Creepy - Day 16 - Compost

Episode Date: October 16, 2021

What could go wrong?***Written by Carolyn and narrated by Nichole Goodnight***Bonus Episode: "Corpse, To the Power" written by Olive Blair "EtherBot"***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Corpse,_to_the_Power***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe StofkoHosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. 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 simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 16. Compost. Written by Carolyn O'Brien and narrated by Nicole Goodnight. In her dream, they were hiking along a trail. The sound of twigs were snapping beneath their feet.

But when she glanced up, she saw that they were walking on delicate bones, and somehow she knew that they were in a cemetery. Tiny animal skeletons could be seen tangled in the leafless underbrush. Jay coisted himself onto the sturdy limb of a tree. He reached down and grasped her by the wrist, and her fingers wrapped around his before he effortlessly lifted her off of the ground. They sat side by side, all around her rodent skulls hung from nearby branches like pieces of fruit. She was reluctant to jump down for fear of crushing the ground. fragile remains scattered below. Then a sudden gust of wind caused her to rock backwards.

Clara's body jerked and when she opened her fluttering eyes, she discovered that she was teetering on the edge of the mattress. She threw back the comforter, stretched, and then looked over at Jake. He was still fast asleep. Pushing herself up and swiveling at the same time, she stood and shuffled to the bathroom while she ran her fingers through her dark, pixie-cut hair. After she brushed her teeth, she pressed the lever down to stop the running water, then peered into the mirror over the sink. Her eyes drifted to the sticky note on the edge of the glass. She and Jake were scheduled for a photo shoot in a few hours,

and the address was residential. She almost never went to a stranger's house for a gig, but she and Jake would be together. What could possibly go wrong? Earlier that week, the couple attended a meet-and-greet at the Beer Garden. It was an event where local artists and models could mingle. The room swarmed with local photographers, painters and sculptors, and those eager to be in the focal point of the artist's next creations.

Halloween was coming up, and the place was decorated accordingly. While she stood at the bar waiting for the fuzzy navel she had just ordered, her attention wondered to Jake. He was chatting with a cute young woman in a wheelchair. The bartend recaptured Claire's attention by nudging her hand with the glass, and she took a sip from the swizzle stick. When she turned back around, Jake was looking at what she assumed was a business card, and the woman was trundling through the crowd towards the door. She took another sip and sashayed up next to her man. Jake handed her the card. He hesitated, giving her time to read it. He said that Morgan, the young woman he was speaking with,

was there representing her father, Hank Smith, a photographer. Morgan had been the subject of many of her father's photos. Mr. Smith wanted to create a fictitious landscaping business brochure to include in his portfolio. Morgan said Jake had the look her father was looking for. Clara would like to have spoken to the woman, too, and looked again at the card in her hand. Last week, she would have given Jake a handful of reasons not to go, but recently, she made a commitment to him that she would try to be more spontaneous and carefree, less skeptical and analytical. She looked up at her boyfriend. He seemed really excited, so she simply asked if she could go with him, although they both knew that the question was more of a requirement. Two days before the

shoot, Jake confirmed the details over a phone call, and the following Tuesday, the team got in the car, gave a high-five, and we're on their way. The car slowed as they approached the gravel clearing on the side of the road. The address was burned into a thick piece of wood attached to a wooden stake. The stake had been plunged into the ground near a chunky plastic mailbox. They parked to the left of the red pickup as instructed and walked along the path that led to the house. Don't go walking down lover's lane with anyone else by me. Jake sang. It was a Glenn Miller orchestra song that his grandfather sang to his grandmother. Clara giggled and squeezed her partner's hand. Withered, ground and gold leaves crunched beneath their feet as

molting trees towered on either side of the trail, Clara recalled her recent dream and the skeletal fragments that were strewn about. She observed the rotund tree trunks that forked into solid, gnarled limbs, each branch sprouting twigs like a network of wires, dangerously tangled. She shuddered and Jake asked her if she were caught. She replied that she was just thinking how much more eerie the path would be if it were dark outside, but in actuality, she felt spooked by the entire scene. She had to stop perceiving everything as an omen because life was about taking chances. The path curved sharply to the left, and once Clara and Jake turned the corner,

they could see a grassy expanse not far ahead. They paused at the border of the landscaped property. It was quite picturesque, really. a patio decorated with bamboo furniture bordered by a ranch-style home. A seamless concrete walkway cut through the meticulously mowed lawn like a frozen stream through a golf course. It connected the patio to a ramp that led into a tall glass structure. The structure resembled an eight-foot corn silo, but it was glass and housed a single pear tree. The small tree sprouted from a hole in the center of the floor.

Clara could imagine the tree in bloom, flower petals covering the floor, a life-sized snow globe in the springtime. The couple musied along the walkway to the ranch house and knocked on the door. Morgan, the woman in the wheelchair, answered. She invited the couple in, and they followed her to the kitchen while listening to her prattle on about the process of canning pears. They had obviously interrupted her work. Both open and unopened jars of pear halves lined the counter. Once in a while, I'll find an imperfect pair, she said.

