Creepy - Day 16 - The Bone Fire & The Crawl

Episode Date: October 16, 2022

The Bone Fire***Written by: Deirdre Coles and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***The Crawl***Written by: Sum Gigh***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted 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 violence. and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 16. The Bone Fire. Written by Deirdre Coles and narrated by J.V. Hampton Van Sant. Before I even stepped off the bus at Koroff, I was half drunk on the spice cider. sent in the air. The bus driver laughed out loud at my expression as the doors swung open and a burnt sugar breeze

swept inside. It's the donut factory, he said. And the Harvest Festival, of course. I grinned and thanked him as I stepped down onto the sidewalk. The Harvest Festival was what brought me here, after I'd seen a help wanted ad at the bus terminal. a few hours ago. It wasn't easy for someone like me to find work since I was underage and looked it and didn't have a fake ID.

But a fellow traveler at the bus station told me the people of Koroff wouldn't ask too many questions. Once October hit, lots of people who usually worked the festival circuit would head for the giant warehouse haunted houses that were popping up on the city fringes. So, a place like Koroff, with a little harvest festival the weekend before Halloween, wouldn't be picky. There were apple trees in the yard of every house I passed. Ridiculously fruitful apple trees, branches bowed and groaning from the weight of the fruit. Once the harvest festival was done,

I thought I would have no trouble finding a job here as a picker. At first, all that shining fruit seemed cheerful, but as I got closer to the center of town, it started to bother me. The branches seemed to be literally groaning. I thought of young mothers at my dad's church, looking worn and exhausted after their eighth pregnancy in ten, years, as if their babies were drawing out bone marrow rather than milk.

But when I got to the town green, a big space surrounded by trees flaming with leaves in blazing reds and golds, my spirit lifted again. The donut factory and its massive warehouse, pumping out a glorious sugary fragrance, were at one end of the green, and an ostentatious big house on the other. Just as my fellow traveler had promised, I was hired on the spot with no questions asked. I scribbled down a fake name out of habit

just in case my family was looking for me, but I thought this handwritten list would probably be tossed out as soon as the festival ended. My first job was raking and bagging leaves, from the trees around the town square. That task had always been one of my favorite parts of fall. And it was amazing how much more I enjoyed it when my dad wasn't there working his way through a 12-pack

and criticizing my every move. Before an hour was up, the festival manager came over and insisted that us workers take a break. She introduced herself as Annapel and referred to herself with no apparent embarrassment as the Harvest Queen. I would have called her anything she liked after she gave us all cups of spiced apple cider, which tasted even better than it smelled, and offered us apple fritters and dumplings and five different flavors of donuts.

When I sat down for a break, I noticed a girl headed for my side, side. She was skinny and skittish and looked even younger than I did, so it wasn't hard to guess at least part of her story. One thing that's important to know about me is that by nature, I'm an introverted person, a really, really introverted person. In middle school, kids used to pass around quiet kid memes with a meaningful glance in my direction. But out here on the road, chatting and trading information and making people feel comfortable around you is absolutely essential to survival. So I'd managed to plaster together a fake-friendly personality, even though the effort of social interaction often left me more drained than a six-hour

shift loading boxes. When I introduced myself to this girl, I looked her right in the eye, and her eyes were the exact shade of the glossy horse chestnuts that some younger kids were playing with on the sidewalk, with a splash of gold in the middle, and I was gone. It's a moment that's been written about a thousand times in story and song, So I don't need to tell you what it was like. But I will say this. For somebody who had a different kind of childhood,

maybe it would have been a fireworks moment. For me, and for Julie, too, it was more like relief and recognition. Oh, there you are, finally. We didn't talk much about our runaway origin stories. That's not unusual. Those stories tend to be depressingly similar. But what quickly became clear was that she was leaving a situation bigger and

weirder than my own, involving her whole family. And while I didn't know if my family was looking for me, hers definitely was. What Julie wanted to talk about was the future, which had suddenly become our future. Within 30 minutes after she first sat down beside me, once we were back at work raking leaves, she was telling me about how we could head south for the winter. How she knew of places like dive shops and kayak tours and glass-bottomed boats. that were always looking for under-the-table workers. Tourist-trapped tree-house restaurants

