Creepy - Day 17 - The Cellar & Your First Jack 'O' Lantern

Episode Date: October 17, 2023

The Cellar***Written by: Joseph Yenkavitch***Bonus episode: "Your First Jack 'O' Lantern" Written by: A.M. Symes and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***patreon.com/creepypod***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.

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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. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 17.

The Cellar. Written by Joseph Yankovic. A light rain had begun to fall. Misty saw that the atmosphere seemed like a cloud adrifted earthward. It had been expected. A stalled front allowed waves of storms to ride along with intervals of hopeful parting clouds, chased by a darkening horizon. In the kitchen of my parents' house, the dark gray outside had suffocated the afternoon,

giving the room a lead and half-lit appearance. Standing there, I felt a quiet as something oppressive. The weather fit easily into my apprehension of being back here. Immediately I imagine the conversation that had taken place at the kitchen table over the years. Not all of them pleasant. A drunken father and a mother beaten down by his anger fighting useless battles. Hers to change him, his to punish her for some alcohol blurred infraction. I heard it all in my room above.

Not a constant battle, but frequent enough to make home a place of anxiety. Even now the disquiet lingered. I left the kitchen still thinking of them. Ghosts at the table. Everywhere, actually. Trapped in an eternal hatred. More than likely, death had quieted them in nothingness, leaving it just in my thoughts.

Glancing around, everything in the house remained as I remembered it. These last years away changed nothing. Same slip covers on the furniture, same pictures on the walls, same drapes, same knick-knacks unmoved. Memories settled like dust everywhere. It shouldn't matter. They're dead. The house is mine.

Now, if I'll keep it. I'm amazed I got it in the first place. Sure, I'm an only child, but I never felt my parents saw me as more than an impediment to their shrunken lives. Who knows when they put me in the will. Might have done it early when hopes ran high and then forgot to change it, figuring they had plenty of time. Yeah, I'll sell it. It's bigger than what I need.

And I just don't want to be here. I only hope the place isn't like some virus that will infect everyone else living here. Some other kids slowly sinking into himself battered by the joyless atmosphere. I suppose not. I had brightness, color, smiles, friends, and the house might shed its gloom. The light from the windows barely penetrated at the living room. The atmosphere outside sucked away any color the room might have had. I knew there wasn't much.

Even when I turned on a lamp, it struggled against the browns and beige's and the heaviness of my thoughts. The dull eye of the TV stood in a shadowed corner before two chairs. where my parents always sat silently watching another episode of nothing. I stared at the TV, as though expecting it to turn on with two forms appearing in the chairs. And I'd be here again watching them before turning to my room upstairs. I shook the sensation away, but had this odd feeling I'd never really left. Of course, I had.

I knew that. but it felt almost as though the miles I drove. The thousand miles of roads evaporated as I covered them leaving me here, no longer attached anywhere else. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how wherever I'd been these last years hadn't severed me from this place. Even far away, this dreariness, this deadening. mood had infected me.

I hated the thought, but I felt more myself here than in my distant condo. Not pleasantly, just deep in my head. Even at the funeral, I couldn't say much to people who came up to me given their condolences. They asked what I was doing, even though I'd always been mostly separated from those lives, and knew they hardly cared. They asked why I hadn't come around. and I muttered something about business. I didn't mention I never intended to come back.

They moved on as they might from a stranger. No one mentioned I never gave a eulogy. The rain had picked up and droplets ticked at the windows sounding like grains of sand. Even as a kid, these kinds of days depressed me. The clouds, the gray, the emptiness made everything seem so much worse. I heard a sound, barely audible, like a thud. Not sure if it came from above or below.

I listened more closely but heard nothing more and headed for the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Halfway up I turned and gazed back at the living room, almost expecting to see them there ignoring me as I went to bed. Upstairs I turned down the hall light and went into my room. Sparse now. just a maid bed, a dresser and chair, in an empty closet. Whatever I once had here, I'd taken. The rest obviously found the garbage can. A wiped clean impression.

