Creepy - Day 16 - Mind the Gap & There's Something Wrong with that Farm

Episode Date: October 16, 2024

Mind the Gap***Written by: Meg Keane and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***There's Something Wrong with that Farm***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 magically devious time of year.

It's day 16 of the 31 days of horror, a time of, you're out there, right? Someone's listening to this. I'm not all alone, speaking into the void. Hoping, a hoping someone, anyone hears these words, that they aren't just disappearing like a ghost. Well, if you're out there, you're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep.

Call her, if you're there, you're on with KREP. I'm here, and I understand. I was kind of worried I was alone, too. We can be alone together. I think that helps. But I can't stop thinking about how I need to mind the gap. Porny hat seemed like a great idea in theory. When you're on the right side of inebriated, that is.

But before I know it, it's 3 a.m. and I'm struggling to hold it down against the growing winds. So when it scrapes low ceilings of the tube stairs, I know I have to leave it. discarding the only item which decifers from my costume from which to haggard woman. My mind is regretful, my tongue cotton, clacking against the roof of my mouth. Though the unmanned ticket barriers, the empty escalators, lead me down to Holborn Station, I expected it to be busier, expected to see hordes of partygoers dressed as vampires, curse dolls, and whatever the popular film of the year is. I shouldn't be down here alone, but I am desperate to get home.

Rats scatter across the deserted platform and along the tracks, feral and diseased, yet they aren't the worst thing down here. I've heard school kids whisper of monsters as they push each other around on the platform, only the very bravest of the bunch daring to peer down into the oncoming abyss. Childhood fantasies of another human race, those who thrive in the blackness of the tunnels, catching rats in whatever else ventures too close. But stories of cannibalism don't originate in playgrounds.

Kids aren't that specific. Rumors have circulated for years, fueled by violent crimes and mysterious disappearances. I stand back as the warm winds pick up in the tunnel, thick air ruffling my cobweb dress, and settling on tacky face paint. Yellow luminescent windows whizz by as the train comes into the station. A lone train for me.

The doors close as I climb aboard with bumps on the rickety old track and matured booze aiding my descent into the nearby seat. Sat forward with my head in my hands. I sway softly back and forth with the train. It makes sense to go with the motion rather than against it. While being lulled into the stifling heat of the carriage, my eyes begin to descend into the back of my head, each blink lasting a moment longer than the last. Don't fall asleep on the tube.

Remain alert and stay awake. It's not safe on the London underground. I pull at my lower lids until I'm forced to focus on the window opposite. A sad, hatless witch returns my gaze. Beyond her, red and black wires lining the tunnel, blur into wiggly worms as we speed between stations. Despite the danger, I take comfort in knowing I'm the only person in my carriage, until I'm not. King's Cross is the usual culprit, the station with the most foot traffic and heavy changeovers, where all the lines meet underground in the labyrinth of tunnels slithering beneath the bustling city above.

Two figures are standing on the platform as we pull into the station. Men in casual workwear. One with a backpack and the other with a navy and gold can in his hand. Soft, expressionless faces. Not a costume in sight. Embarrassment pinches my cheeks. They can't be much older than me. The doors beep and abruptly part.

I look down at the ground, hoping they won't notice the same familiar glaze over my eyes. The train sounds, listing off the available lines. So many options. They could go anywhere else. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. A moment passes and I almost let out a sigh of relief. Please mind the door. The doors beep, signaling closure, but the noise halts midway.

An arm emerges, grabbing hold of the moving door. The more upright of the pair has dashed forward to hold it open. Together they push the door apart and stagger on, squinting against the vibrant lights of the carriage. My carriage. I widen my eyes to what I believe is a normal size, and I lift my hunched shoulders. Perception is everything. One sits just a few seats away, the other remains standing. Laughter fills the space, inside jokes and accounts of the night.

I keep my eyes facing forward. keeping busy I rummage around in my bag to locate my phone. It's dead, but I stare at it anyway. My own haggard reflection returning my gaze. We depart the station and descend into the next tunnel. They murmur between themselves. Low voices. An obvious disagreement.

And then the seated man speaks up. He calls to me over the clanging of the train in the tunnel, asking me where I'm off to dress like this. There's a pitiful amount of fake blood at the corners of his mouth and lipstick stain on his cheek. The warm can tips over on the seat next to him, though he doesn't seem to notice. We jolt in unison as the train comes to an abrupt stop in the tunnel.