with fake dinosaurs and real alligators in moats around the trees. I started to think that the next months, the next couple of years, could be more colorful and more fun than the grim slog I'd been expecting. Annabel kept insisting on breaks, and at one of them she said that anybody who didn't have other plans was welcome to stay in her basement. She lived in the over-the-top big house on the town green, of course. Julie and I and three other workers took her up on her offer. She made a spaghetti for dinner with more apple fritters for dessert, and presided. over the meal in a grand hostess fashion, telling us about the history of the town.

Koroff was a very old place, she told us, surrounded by exceptionally fertile farmland and abundant fruit orchards. While the donut factory was the town's biggest employer, in the past few years, Koroff had been making an effort to draw neighboring towns to their local festivals, old Celtic cross-quarter festivals that marked the midpoints between solstice and equinox. Those midpoint festivals, she said, were all about balance and harmony. They kept the wheel of the year turning, she said. Once dinner was over, Annabel led us downstairs, where there were bunk beds with stacks of clean sheets folded at the foot of each one.

The bed was comfortable, and the sheets were soft and smelled of lavender. I'd had a long day's work and a full belly and plenty of sugar, and my mind was more peaceful since I'd met Julie than it had been since the day I hit the road. But somehow, I had a hard time sleeping. The room wasn't exactly quiet, not with five people shifting around trying to be comfortable. But I kept imagining whispery voices saying my name. When I got up to go to the bathroom in the night, I walked through pockets of freezing air, and I glimpsed a slithering kind of motion behind me in the bathroom mirror.

My beliefs had evolved quite a bit since I left home. I was pretty sure this place was positively overrun with ghosts. That feeling only got stronger as the next few. days passed, and the harvest festival began. I had no idea this many things could be made from apples. Julie murmured to me as we passed each other, each carrying crates of replacement items. She was right. Apple scented soaps, candles, jam and jelly and butter and chutney,

lotion, lipstick, cologne, and crans and cranes. craft supplies, and modeling clay. It was all very creative, I suppose, but again, I had that uneasy sense of overabundance, of overripeness to the point of rot. And the hauntings got worse, too. The many visitors during the Harvest Festival were a double-edged sword. They seemed to draw the ghost's attention from us workers, but also seemed to feed them energy.

Once the dark fell on Friday night, I saw several translucent, faintly glowing figures crouched in the branches and under the trees that were surrounding the town square, watching the crowd with hungry eyes. The big finale, of the Harvest Festival was the Saturday Night Bonfire. It was, actually, rather impressive.

The biggest pile of wood I've ever seen in my life. It was decidedly eerie, seeing those flames reflected in so many wide eyes. But it was better than looking into the fire itself. I couldn't help but feel that something was staring back. It was a long night, and we were all exhausted when it ended. I collapsed gratefully into my bottom bunk, head swimming. I was glad we'd be leaving Koroff tomorrow. But right now, I wanted to do nothing more but sleep.

But when I woke up, I was somewhere very different. I was on a mattress on the floor in a small windowless room with a dim light overhead. And I was behind bars. Annabel sat in a thickly padded chair outside the bars, watching me. Well, hello, sleeping beauty, she said, smiling broad. I didn't waste time freaking out and denying the reality of the situation. I took a deep breath and tried to ask my questions calmly.

Annabelle told me I was going to be their guest for a little bit longer. When I asked where the others were, she told me they had gone ahead to the bus station. I knew, down in my bones, that there was no way Julie would have left me behind if she could help it, which made me sick with fear, imagining all the possible reasons why she couldn't help it. I thought it would be a very, very bad idea to let Annabel know how important Julie was to me, so I didn't press her further. And, as it turned out, Annabel didn't care about my questions. She was too in love with the sound of her own voice.

