Creepy - Day 17- Carnival of Delights & Flight Risk

Episode Date: October 17, 2024

Carnival of Delights***Written by: No One of Consequence***Flight Risk***Written by: Scott Beggs and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***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 magical time of year.

It's day 17 of the 31 days of horror, a time of cool winds, pumpkins, and falling leaves reminding us of our inevitable return to the soil. 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-shadowed. to play. You're listening to KREP and I'm your host, The Creep. Kicking things off tonight is an email from a listener who found themselves in the middle of the Carnival of Delights.

I have always hated clowns. Don't know why. Just always have. It has nothing to do with horror movies or traumatic experiences. I just don't like them. I personally. I personally, I personally wouldn't call it a phobia. But when one's close by, it does make me uneasy. My girlfriend likes to call me a wuss when it comes to clowns. Then again, she has her own irrational hatreds. Channing Tatum, for one. She can't stand that guy.

So any time she picks on me about clowns, I bring him up. Fair is fair. I avoid circuses at all costs and would never, under any circuses. circumstances agree to go to one. That doesn't stop Laura from trying to get me to go, but my resolve holds. Carnivals are another matter. Clowns aren't a guaranteed thing at carnivals.

Even if there are clowns, they're usually easy to avoid. Seeing one from a distance will send shivers up my spine. But as long as I steer clear, I can have a good time. Between the deliciously bad for you fried foods, stupid yet oddly fun games that are often rigged, and dangerously seeming rides, carnivals can be a lot of fun. You read about how dangerous they can be, that people get hurt all the time and sometimes go missing, but the odds of that happening to you are very small. Traveling carnivals typically come through these parts at least three times a year,

and Laura never misses one. So when I found a flyer in the mail for one coming in the fall, I knew exactly how I was going to spend my Halloween. Instead of the usual costume party with watered down booze and sexy outfits, we'll be wearing jeans and horror hoodies while drinking overpriced beer. Not the worst way to spend Halloween. After parking the car, I walk with Laura on my arm to the ticket booths at the entrance. A large sign above it proclaims, Welcome to Carnival of Delights in Red Neon Letters. According to the flyer, they have food, rides, games, attractions, and a show.

We pay admission, buy tickets for the 7 p.m. show and make our way in. As soon as we walk through the gates, we're bombarded with costumed actors. They range from deranged prison inmates to grotesque monsters that claim to be misunderstood. We get directions of the show from a tall, thin woman wearing black, covered in light blue pancake makeup and covered in stitches. As we make our way through the crowd, I catch sight of the first clown of the evening. He's always off, but the shiver down my spine doesn't care. In the moving masses, he stands there immobile, an unmoving pillar.

It's completely irrational, but I swear he's looking at me. The bright yellow pants are very baggy and have bunches of balloons all over. The long white sleeves look dirty and torn as they come out of the red vest that hangs open, revealing that it's a woman, not a man. I don't think I've ever seen a clown display cleavage like that. And if they did, I imagine they'd wash themselves beforehand. The dirt on the white sleeves mimics the pale flesh that's gone unpainted. The white makeup starts at the base of the neck and travels all the way up, disappearing at the hairline.

Bright red lips are painted wide and sharply angle upwards in a demonic smile. Neon green diamonds surround the eyes and almost pierced the smile below. Orange hair hangs down straight and greasy strands, looking oddly natural as opposed to a wig. My hand grips Laura's hand tighter as those painted lips mouth. something to me. Then something happens to distract me. A smell assaults my nose in the best possible way, removing my focus. There's only so many things that smell like that, and it's not the aroma of a turkey leg. Finding our way to a food stall, I quickly scan the board for the item that's caught my attention. I know carnival food's overpriced, but I don't give a shit if it costs $10.

I'm getting bacon on a stick. I usually have to wait until the Renaissance fair to get that. And no way I'm going to pass it up. Hell, I may end up back here later in the evening to get another one. When people think of guilty pleasure foods, they often picture a deep-fried twinkie. Well, imagine this. A piece of bacon that's a quarter of food. inch thick, eight inches long, and at least two inches wide.