Not now. Why now? It's too late to put my headphones in and pretend to not hear him. Instead, I glance up quickly and make brief but confident eye contact. Home He wipes his mouth on the back of his shirt sleeve Yours are mine We all glance up as a voice emerges over the tnoy Hey folks, sorry for the delay

We've been stopped as I've received information Of a trespass around the tracks Waiting here until further notice Shit I bite my lips into a line to mask my panic There's CCTV on trains now, right? Live recordings for safety issues surely There has to be.

My eyebrows furrow with worry. I'm not masking well and they're noticing. The man inches forward and leans into his knees, but his friend places a hand on his shoulder, a head shake, telling him to leave it. He claims to only be creating conversation and swats the hand away. The carriage lights flicker like a candle in the wind

when his mouth opens again. We all pause, glancing up at the tubular lights. speckled with dirt and blue bottle carcasses. They're switching off in intervals, fighting against being outed completely. Soon, the train descends into darkness. The train's driver's voice returns, somewhat reassuringly. Sorry, folks.

Seems like we're losing power due to this incident. Again, sit tight you three, and I will update you once I've received further information, hoping to be on the move again soon. he addresses us as the only passengers on the train. An uncanny feeling, as though breaking the fourth wall. The carriage still lights up in intervals as we watch the space between us turn from day to night over and over. Finally, they dimmed to a barely visible consistency,

and whatever hope I had of camera footage fades to black. Moments pass by in silence, and I feel the pitiful vampire's eyes on me, masked by the darkness. When the driver's voice returns a third time, it's inaudible. Sorry, signals that, and we... Soon the crackling overcomes the message, and the line cuts abruptly. We are so close to the next station that the light from the platform is peeking through the nearest window. The vampire stands and uses the overhead bars to steady himself as he walks toward me.

His friend remains at bay. Please don't. He staggers back dramatically, claiming to only be looking at the map and reminds me not to flatter myself. It's dark, and there's no map around me, only advertisements. However, relief ensues when the train jolts and begins moving again. Finally, I can get off. I don't care how much it costs. I'm hailing a cab as soon as I'm out of the underground. It was a mistake to venture out on Halloween.

I'll get home, lock the door, and scrub this stupid face pain off. Though my relief is short-lived, as I realize, we are moving, but not in the right direction. The wheels slowly roll, dragging the train back into the tunnel, and stealing away the hopeful light of the station. The men grasp a hold of the bars to steady themselves

against the sudden movement and exchange words of confusion as we come to a stop. And then, there in the blackness of the tunnel, Deep below the surface of London, something horrific happens. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. The sliding doors open like a gaping mouth into the blackness of the tunnel. And somehow, against the darkness outside, the carriage doesn't seem quite so dark anymore. The pair argue back and forth as we all wonder what in the horror film is going on down here.

The vampire moves toward the doors, closest to our seats and peers out. He shouts out to the driver, but his voice only carries a soft echo before diminishing completely. By the gaping opening of the train, suddenly I'm reminded of the upwards of 40 unused stations in the underground, and countless closed-off lines that run between them, left abandoned and to be reclaimed by something else, I can't say here. While they're distracted, I tread quickly down the aisle to the doors that connect us to the next carriage. It's too dark to see if their doors are open, too. I try the handle, but it doesn't budge.

There goes my plan of walking the length of the train to find an emergency exit. A slurring voice calls out to me, asking me where I'm going. I'm trying to get us help. See if there's anyone else on here. The quieter of the duo speaks up, claiming the other carriages were empty when they got on. Proof they boarded my carriage on purpose. They didn't want to be alone either. Using the torches on their phones to light up each other's faces,

they begin to speak amongst themselves. Something about calling for help, and how stupid that idea is since there's no signal underground. I fumble for the emergency cord, but the strings just hang limp in my clammy palm. I consider sitting tight and waiting for help. But I worry it isn't help who's coming. A scuffle ensues as one man pushes the other mid-sentence

before turning and barreling down the carriage toward me. He moves with a pace and growing aggression until he's just inches away. And before he can say or do anything, I strike him in the face. His nose crunches against my palm and he's forced away, clutching it in agony. He yelps and takes an uneasy step backwards, swearing at me and claiming he was going to try to kick the door down. I watch an amazement at my own reaction as he staggers about, tipping his head back to slow the bleeding. You shouldn't do that, I say, gesturing toward his head. You'll end up choking. But before I can finish my advice, he begins coughing and sputtering the blood back into his hands.