She told me a story over the next few days when she actually did keep me prisoner in a cage in her basement. But at least she brought me meals with plenty of donuts. Koroff was a very, very special place, but it had, it's. troubles, she told me. The name of the town actually meant troubled earth in an old language. Long ago, when the orchards were first planted on this land, a farmer had begged for a blessing from a god or sorcerer or something stranger. Someone had asked, and something had answered. blessing this land with an abundance, an overabundance of fertility and fruit. But it turned out to be a twisted blessing.

The land was so full of life that nothing could really die here. When a person was buried in Koroff, their bodies would climb up out of their graves and walk the earth, and their ghosts would haunt the living. But the townspeople found a way to put their dead to rest, to put the troubled earth to sleep for the winter. The bonefire ritual. They'd take those who died that year and burn them in a massive blaze

hot enough to burn bones into tiny fragments until they stopped moving. Meanwhile, the ghosts were drawn to the smoke above the bonfire, and they were consumed as well. And then the town was quiet. On Sawin, on Wednesday, they'd celebrate the real harvest festival, not the tourist version, the real bonefire.

And what does this end? Any of this have to do with me? Annabel frowned a little. The bonefire, she said, was the kind of magic that required a spark, an ignition. And, to strike the match, they needed a human sacrifice, specifically me. The next day, Annabel led two very large men into my cell. They handcuffed me and marched me out to the town square. There they had laid out wood for a bonfire five times the size of the first one.

The burnt sugar smell was stronger than ever, mixed with wood smoke and decaying leaves. The townspeople were carrying stretchers with long bags on them, woven of white material. They looked like nothing so much as cocoons. And they were moving, twitching, and jerking. And then the donut factory warehouse doors groaned open, and the groaning horde came forth. People with long poles stood on top of the bleachers and prodded them forward.

They staggered along, legs rotting beneath them. These are the fresher ones, Annabelle said. They're not able to walk for long, but you can see how eager they are for the fire. It didn't look like that to me. More like they were being guided in their mindless shuffling along. But I wasn't about to agree. I couldn't bear to watch any one. more. I didn't want to look upon this town on these evil people and their restless dead.

I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky. It was full of crows, probably all drawn by the smell of all this death, I thought. One small crow landed on a branch nearby and stared at me with chestnut-colored eyes. And then the rest of them landed, and changed. Julie's family really was a lot weirder than mine. A tall woman dressed in swirling black stepped forward. Maybe the strangest part was that Annabel didn't seem particularly confused or surprised. What she seemed mostly was irritated.

What is this? She said. Why interfere with our tradition now? One of mine objects to your chosen, the tall woman said. I looked over at Julie, standing under the branch where her crow form had perched, her heart brimming in her eyes. And you were always on borrowed time here in this ridiculous little village with your bloody pageant.

We've been planning to shut you down for years. We just hadn't gotten around to it yet. Annabelle snarled and grabbed at my throat, but then the tall woman hooked her fingers and pulled at the air. and Annabelle's hands fell limply to her sides. Meanwhile, the other family members were busy, too. The other townspeople were made to march inside the chain-link fence. Some of them lay down beside the cocoon figures and tore their shrouds free.

Some of them stood there and awaited the shuffling undead. They didn't scream, while they were torn apart. They were under such tight control. They could give only little wimpers and moans through frozen throats. The tall woman turned to Julie. Your friend doesn't need to be here for this part.

Go ahead and say your goodbyes. Finally, Julie was able to take my hand. But only long enough for us to take my hand. to walk out of the town square and onto a neighboring street, where there was a car waiting for her and a different one for me. She turned to me. Go out there and be free. Get a job on a glass-bottomed boat. Work those tourists for tips. There were tears streaming down her face now. I reached out to catch one on my fingertip. Julie's driver glared. I don't regret it, she said. It's worth going back to them if I could save your laugh.