It meets crispy on the outside, but succulent on the inside. As for the fattier parts, they melt right on your tongue, exploding heavenly flavor in your mouth. It's not candied, but smoked. As I take that first bite, you can go ahead and send in the clowns. I don't care. This is the only thing in the world that can make. me not give a crap about those face-painted freaks.

Bacon on a stick makes everything bearable, bringing peace to a chaotic world on the brink of complete destruction. There'd be less war if people had this treat at least once a month. Laura got fried alligator on a stick, and we have a funnel cake to share. The noises I'm unconsciously making make her look at me like she does in the bedroom and asks for a small taste. It almost pains me to do it, but I put the meat in front of her mouth. She moves to take a large bite, but only teases me, taking a small bite.

Her moan of delight isn't as enthusiastic as mine, but I know she wants more. When we come back this way later, we'll be getting two of these. Once we're done eating, and I'm sad that my bacon is all gone, we stop at another stall for something to drink. They have our favorite beer, and I pay way too much for two of the tall cans. But if I'm going to cover the taste of bacon and funnel cake with anything, it'll be this. As I bring the frosty brew to my lips, I catch sight of that orange-haired clown again. I reached down and gripped Laura's hand.

Her initial reaction is to become alarmed, but then she realizes I must have seen a clown. pointing her out to Laura as she looks over, but doesn't see her. Somehow she's disappeared in the crowd. There one second, gone the next. We proceed to the show and are treated to acrobatts and gymnasts, a knife-throwing act, a moderately burlesque magic show,

and a small play to top it off. The play is interesting and captures my full attention. Vidia is some kind of ethereal beast with a taste for human flesh. The black cloak the actor is wearing is oddly layered and must have fans inside to get it to move like that. I'd swear I'm looking at a shimmering shadow. As the story progresses, he stalks and seduces the beautiful Cleo before killing and eating her in a rather gruesome display, splattering obviously fake blood across the floor. Too late, her lover Dante comes rushing in and slays the beast with a weapon made of iron.

The play ends with Dante carrying off the now-deceased Cleo. But just when you think the story's over, Vitya rises and chases after them. The scream that beast lets out shocks the audience into silence before we erupt in applause. After the show, Laura and I partake in some of the games and rides. Every so often I'll catch sight of that damn orange-haired clown But she's never around for long Always she's standing among the moving crowd Staring right at me

Sometimes she'll mouth something Others she makes some kind of hand gesture But I can never tell what she's trying to communicate What's worse She keeps getting closer and closer After failing for the third time to get Laura to see the damn clown, I've given up pointing her out. Why is it she's trying to communicate something with me but doesn't stick around long enough to actually accomplish it? Not only is this freaking me out, but it's starting to get annoying.

I know I don't want her to get any closer, so I suggest we get out of here. Laura won't hear of it, saying we haven't even seen half the place yet. There's still a freak show exhibit to get to, a haunted hayride, and a fun house. By the time we made it to the freak show exhibit, I finished my third beer. I'm being stalked by a freaking clown girl, and it's the only thing that'll calm my nerves. Another bacon on a stick would help more. But that's back toward the entrance, and Laura won't agree to head that way until after the fun house. We have to wait in line to get into the freak tent, and as we do, I keep an eye out for the clown.

She's the only one I've seen since we got here, which would normally be a good thing. But the fact that she seems to be stalking me kind of trumps the lack of more. I take a dozen paint and freaks if it meant I didn't pay me any attention. We're just about to go in when I see her. She's at the far edge of the tent, close enough that I can see a little more detail in her features. But what I noticed most is what I took for dirt on her sleeves and exposed skin. in. There's more of it under the vest than I noticed before, and on those baggy pants, too. It looks like smears of something dark, like dried blood. The demented clown sticks around long

enough to point at me and mouth something along the lines of get out. As much as I'd like to, Loras hold on my hand drags me into the tent and I lose sight to the crazy woman. I know the employees are supposed to dress up in creepy costumes and scare the crap out of patrons. But why is this one so focused on me? Putting it out of my mind isn't an option at this point, but trying to keep my freak out under control is. If Laura figures out that I'm freaking, she'll be relentless for weeks. I wouldn't put it past her to get an orange wig and randomly pop out at me.