It all happens so quickly after that. As he reaches to steady himself, his hand slick with blood slides down the bar and knocks him off his already on steady feet. A few feet over, and he would land on a seat. And if the doors were closed, the floor. But they aren't closed. They're wide open. Now only two of us remain inside the carriage. The other man rushes down toward me and leans out the open doors calling for his friend in the thick air.

I stand in stunned silence, waiting for him to reappear in the darkness, speaking only from the safety of the opposite wall to feign any offer of help. The remaining man pushes past me and attempts to break the door to the next carriage. Only now do I notice that Guy Fox mask in his grasp. He's panicked and his hot breath fills the air, mixing sweat and sour cocktails.

Somehow he manages to jimmy the handle and push through to the adjacent carriage, heading for the next door. I remain where I am, too terrified to leave. I try to call out to the fallen man, but my voice is swallowed whole by the silence that follows. The train squeaks under my feet as I edge toward the doors. warmth radiating in the air as I grow closer to the tunnel. And just as my foot reaches the edge of the carriage, something grabs a hold of my ankle.

I scream in retaliation and kick at the air wildly. A flurry of pleas echo across the carriage as the fallen man pulls at my leg and claws at the floor in an attempt to climb back onto the train. The shock knocks me off my feet and I continue to kick my foot free from his grip. The blood still gushes from his nose and into his mouth as he begs for help. Help me. You don't know what's out here. Please. His whole head is red beneath the watery glaze of my eyes, but it's more blood than it should be.

We grapple on the carriage floor for a moment longer before my foot slips free of my boot, and he's left reaching for air. Abandoning my shoe, I drag myself to the furthest corner of the carriage, the cheap, shiny material of the cobweb dress aiding the speed of my retreat across the floor. From here I notice how the blood isn't coming from his knows anymore. And it isn't like the raspberry stains which trailed across the corners of his

mouth. No, the blood gushing down his face and neck is very real, and originating from the hole where his left ear used to be. Only small pieces of flesh remain attached to his head, disfigured and unrecognizable. He makes one final futile attempt to beg for his life and claw his way back inside. It's no use, and we'd be. both know it. Soon he stops speaking at all, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. Two people dressed as immortals, suddenly aware of our own mortality. Knowing of the tales, hearing the whispers as children, and reading the suspicious news articles as adults, horror streaks both of our faces as we await the inevitable. And then it comes.

It always comes. It begins as a scuttling surrounding the train. creeping up and echoing from every open door, indescribable panting and grunting, reaching across the tunnel walls as it grows closer. I stifle a gasp as the bloodied hand rises from the darkness to grab a hold of the platform. But it isn't like the hand that held the sticky can, or the one that grasped my ankle in desperation. It may be bloody, but it isn't peach with well-kept nails and a pink earring.

In fact, it's almost gray. Long curly fingernails slowly reach up from the platform floor, gently moving up his chest to wrap around his face. The hand manages to engulf both his nose and mouth as the man's side glances at me in the darkness. Bloodshot. His eyes widened for a final time. Then he's gone, dragged back into the darkness which he fell. My back is pressed against the wall and remains so until his friend returns. claiming to have attempted to pry the driver's door open to no avail.

Using the torch on his phone, he turns it toward me and flashes it across the carriage floor. We both see my bloodied boot no longer on my foot. I don't speak. Instead, I watch him follow the blood trail from my feet to the still-open doors. He calls out to his friend frantically in the blackness. He turns. Did you?

Those were the only words he got out before he saw me, standing. Two hands palmed against his body, two taken by surprise to make a sound. Now only one of us remains inside the carriage. And this one didn't reappear. Less of a fighter, I suppose. When we pull back into King's Cross Station, my knees are tucked tightly to my chest,

and my eyes unmoving from the open doors. I allow myself to blink dryly and adjust to the bright light streaming in from the platform. Fluorescent jackets emerged to lift me up and off the train. So many faces and voices asking me if I'm okay, and checking how much of my pale hue is paintwork. All I can muster is a nod as they sit me down on a stretcher for further evaluation. The train driver, they say, suffered a heart attack and is being rushed to the hospital as we speak. A medic checks me over, assessing the blood and struggling to find the origin.

A police officer appears and asks how I'm feeling. I'm okay. I just want to go home. I reply with a dry mouth. He pulls out a notebook and pencil, promising to have an officer drive me home once I'm given the all-clear. Continuing to scribble in code, he asks if I recall what happened. I nod as the female medic applies and ice-firm. packed to my swollen hand.