But I find they are very tasty, so I just cut out the imperfections like the same. eyes on a potato. Clara, recognizing the women's interest, commented on the pear tree. My father built that greenhouse for me after I had my accident, Morgan said. It's a wonderful place for me to read a book and soak in some vitamin D from the sun. I think the tree is most beautiful this time of year. The glossy green leaves turn yellow and scarlet red, creating a blazing effect. This is also the time of year my father fertilizes the tree and, with each fertilization, he has to raise the ramp a little. But my arms are strong,

and it'll be a while before the incline is too steep for me to wheel up myself. She bawled her fist and bent her elbow, making a muscle. Morgan scooped some canned pears into two bowls, grabbed a couple of spoons, and handed them to Claire and Jake. They followed her onto the patio and sat together on a two-seater bench while waiting for Hank. The pears were delicious, and the syrup was sweet. Hank arrived, and after some talk, he asked Claire to join Jake in some photos. Two is always better than one, he said.

As a couple ambled along the path towards the glass hut, Jake whispered, Don't sit under the pear tree with anyone else but me. I think it's supposed to be apple tree, Clara chuckled. Hank directed the couple to sit on the floor of the greenhouse under the pear tree, explaining exactly how he would like them to pose. With one big step, Jake entered the charming edifice and reached out to give Clara a hand. Clara suddenly got a feeling of deja vu as she thought about Jake reaching for her in her dream the night before and

she opted to utilize the ramp instead. Hank stood outside the dome patiently waiting for the duo to get into position. They sat, one on either side of the tree, spaying their legs around the tree trunk, her legs on top of his. Hank shut the open door. It clicked.

The solid crystal dome that sat atop the hollow cylinder slowly began to descend like a massive paperweight. What the hell? Jake screeched backward, Claire's legs slipping off of his the heels of her boots hitting the floor with a thumb. He got to his feet and stepped to the door. It was smooth, no knobs or handgrips of any kind. He pushed with everything he had but to no avail. He hurried over to Clara, pulling her to her feet

and clamping onto her shoulders to shake her out of her shock-induced trance. We need to break the glass, Jake announced. They looked around frantically. Not even a pear left on the tree, not that a thrown pair could break glass. Together they gripped the slender but solid trunk, shaking, twisting, rocking to and fro until the roots loosened. Then they pulled. The hole from which it protruded was too small for its roots to slip through, and the tree began to uproot. The seam from the two semicircles of particle board started to crack. Jake realized that the boards were merely wedged in place, so he began to jump on the edge near the glass and one of the semicircles broke free and the other began to tilt upwards. Now Claire could see what was hidden below the floor. Human bones and splintered bony shards were

mixed throughout a purple, blood-tinged soil. Disgust and horror consumed her right before she vomited. Clara wiped her lips with her forearm and the team gave one last forceful yang. The tree came free, bringing up a large clump of human hair with it. Clara backed away in astonishment, but Jake called her back to reality and together they swung the heavy roots towards the glass wall. Nothing happened and it became apparent they were trapped inside a polycarbonate structure, unbreakable glass. The tree leaned against the side of the greenhouse. The only hope now was that its sturdy trunk would stop the sinking hemisphere above them. Moultched showered down like splinters falling from a wooden clown as the descending dome crushed the fragile branches of the pear tree.

And Claire heard a thumb, and the breaking of kindling ceased as the ceiling hit the solid trunk. The couple looked silently into one another's eyes, as if calming one another and mentally strategizing a plan. Then the whir of the motor switched to a grinding sound and their hopes were dashed when multiple sawdust and woodchips started to be. to fly throughout the shrinking space. Jake and Clara set cross-legged on the floor of their tomb. Their fingers linked together to form two, powerful, reassuring fists. The following morning, Hank sauntered into the utility room, his arms overflowing with clothes he intended to donate.

He paused near a bin and lifted the hinge lid with his foot, then dropped the bundle inside. He gave the lid a nudge and it dropped, but did not close completely, women in their damn fashion boots. He sat on the lid and secured the latch. when he picked up the bucket containing the pear tree he purchased three days earlier. Its roots had been protected in a bucket of moist sawdust for the past three days, and Hank was now ready to plant the freshly fertilized soil in the greenhouse.

Once the tree was transplanted and standing firm, he put two arched pieces of particle board around the base of the trunk. He tightly wedged the new floor of the greenhouse flush with the tubular walls. The two boards fit like puzzle pieces and formed a donut, the six-foot tree like a candle in the center. Hank hopped onto the lawn. He pulled a tape measure from his pocket and proceeded to measure the height for the new ramp. Two bodies and only three additional inches, he mumbled.

For your bonus episode, creepy presents corpse to the power. Written by Etherbot. Now a few things are slightly amiss here. To clarify, I died just a few decades back. Now, honestly, and it might strike you as hard to believe, this is very easy to come to terms with. All things die, obviously, and all things that don't die are forgotten by the things that do. Even things you might argue are supposed to go on forever, like mountains or time itself,

will eventually come either to some kind of holy apocalypse, or more pessimistically, the heat death of the entire universe fade into the endless beyond. Of course I was at first terrified by the afterlife and I lamented over my lost opportunities my short life. You know, that whole five stages routine.