She tried to do that with a curly red wig and clown mask once. but it didn't go well. It upset me so badly that I nearly ended things with her. As it was, we spent a week apart before I forgave her. That was two years ago, and the orange wig alone wouldn't be a reason enough to end our relationship now. There's lots of strange things in jars inside the tent, along with costume employees and cages.

The costumes are more elaborate and often utilized props that can't be carried around like the actors were all. calming the grounds. One cell holds some kind of gelatinous cube with a stretched out human face on one side. The face is androgynous and calls out to us, trying to be seductive. At one point, a long tongue sneaks out of that mouth in a come-hither gesture that is just sickening. Freaky may be putting it lightly. Coming out of the back of the tent, we're both in need of another beer after the disturbing things we just

witness. I plan on making this one last, but while we're in line for the haunted hayride, I see a sign that says no food or drink on the ride. The line is moving surprisingly fast, so we drink down the ice, coal, bruised, and toss them in the trash can next to the entrance. The wagons they take groups out on are smaller than I thought they'd be, big enough for four at most. Since there's only the two of us and a trio in the group behind, Flora and I get a wagon all to ourselves. Under other circumstances, that will be promising. But I'm too freaked out for anything risque.

Almost as soon as a wagon disappears into the darkness, things start popping out at us from both sides. Some are obvious cardboard cutouts and cheap Halloween decorations. But there are employees in costume among them. A werewolf in a black trench coat comes running at us waving an axe and Laura screams. Not a genuine scream, because it looks absolutely obscene. Why would a werewolf need an axe?

Soon after the werewolf comes floating ghouls. They look like traditional sheat ghosts, but instead of white sheets, they're dark grey with black melting eyes and mouth painted on. One even comes swinging at us from above, and we both instinctively duck, laughing as we write ourselves. That's when Laura gives the most genuine scream of the night. Not five feet from the edge of the wagon is an orange-haired clown, and she's keeping pace with us. The problem is, her legs aren't moving.

That does explain why no one else saw her but me. I'm given to understand that ghosts can choose who they want to appear to. It appears that now Laura is worthy of her attention. Either that, or Laura always was, but kept missing her. Now that she's so close, I can see that I was right about the smears on her costume being blood. But I was wrong about her chest and stomach. The white undershirt doesn't have a deep neckline designed to show off her cleavage. The shirt was torn off underneath the vest and so as everything sells over breasts.

Her stomach is a bloody cavity peeking out from under the vest. The clown points at me again, but I realize something. Her finger isn't pointing at me, but behind me. As her mouth forms those silent words, I see I was wrong about what she was saying, too. It's not get out, but look out. As much as I don't want to, I start to turn around, but something slams into me from behind. Laura screams from the wagon as it continues on, leaving me behind. It's so dark in here without the dim lights around the wagon, but I can make out a shape.

It's a shimmering, swirling mass moving in and out of itself. It doesn't appear to have a human shape, but something more fluid, like smoke. Is this another ghost or something else entirely? I get up to run, but the same thing. A swirling mass strikes out at me, knocking me back down. It can't be smoke if it's hitting me like that. There's got to be something hiding inside that swirl, something solid. I start crawling backwards, trying to put distance between us, but it moves on me again.

Before it can strike, the orange-haired clown is standing between us, silently screaming at whatever the hell that is. expecting the shadowy shape to barrel straight through the ghost, I'm stunned to see that she's actually preventing it from passing. It looks like a losing battle as the smoke starts enveloping her, so I get to my feet and run like a bat out of hell. Doing so, I start passing the wagons that were behind us and scaring the shit out of the people on them. I don't come out the entrance like I expect to,

but somehow make it deeper into whatever makes up these woods. Eventually I come across what looks like a cattle panel fence and quickly climb over it. There's some kind of building in front of me and I start moving toward the front of it. Something bangs against the cattle panel fence and I run faster. In moments, I come out between the line for the haunted hayride and the one for the fun house. Frantically, I look around for Laura hoping she made it out of the hayride, and I hear her calling my name from the right. I start trotting to the middle of the thoroughfare to find her, but something slams into me from above. It doesn't knock me to the ground, but shoves me backward.