The officer advises how the CCTV footage at the station is blank, how it must have been wiped when the power was cut. The investigating officers can't see if anyone came in or out at the last station. He raises his gaze to mine, asking me to confirm whether I was the only passenger on the train. I don't reply right away. Instead, I wonder whether I managed to clean the carriage floor well enough with warm beer and a discarded mask, whether any blood remains.

softly, I catch the gaze of the medic kneeling beside me. We make eye contact as she tends to my superficial defensive wounds. No, I reply, looking up to the officer with conveniently wet eyes. Just me. Once I'm given the all-clear, I follow the officer to leave the closed-off station. Swelling tightens my hand and smudged face paint streaks my neck and chest. And for some reason, I find myself glancing. back at the train one last time. And that's when I see it. Along the outside of my carriage,

light fingernail scratches in the metal. It's best to keep them fed, they say. And now a word from our sponsors. I think we're back on the air with KREP. I keep saying we, don't I? Sitting here in the studio all alone, an empty building, most of the lights are off. Why do I say we? Is it for you or me? At least emails keep coming from somewhere. Like this one from a listener who thinks that there is something wrong with that farm. I was on my way to leave in a bad situation behind when I came across the farm.

I couldn't tell you what the main cause was. I was driving fast. maybe faster than I should have. But when you finally get away, the instinct is to get away quickly. So maybe I wasn't keeping an eye on my fuel gauge, or maybe I thought that I could make the next gas station. My car thought otherwise.

Without a phone or one of those new cars that you can make emergency calls from, I didn't have any other choice but to start walking. Sure, I guess I could have waited. for a car to drive by, but like I said, I was running from something bad, and I didn't really care for the idea of it catching up in any form. One long until I saw the lights in the distance. After it felt like miles and miles and miles of open road, without sign of civilization or much life for that matter. Seeing those lights in the window felt like a lighthouse beacon to a lost sailor.

I'm not sure if it was exhaustion, desperation, or plain old ignorance that led me up to that front door. I never spent much time in the country. And unless you count petting zoos, I'd never been to anything even remotely resembling a farm before. So, I could have just been under the impression that farmers were good Christian folk, always ready to lend a helpful hand. Nothing about the situation felt more off than it should have. The place looked like what I'd seen in movies or TV shows, White House, wrap-round porch, barns and animal pens off in the distance, barely visible under the half-moon in the night sky. There were lights on in the living room, and through the shades I could just make out the glow of a small television set.

I started gently, feeling bad that I might be waking someone up, only knocking loud enough for myself to hear, really. After maybe a minute I knocked a little louder And a little louder Finally I rang the doorbell and heard someone moving around inside Finally an old timer came to the door Looking just like that old guy from the dukes of hazard Uncle Jessup Or something like that

Big old beard on his face wearing a pair of dirty denim overalls I think kids started wearing him again but honestly, I don't remember even seeing a pair since I was in high school. He wasn't all that happy to have been disturbed and didn't mince words saying as much. I wonder what the hell was wrong with me calling on him at such an hour of the night. His words just about verbatim from what I remember. I did my best to explain the situation without sharing too many details, shocking it up to my not being from around there,

not realized I should have filled up my tank back in town. I don't know if you believed me, or if he knew I was holding something back. But it worked well enough. He gave me a quick lecture on kids these days not having common sense, regardless how old I am, before saying he'd call for a toe. I told him I didn't need a toe, just gas. Maybe I could even buy some off him. But he just shook his head, saying all he had was diesel.

Then he told me to wait on the porch as he closed the door and disappeared somewhere into the house, to make the phone call for all I knew. After a few minutes he came back. Not quite opening the door all the way. Said that someone would be out in about an hour before starting to close the door again. I stopped him, asking if he'd be okay if I waited inside, and he just scoffed at me, telling me I should be grateful for the help I'd gotten so far, and that I was lucky he hadn't come to the door with his shotgun.

Couldn't really argue with that, and took a seat on the warped wood porch, that on closer inspection only used to be white. Now I was just a memory with all the chipping flakes of paint. After about 20 minutes of sitting there, my bones felt about as old and warped as the planks. I swear my joints made creaking. sounds just as loud as when I started to stand up. Before I'd even gotten all the way up, the front door was open again. A farmer was glaring out at me, asking what I was doing.

I told him I was just going to stretch my legs for a little bit. He told me, in no uncertain terms, to stay away from his barn and not to disturb the animals. I had no intention of disturbing his animals and told him as much. We just stood there. Only one eye visible that's crack in the door. I might have been snarkier in a different situation. Well, the guy was probably armed.