Maybe if I'd had sporting trophies and learning plaques, they would have been happy knowing they could hold their heads up as high as other parents. I think they thought of themselves higher up the totem pole than they really were. but I was a bit frail and never all that healthy so I didn't measure up to the fancier folks kids I'll bet mom and dad wish they could have given their Christmas presents to Phil and Marge's boy on a roll and capped into some team or another well they're not worrying about that now

this room upstairs was marginally mine downstairs a territory I exist existed in but really didn't inhabit. I had a hard time remembering friends, any acquaintances, being here. I wanted friends who knocked on the door and asked me to play ball, or go bike riding, or just hang out somewhere.

I knew kids, of course. How couldn't you, being in school? Some were nice, but never in a way that met, come along with us. politeness was bred into them and I didn't know what to say or do to change things the way I looked the paleness of me

all the times I didn't know how to act with regular kids made me unable to present myself as anyone worthwhile I suppose it could be my fault maybe I should have been more outgoing join in things No, that couldn't have happened. I'd grown afraid. How could I invite anyone over?

What might erupt, been said. And then what? Mom and dad weren't any help. They seemed perfectly content to have me isolated my own little world. If their friends came over, they never said, bring your own kids so they can play with Sam. never pushed me to do more. They say forgiveness is good for the soul.

Perhaps. I'll think about it. Back downstairs I went into the kitchen. Stood there a moment staring at the cellar door. I had roamed the house, but I knew eventually this was where I'd gravitate to. Behind it, down there, is where I played as a child, as a teenager. In that gloom I made myself a world.

Never again did I think I'd be stepping down there. And yet, for some reason, I felt I wanted to. A sound again broke the silence. This time I'm sure it came from the cellar. The furnace? No, more like a rustling. Maybe a raccoon or a rat. Still, the thought of the furnace brought back memories.

It became like a living presence as I spent my childhood working near it. I opened the cellar door, gazing down the gray-painted steps leading to the cellar made me uneasy. A musty smell wafted up from the darkness. Again, I could hear a sound, something moving. Something flickered in my brain. Flipping the light switch, I could see the lighting down here hadn't changed much. But what held me more was the dirt floor below the last step. Since entering the house, I tried not to think about both parents there.

Dad sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. His neck broken. Mom nearby, though her death was odd. She died near him. Face contorted. Hands at her throat. Maybe a heart attack. Police didn't know what to think about her,

but left it as the death's being an accident and natural causes. Mom couldn't stand seeing her husband dead. All I know is that both dying is the only thing that could have brought me home. I started down, holding the wobbly banister. Some stairs had the same creek. The rising earthy smell now seemed to envelop me and pull me downwards more than my own energy. I felt as though I needed to go down.

That sound again. soft rubbing against something at the bottom I glanced around at the boxes filled I was sure with stuff meant to be used but never was

all the paraphernalia every cellar seems to collect walls were stone not the smoothness of poured foundation part of the floor had been cemented near the furnace The dirty windows let in the light, but this was the world of my use. Instead of playing ball on the field out back or hanging out with friends or taking trips and attending summer camp,

down here existed a world where a few things could touch me, where I spent untold hours. Even now I felt the ghosts around the kitchen table were kept out. I felt comfortable being here. I couldn't believe it when I saw the table with my chemistry lab on it books and other creation, space stuff I had made to keep busy down here. Covered with dust were my chemical bottles.

My dried-out glass bunsen burner and a flask I once found in a nearby factory dump. The furnace snapped on, solidifying all my thoughts. Going over, I sat at the wooden tree. chair at the table, brushing away cobwebs from a cabinet. I opened the door and saw all the harmless chemicals, utensils, and test tubes that fed my little world, my escape. A scratch pad with scribblings about some experiment sat at one side. I thought that had been lurking in my head finally broke through. One other thing that kept me

living in my own little world, even help me exist beyond the cellar. Thomas, every kid, I suppose, has an imaginary friend, a confidant, someone to play with, talk over problems with, look for answers from. Unseen, I still visualized him. A thin fellow, yellow hair that kind of stuck out. But most of all, a kind of. a lot like the ones I saw on television, probably a composite of a lot of TV kids. The thing was, I knew he liked me.

No, he didn't talk to me, although in a way he did. I could hear it in my head, answers to my questions, remarks on how well I was doing in a chemistry experiment. God, how easy it is to feel him with me even now. It wasn't only down here, but here is where he existed more fully. Here is where I talked to him more freely. I did in other places, but it didn't always work out well. I think I was five or six when I made the mistake of bringing him to the dinner table.