Crashing into a wall, that black mass swarms at me, pushing me through a door I hadn't known I was leaning against. Something sharp brushes against the back of my hand as I try to shove the door in that thing's face, if it has a face. It takes some doing, but I get the door close. I don't understand why the people out there weren't screaming or even reacting to what was happening. Maybe that monster's a ghost after all? I'm in a hallway that's way too narrow to be meant for patrons, so probably an employee behind-the-scenes access corridor. There's enough light for me to see my way around,

and I follow the hallway to the maintenance area. I find assorted tools lying around, but nothing that looks like a little bit of the way around. a formidable weapon. Screwdrivers a hammer, various wrenches, and a few other things I don't recognize. The most promising option is a pipe wrench that weighs more than it looks. Moving further into the building, I try to figure out what the

hell is going on. The swirling mass looked oddly familiar like I've seen something like it before. Problem is, I don't go in for that supernatural stuff. Sure, I've watched shows that are either about it or revolve around it, but I'm not a believer. I mean, I did like that one with the two brothers, but they kind of lost me after season five. As I wander down the narrow halls, I come across something new. Instead of the bare plywood walls, I find a floor-to-ceiling panel of plexiglass.

There's a mirror on this side, one of those oddly shaped ones that makes a reflection stretch out. I'm about to pass it up, but Laura comes running around a corner on the other side. That damn shimmering shadow is right behind her, and Laura trips crashing to the floor right in front of the plexiglass. I finally get a good look at that thing, and it dawns on me why it looked familiar. Vidia, from the play we just watched two hours ago. The cloak with the fans inside tried to mimic this thing,

and now that I see it for a comparison, and they didn't do too bad of a job. Vidya moves closer to Laura who's slowly getting up from that hard fall. Not that it has any distinguishing features, but I swear it's looking at her with hunger. I will not just stand by and watch this thing eat my girlfriend.

I'd rather die. Pounding on the glass, I yell at the shimmering shadow trying to get its attention. I have no idea if it can understand what I say, but I scream at it. Vidia, don't eat her. Eat me. I had the bacon on a stick,

so I taste better than she does. That gets both of their attention. I know the look Laura is giving me right now, and it's asking in an angry tone if I'm fucking serious. Vidia stops inching forward, and I feel its attention shifting from Laura on the ground to me. Is it actually considering what I said? It must because the next thing I know that smoky mass is flying right at me, crashing right

through the plexiglass. What happens next takes me a minute to understand. Vidya comes through the glass like it was tissue paper and slams me into the wall. It must have a lot of limbs because it manages to pin my hands to the wall and holds the rest of me down. When I say it slammed me into the wall, I mean it hit hard. Hard enough that the pipe wrench bounced off the wall out of my hand and right into its shadowy mass. Just like that.

The darkness dissipates in an angry cloud of smoke and... I'm free. I help Laura to her feet just in time to see the orange-haired clown ghost. She's angrily gesturing for us to get the hell out of here and I understand why. If the play was at all accurate, video will be back soon. I wonder if we'll have time for me to get one more bacon on a stick. Then Laura pulls the fire alarm to hopefully clear out the carnival so no one gets munched on in our place. I should be dwelling on the fact that we were warned by a ghost clown,

or that we were nearly killed by some ethereal monster, but I'm not. Instead, I say, Aw, but bacon on a stick. Yes, I do have my priorities in order. The bacon's that good. And now a word from our sponsors. Welcome back. Looks like just one caller this evening.

Makes me wonder if you all are tied up at the moment. Sure hope the ropes aren't too tight. Caller, you're on the air with K-R-E-P and the creep. Hey! Is this the station where we call to tell you stories? Yes, indeed. Does it have to be just about me, or can it be about something that happened to my family?

The more, the merrier. What exactly happened? Got some strangeness hanging around your house? It's about what my sister got dumped, and the resulting... Flight risk. Celeste dumped my sister on the Tuesday before Holland. They were trying on their costumes when the final fight broke out, so she was still dressed as the stave-puffed marshmallow man when I got to her apartment.

She'd sunk into the flimsy plastic costume with the happy smile and dead eyes, moldering in her couch and drinking a heavy red from the bottle. I baked a family-sized frozen lasagna for us to share and thought she might want to spill her guts, but she said she didn't want to talk, so I turned on the TV and we watched whatever was on. I would have stayed the night just to keep an eye on her, but I had work early the next morning, and she looked peaceful there on the couch once the wine did its job. I guess that's not a good excuse. When I came back Friday night, she hadn't changed out of the costume.