And he seemed on edge. I wasn't going to give him any sort of excuse. I stepped off the porch and walked a little way from the house. The grass was largely overgrown, filled with dandelions and those prickly, itchy bastard weeds. seemed off, but then again, I had no idea of farmers mowed their lawns. For all I knew, he just let a bunch of goats out once in a while to take care of things. A sound off to my left snapped my attention.

I turned just in time to see what I thought was a small child running into the building. There were no lights out there, and it was hard to differentiate the shadows. Could have been an animal, sure, but in that moment, in that place, My head went all sorts of places that weren't rational. Part of me worried about some kids playing in a place they shouldn't. Catching some stray nail or worse, being attacked by some scared farm animal. Part of me worried if the farmer was a shoot first, asked questions later kind of guy. And still another part of me worried there was some dark shit going on out in the country.

I won't pretend that some savior instinct or hero complex or whatever. kicked in. I didn't go rush into the aid of what I thought was a small child running around a farm in the middle of the night. No, I walked my ass real slowly towards a barn, a wide angle. I fucking hate jump scares, and I wasn't going to put myself in a position to shit my pants. Turns out the angle didn't matter. The distance didn't matter. Because what I saw, what I started, To see drew me closer. I had to know what I saw. As scared as I was, I knew that I wasn't going to be able to live the rest of my life

not knowing what it was I saw in that barn. I barely registered that getting closer to that barn probably meant the end of my life was a lot closer than I expected. Inside the barn, at the far side, I saw a cow just standing there. looking away from me. The other side of the barn was open, and in other circumstances, I probably would have told the farmer

in case animals have gotten out. But before I could even think about that, the cow turned its head to face me, or what was supposed to be its head. From the profile, it looked normal, until it kept turning, and the head opened, It was as if the animal's head had been cut cleanly in half with a saw.

It just sort of flopped open. But each side of the head was intact. I could see the tongue lolling out, both sides of its brain, everything. Then I saw the little girl. No, not a little girl. A little version of the cow standing on two legs. Its head was the same, sort of flopping open and closed like it couldn't control it. When I looked away, it could have been a little girl.

What I thought was blonde hair were strange groats that moved on their own, like a nest of snakes or tentacles. It walked close to what I can only think of as its mother, but instead of going for milk, sidled up to the hind leg and its head and jaws flopped open, glints off teeth catching the stray light right before it clamped clothes on the leg. It stood there, slowly eating the flesh like you or I might eat a piece of corn on the cob, working up and down the leg, even streaks of blood and flesh. The larger one just stood there.

a sort of moan coming out of its mouth as it happened. I don't know how much the little thing was going to eat. I had already seen enough, but that didn't mean there wasn't more to see. I don't know how it happened, but at some point I must have walked deep into the barn. Maybe I was following the little girl thing. Maybe I was just drawn to try and figure out what my eyes were seeing and my mind couldn't comprehend. There were other things in the barn. things have made more sense and less sense at the same time.

Bodies that were either freaks of nature, abominations that should never have taken a breath, let alone walk around, unshackled, or some cruel work of a twisted mind. Parts that were familiar, parts that weren't, parts that didn't belong attached to other parts, a sort of amorphic woman's body, like a mannequin. But instead of a head, it was just a cluster of small appendages, like fingers, nails and all, twitching in the wind. Another with the body of a horse, but no head, and wings. But not wings, more leathery, like bat,

wings, but hanging limp like elephant ears, as it seemed to wander aimlessly bumping into walls. Other things without faces, but wearing what looked like large, almost featureless masks, eye slits, a mouth hole. But that was all, you couldn't pay me to see what was under those masks. I don't know. I don't remember leaving the barn. I just remember running. The farmhouse was in the distance and I think, I think the farmer was standing on the front porch shaking his head. I ran until I came across a car driving in the darkness. I didn't give a shit if it was a serial killer looking for hitchhikers. I flagged him down and got a ride as far as I could. I never even went back from my car. I got a call from the police a few days later about

finding my car on the side of the road. I told him to ship it to me or keep it. There was no way I was going anywhere near that farm again. I debated telling them about what I saw, but how would that conversation have even gone? I tell myself that's okay. Whatever they were, whatever that place was, they were safer there. Some stories have morals. I don't think mine does. But if there's anything I learned from any of this, it was simple.

Always, always, always. Stay on the porch. That's all we've got for tonight, everyone. Sorry about the existential crisis. I'll be here tomorrow, I think. 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 Commons share-a-life 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. podcast production team and the stories author.