Naturally, no one saw him. I just talked as though he was there. I felt no matter what happened with my parents, he'd be supporting me. I wanted him so much to be a part of the family. I even asked my mother to set a place for him. Big mistake. Mom rolled her eyes and flung down a plate next to mine. When I kept staring, she added a fork and glass.

Dad, though, slammed his cleat. glass down and pointed a finger at me, told me in no uncertain terms to grow up and act like other kids. Yet, I had a calm feeling because Thomas was there. Other times I go in the yard with my ray gun and play with Thomas. I dash about shooting and hiding and sometimes grab my chest shot by an alien. I felt Thomas there guarding me in some way. I was quite young then, so such things were easy to imagine. One day I came home from school and found a puppy curled up on the floor in the living room.

My parents were sitting in their chairs and turned their heads to me. Neither had a pleasant look on their faces. Dad pointed at the dog. That, he said shaking his head, is a present from your aunt Delilah. Figured you needed a companion. is how she put it. Damn dogs. But Delilah is taking care of this so I couldn't say no.

It's your dog and your responsibility. Understand? Don't screw it up. And please, Mom piped up. Don't let it make a mess. I rushed over and grabbed the dog tight like I'd never held anything before or since. But when I lifted it, it had peed on the floor. Mom stared at the spot and rushed into the kitchen for sprays and cloths.

I slipped away with the dog as she angrily scrubbed. Right away, I called the dog Puddles. I was quite happy at that time. I had Thomas and now a dog. Puddles followed me everywhere and we became a trio. I think Mom and Dad yelled at me less. Thomas loved Puddles as much as me. I just knew.

I would sometimes see puddles curled on the bed and suddenly make a start as though something had touched it. But it wasn't an agitated sound. More like it had been petted. Then came that one time when I turned to Thomas more than anyone. We were both outside playing.

This time was cowboys. Puddles scampered about. He ran into bushes and we searched him out. I got tangled in the branches just out of reach of him. I almost grabbed him, but he broke loose and ran to the driveway. Then the street. I yelled for him to stop, kept yelling, but it was too late.

I blamed myself and cried for days. My parents offered little help. Dad shook his head and said he figured something like this would happen. reluctantly he let me bury him in the backyard but Thomas was there when I talked to him don't ask me how but I could hear his answers to my

blaming myself seem more than just in my head I just knew I needed him more and more I turned to Thomas even as I grew older he got me through a lot of tough times. Sometimes I could almost visualize him sitting in the chair across from my bed or sitting on a pile of boxes in the cellar. But age does make a difference and I understood a thing like

an imaginary friend wasn't something a teenager should have. I poured myself into my studies figuring in some way. I'd build a world I could exist in, but I still found myself talking to Thomas. Couldn't help myself. One time I talked non-stop to him, mostly spouting off about what I'd be doing once I became 18, packing up and moving away, go somewhere and get a job, anything to get out of here. Saying that to Thomas made me realize, I basically told him I didn't need him anymore. Even as I said it, I felt a brush of air against my arm. Then a few pieces of paper on my desk fluttered.

A box tumbled from a nearby pile. Something like a whisper emerged after the sound of the box faded. I turned to see if mom or dad had slipped into the cellar, maybe bringing down laundry. Relieved, I saw they weren't there and wouldn't make a big deal about my talking to no one. But over time, the odd sensation wouldn't leave me. No matter how I tried to think logically, I knew I couldn't banish Thomas back into some adolescent make-believe world. I had relied on him too much.

I gave him everything I would have expected in a real friend. He was my real friend, and I never made him feel otherwise. I remember distinctly, clear as day now. That time I felt something brushed me. and how the light from the cellar window briefly dimmed as though something had passed in front of it. And there was a sound, not a growl or a chirp. It was, it didn't seem right, like breathing. I knew raccoons and birds and chipmunks breathed,

but this didn't sound like anything I imagined they would sound like. These inhalations and exhalations are so regular and so, well, human. But no one else was in the cellar. I walked every inch of it. I was alone. The breathing seemed almost excited, but it scared me. I remember thinking, I'm out of here. Out of the cellar, the house, the lives infecting this place.