Her hair fell over her shoulders ragged and unwashed. I pleaded with her to change into pajamas, but she refused, so I was at a loss. Could I overpower her? force a grown woman into the bath? It seemed absurd, and I'd believe she'd only stay at rock bottom a little bit before clawing her way back up. She stayed home from work the whole week. I contemplated sending an email to her boss saying she'd caught the flu,

but talked myself out of it when Celeste agreed to eat a little something. My sister has always been the nurturing one. No matter how intense my feelings got, she always knew the magic combination to unlock a smile, to get me back to even keel. I tried my best to hold her, to give her space, but I either did it in the wrong way or at the wrong time, or maybe this kind of ache, the morning of what might have been the rest of her life with a loving partner, isn't the kind of thing that floats away after a firm hug. My sister still had music playing in the apartment, and I took that as another good sign.

And she was starting to talk again, to open up about the pain she was feeling. That, too, I took as a good sign. I knew from experience that the body can only hold so much pain before it folds in on itself. She was in shock, but I felt confident that she would be fine. Maybe even back at work by Monday. She'd met Celeste in a wholly uninteresting way, mutual friends at some generic house party. Maybe they could each feel in particular that meant something only to them. The type of punch, the weird family photos on the walls,

the way one cannonballed into the pool at midnight, but otherwise their meeting was only notable for their instantaneous attraction. And the rare fact that its intensity didn't go away within the following weeks and months. It burned hot and slow, like nothing I'd ever seen before. And it made sense to me and all their friends that they were destined for, for the picket fence and baby bundle. I guess things change. Even Celeste didn't see it coming.

I asked if I could call a friend for her, but she said that all her friends were all Celeste's, and either through inertia, loyalty, or tribalism, she'd kept them all in the breakup. She seethed for a moment about how they all must hate her, how Celeste must have poisoned them against her in before kicking her to the curb. But just as she was winding herself up, she shut down, adopting a vacant stare mid-sentence,

as though her brain simply couldn't process the scope of what she needed to recover from. At a loss, I implored her to take a shower before I went back home. I returned the next morning with bagels and bad coffee to find that she hadn't listened. A fetid stench choked the room, like a meatloaf forgotten in the oven. Something had punctured the costume, and it hung limp against her skin like a plastic shroud. It covered her feet such that she floated through the room, but made an awful swishing noise that gave every motion a sad, comic soundtrack. I was hoping that she looked so pathetic that she'd find it funny, but she didn't seem to notice,

and I found myself powerless to understand how to help her next, even though it was the only thing I wanted. The guilt of my failure stuck in my chest like a fist. The thought of having to return to work on Monday, of leaving her alone like this for another week tormented me. So I vowed to at least get her into different clothes by the end of the evening. She asked me if she looked like an angel, and I cracked a joke that I thought might get her to see the humor in all of what she'd become. But it landed wrong, and she seemed not to hear me anyway. She talked over my shoulder about how Celeste had loved angels and collected them. Wooden and steel ones.

Dolls, paintings. Small-painted plastic ones meant to adhere to windows to lit in the rainbow light. I suggested to walk around the neighborhood, and she slumped onto the couch. I tried everything I could think of that night. Sitting quietly, holding her limp hand, playing guitar, asking her how she felt, telling her the mindless routine of my life, and nothing, nothing snatched her out of her tranquil depression. Before I left that evening,

regretting my cowardness at not calling in sick for work, she asked me how she could survive saying goodbye. By recognizing that goodbye isn't the end, I said, feeling immediately like an idiot. But her attempt at writing her own cure lyrics gave me hope. Engaging. Even in that poetic, malden way, seemed to me like proof she'd finally broken the spell. Or at least one layer of a complicated bit of witchery trying to drown her soul in the bathtub.

How many stages of grief were there? It must be more than five. At the very least, she wasn't sitting in waned silence like a wide-eyed corpse anymore. So I felt cautiously comfortable about going to work the next day and checking in with her each evening by phone. I should have stayed. By the time I showed up on Friday evening for my weekend vigil, she had already cut her ring fingers off with pruning shears.

