. That's all the higher powers have for us tonight. I can feel it. A sort of waiting out there. Like the shadows are holding their breath. Stay safe out there, dear listeners. As always, this is the creep, and you're listening to KREP, today, tomorrow, and forever. 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 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 stories author.