But after a short while I've become rather adjusted to the ghost lifestyle. Honestly, the things that's difficult to grasp isn't the fact that I died. The thing that's difficult to grasp is that after I died, I think I must have died a second time, if that even makes any sense. See, I had been exploring a very old, very decrepit at home,

as spirits tend to do, and it had really quite a beautiful aura. A lot of garish paintings, cobwebs practically all over the place, torn up couches, walls weathered to time. Honestly, it was the most fine place I discovered so far. Unfortunately, that was around when I encountered another ghost, who was already haunting premises. Now this put a bit of a damper on my day, since aside from the rather unexpected company,

this house seemed like the exact kind of place for a sorry old phantom like myself to reside in. although I now became the slightest bill worried that this other ghost had already laid a claim upon the home. I approached the other specter, a rather unsightly looking man with a beard and a trucker's cap, with only the best of intentions, to ask him, quite frankly, whether this was his haunt or if he was just passing through. As I hovered in his direction, however, he jolted up from the wall and glared why. wildly at me. He seemed upset, but before I could lay down some explanation to reassure my compatriot, he pulled out a small handgun and shot me.

I collapsed onto the floor, writhing and bleeding invisible ghost blood, practically choking on my own non-corporal darned, darned ghost's throat, trying to scream strange and inaudible ghost curses at my sudden assailant. Then, just as swift as my spirit died against the hardwood floor, the me I am now rose out of its shell and stared down upon itself. The corpse of my previous eternal ghost body lay stricken on the floor as I, the ghost, hovered beguiled above it. This just happens to be where I am right now, and this event has, understandably, sparked some kind of existential crisis with the world. in me. And, stupid as I happen to be,

I'm so dumbfounded and absolutely smitten by what, from every sense and angle, appears to be the very dead body of a ghost, that I'm promptly shot yet again, by what must surely be the ghost of some idiotic and insane maniac with a taste for firearms. As I yet again rose from my ghost's corpse squared, another puzzling dilemma fluttered weakly into my mind. as have surely been struck before by vehicles and other forms of deadly or generally dangerous implements as a ghost,

how now is that blasted gun in the hands of my bewildered housemate able to murder me with only a simple bullet? The only answer, and I do admit this answer fills me with absolute dread and a sense of cold amusement, is that the very gun he fired upon me with, not once but twice now, is not in fact a fact of a false. physical gun one might purchase at some local and very much mortal gun shop. It surely has to be the ghost of a gun, held in the hands of the ghost of a gun wielder. Now, this raises any manner of questions, many of which I don't feel liable to ask, nor do I suppose I have the answers to. But mainly, how on earth does a physical, and by all previous expectations, non-sentient object,

managed to upon being somehow killed release a ghost of itself into the world of the dead. Now, yet again, completely thick as I am, I swear I never do learn. I let the other ghost with the itchy trigger finger fire upon me yet again. Meanwhile, I've been completely lost and thought, contemplating the very reality I thought I knew. At this point, with a veritable dog pile of my ghost's corpses strewn across each other on the hardwood floor, I finally lose my temper. Just what do you think you're doing? I exclaimed the other ghost, who lets up for a moment and gives off the slightest look of exacerbation.

Quite a pitiful look in all honesty. Before I might reconsider my tone, however, he goes and shoots me yet again, square in the stomach. then flips back up into my head. This is where I draw the line, I proclaim grogly, rising as yet another spirit, looking again at the pile of dead me's on the floor. Steaming mad, I began to march over to the man, or at least hover in a way mostly evocative of such a march,

the sort of march you might do to intimidate a misbehaving dog or frighten away a bird on the street. and straight come across the phase with the back of my hand. He just lets out the most miserable cry and drops the gun across the floor. Now what'd you go ahead and do that for? I speak up to him, barely letting up my manner of speaking. Just like a child might ignore a parent, he simply stares dumbfoundedly at the gun on the floor.

After a moment or two, he finally takes a step forward and tries to get at it, though I react rather quickly and pin him to the wall. I meant to ask you what you shot me for, I proclaim half nonsensically. Finally turning his eyes up upon me, he lets out a slow sound like a hollow man, and then begins to nearly cry. I just don't understand, he exclaims, only barely understandable. I shot you so many times, why I even shot myself so many times, but so far every daying soul I try to kill only comes back again as a ghost.

He holds up his hands in a weak symbol of a finger pistol. How do you suppose that makes any sense? Presently I'm astounded by what he says. I push him back into the wall and step away. Unfortunately for me though, he slides through the wall gracefully, for he is a phantom. Now realizing that I had tangled with the ghost of a murderer, I turn over to grab his

spiritful pistol, only to find it too died upon landing on the floor, and is now side by side with its own ghost. I shudder it to sight. For even more from creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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