The blood was still splattered against the inside of the sink, and I panicked trying to get the story straight from her. How recently had she done it? Where were her fingers? We could get them reattached if we hurried. But she was in no hurry. She told me she'd bury them in the backyard on Tuesday before reciting Elizabeth Barrett Browning's love.

When a soul by choice and consequence Doth throw out her full force on another soul. Celeste had loved it, and my sister whispered at me that speaking it into the night air connected them undeniably. Celeste would return. She'd save her. There was no need to worry anymore.

I'd be able to be. I begged my sister to get in the car to go to the hospital with me, but she said she was feeling fine and wouldn't eat her fingers anyway. What would the doctors do but charge her $1,000 for an aspirin and tell her to keep it clean? I grabbed her shoulders, shoving her hard toward the front door. But she resisted with surprising hidden strength and looked at me as though he hadn't known each other my whole life. Her look and the grip on my wrist froze me in terror, and I thought for the first time that I might lose her.

Maybe I should have seen it before then. Maybe I realized too late that failing to cheer her up wasn't the worst I could do. I could push too hard and ruin our bond. Maker hate me forever. It was unthinkable. I let go, and we sat in odd silence while I suggested making a little dinner. It was hard to tell with the costume draped over her whether she'd been eating or not. I opened the microwave to discover the rotting carcass of a scrawny bird.

It had been plucked, but was otherwise intact, and the smell of it was a wall of putrid funk that sent me back on my heels. My sister laughed from her perch on the sofa, rolling her eyes and laughing about how she'd forgotten to cook it. I was astonished and disgusted, confused at trying to understand what my sister was doing, and desperate for the right way to pull her out of the abyss. She pushed past me into the kitchen

and pulled out a BB gun from between the fridge and back wall, explaining that she'd been shooting grackles and pigeons and whatever else landed in the yard, but that she must have forgotten about this one. I shrieked, asking her what the hell she was shooting birds for. And she shrugged as though I was asking why she'd listened to a song she liked. Had she eaten some? Yes, and they'd been pretty good.

Made her feel stronger. Made her feel something. I'm ashamed to know that it took me until then to understand that I had to call the police, to call someone with bigger hands than mine. She needed the kind of help I couldn't give, and it broke me. But I still worried what she would do if she knew who I was calling. I stepped out the front door onto the landing, and heard the lock click behind me after the first ring.

When the cop showed up an hour later, I did my best to explain the situation, and to assure them that she wasn't dangerous to anyone but herself. I kept staring at their guns. To my surprise, when they knocked on the door, she opened it and beckoned us inside with a welcoming grin. She was gorgeous in a way, standing there in the doorway, somehow taller, somehow incandescent.

Blood had pulled around her eyes, and at first I thought she might have blinded herself, but she explained she had taken a sewing needle to the lacrimal because she was tired of crying. The cheap film of the stey puffed costume had formed itself around her body, swaying in under her arms and sticking to her hips, and two huge wings framed her from behind, sticky with brown black feathers.

It took some doing, she said, turning around to show us that she had sewn them into the flesh of her back. The police drew their weapons. Do you have a gun? They asked her. She nodded yes, and I screamed, maybe too loud to explain that it was a BB gun. Their questions got faster and louder,

but my sister seemed gracefully numb throughout all of it. Just being honest. I struggled understanding what was happening, and the acrid feeling in my stomach told me that everything was tipping sideways. The cops tingled as though they longed for a lightning strike. When they asked her to come with them, she stepped forward, and the smaller of the two fired his weapon. It was the distance of a handshake. I saw the blood jump from her chest, right in the center, bits of pulp jumping out like popcorn, and the dingy plastic of the costumes staining black. But she kept moving forward. The blood flowed out with a busted rhythm, more blood than I might

have ever imagined. And my sister pushed right past the cops, who stood terrified as she took to the balcony railing and launched herself into the midnight sky, rising impossibly upward on the wings she'd made herself. Thank you, call her. That's all from us tonight. This is The Creep, and you're listening to K-R-E-P, today, tomorrow, and forever. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit Creepypod.com.

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