She climbed into the back seat and kept her face turned to me until she was out of sight. I got into the other car. I leaned my head back again. I leaned my head back again. the car seat. It was all too much. I touched my fingertip below my own eyes, so my tears could mingle with Julie's. I realized I'd probably never see her again. The driver said he'd give me a ride as far as I wanted, the further the better, actually, and he'd buy me lunch, too. Okay, I said. just no goddamn donuts For your bonus episode Creepy presents

The Crawl Written by some guy If I get distracted or go off topic Muddle my syntax I'm sorry The music distracts me My mind wanders now Always moving

It started with a picture And a passing joke I can finally check Eat at a TGI Friday's Under a China Chalet Off my bucket list I don't even know if it's there anymore Down on Broadway

Near Wall Street See for yourself Anyway, that planned the idea It grew quickly And I queried the idea to several agents The second floor of New York city. How much of the city goes unseen by people walking just ten feet below the mystery? One agent responded. One who not only loved the idea, but had another client who she thought could

help. The name put me on my heels, an idol of mine in the writing world. The second coming of Hunter S. Thompson would disappear for months at a time and reappear with utter brilliance. The publishers and websites would gobble up. He would be my fixer. I'm sorry, we moved. I had to find a quiet spot. There's less space here. It's hotter. There were rules to my travels. My wife made me swear to them. I'd only go during the daylight hours. I'd keep my phone on at all times. I'd check in every three hours when I was doing my research. She'd tell me over and over that New York is a dangerous place. She doesn't understand the quiet desperation. I sit in at night, staring at my laptop, trying to will something.

Anything. Seeing the notification for a new email. Another rejection letter. Desperation. Failure. There was a story somewhere in the second floor. Writing the book started off well enough. I got some good pictures, found some interesting places.

It amazed me how much you could travel indoors. above the streets. Most of the places involve tattoos or fetishes or purses. Why are purses of such added import in NYC? But it was all wrote. Nothing beyond what Anthony Bourdain would have had on any of the several travel shows. RIP, Chef. Just two days in, I felt a growing anxiety and reached out for help.

A shove in the right direction. On the fourth day the fixer contacted me. There was a place I had to go and see for myself. A party. Something he swore was true but existed as legend. The constant party. He called it the crawl. Sort of like a rave.

But I was moving. I was existing somewhere throughout the city. Moving from building to building and never stopping. Ever. No leader? Just a collective mind that was hooked. Even if it was nonsense, it was an adventure, a quest, call me Ishmael. It felt romantic in ways that I'd never known my life as a writer to be.

I didn't have to break my wife's rules to follow the crawl. It was always going on, day and night. I could go, witness it, see it, and feel it, and write it. I would capture legend. It only took me two days to find. Or maybe it found me. A large man at the door. Sunglasses in an unlit hall.

Muscles on muscles as he pointed to a small glass bottle with a cork sitting next to the door, like a bottle of milk in a Norman Rockwell painting. The cost of admission. He drinks to show it safe. Takes off his glasses to show milky white cataracts. tells me to leave my bag. Understand. We move regularly.

Music around us. In us. Up, down, back, and forth. But we always seem to be on the second floor. Painted out windows with small scratches from fingernails show the day and night. How long has it been? We moved nonsensically. Go up a floor.

End up looking at the same second story view. Go down a level. Same view. The only time it changes is on the subway. Down the hall, up two floors, down another hall. Through one more door to an empty subway platform and an empty subway car. Lights string the inside and flash with weak desperation clinging to life. Move and sweat and up a floor, down a floor.

Subway stops. Through the turnstile, there's a window. The second floor. Once I tried to leave the group, break from the hive. There's only darkness out there beyond us. Ravenous panting in the darkness. The sound of grinding teeth that makes you squint your eyes, feel the pain in your own mouth. Is that why we move?

Are we avoiding whatever follows us? I don't get Wi-Fi. Not exactly. Phone calls won't connect. Emails never seem to send. But it always keeps trying. Recording this and all I see is pending. Pending.

We're always moving here. Eating doesn't matter. Drinking doesn't matter. Moving matters. We are legend now. Not we. My life. My wife.

My daughter. If you hear this, tell them we are okay. Don't come looking for us. Let us be legend. Moving again. We're poised. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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