I ran up the stairs even as the breathing grew louder. I slammed the cellar door shut, leaned against it, ignoring the stairs from my parents at the kitchen table. I didn't answer their questions, didn't want anything to do with them, with this house, with this life. And I rushed to my room, stayed there planning on how to leave for good. And within a month? That's exactly what I'd done. I wish I could say that by leaving I became happier, but things never really turned out the way I envisioned. Sure, I got a job across the country, managed a few acquaintances.

But the string connecting us to the past doesn't just snap. I was somewhere new, but I couldn't fit into it. Even so, coming back here was never an option. But deaths and legal crap meant it had to be. Absently, I picked up a few bottles of chemicals from the chemistry set, brushed the dust off the labels, and read the names, remembering some experiment or another. A stupid reflex caused me to listen for sounds from upstairs, as though I'd hear my parents muffled voices.

A click in the furnace roared. It jarred me into a little. a vague sense that I needed to escape to the world beyond the window, to go back up, lock the door, sign the papers, and step into something new. That's where I should be rushing to. But something pulled me back. The brighter thought darkening, sitting, fingering a stained test tube, I again wondered if I fit in at all out there, now or then. Down here, knowing no one upstairs would be finding me useless, I felt comfortable. The mustiness, the dampness, even the clutter possessed a certain calmness.

The thought of escape faded. The furnace died. Quiet. I watched dust particles float in the dim light. Oddly, I felt contented. Suddenly the dust particles dance as though fan by some unseen movement. A light scraping noise came from across the room. And again, as I did years ago, heard the same inhalation and exhalation.

Only this time they seemed faster. A box moved, and suddenly I felt a presence behind me. I didn't want to turn. I gripped the flask, ready to swing it at an intruder. The breathing moderated, and... I felt pressure on my shoulder. I glanced at the wall before me. The light from the cellar window cast my shadow on it, but no other.

Yet the pressure remained. Slowly, I turned and saw nothing. The pressure had lifted. I started to rise. Sam. The voice didn't come from a particular place. I wondered if it came from inside me. But it came again, followed by something prying the flask from my hand.

Something stood beside me. A word formed that seemed preposterous, but I knew was right. Thomas? I asked. Again, the light pressure in my shoulder. We were friends. Always have been. The voice replied.

I've been waiting. You needed to come back. I needed you to come back. There can be nothing for you out there. I could feel it. The emptiness when you were gone. Was there emptiness for you? I nodded.

to be back here. Us together. Together, we'll do things. If my parents hadn't died, I'd never have returned. The voice came to me smoothly. At a friendlier manner I always envisioned. I almost knew the next words. Shoving your father was easy.

I realized over time I could make things happen. The first time was when I petted. puddles and he made a noise because of it. It built over time until I knew. Suffocating your mother became easy. Are you angry? Forgiveness is good for the soul. I thought again.

Mom was a victim. Twice. Then I thought of something else. Back in the days when Thomas and I talked, or I talked, I can remember the words I spoke. I said them and I meant them. I remember crying as I issued from my mouth. I hate them, I had said.

More than anything, I wish they were dead. Even as I thought it, I didn't feel the remorse I figured I would. I felt I didn't want to move. became lulled by the gentle breathing near me. The cellar grew warm, the dampness evaporated, and contentment embraced me. I rose and walked back upstairs. A bit of sun had started to appear.

The kitchen brightened. I felt Thomas near me. And I thought, If I didn't sell the house, This feeling of contentment could all remain. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Your First Jackalenton, written by AJ Sims, and narrated by Megan McDuffey. My first time carving a jackal lantern is my favorite memory with Grams.

You remember that Grams was eccentric, trick, which is just a Minnesota nice way of saying she was a little baddy. She was mostly Christian, but she liked to dabble in other things. Keeps me feisty, she used to say. So just as you'd find her in the pew every Sunday for 7.30 a.m. Mass, you'd also find her dancing around her fire pit every Saturday at midnight while burning sage and trying to befriend lost ghouls. I think that's why she loved Halloween so much. It was an all-encompassing festival for her to celebrate. Sowan, All-Hallotide, All Saints Day, Reformation Day, Halloween, Di De De Los Mueros, she could hit them all in one 48-hour swoop.

And it's my birthday, the birthday of her first granddaughter. Laugh all you want, but even Grams believed I'm special. When I turned 15, Grams wanted to have a special birthday seance with just the two of us. October 31st was on a Monday that year, and my kinsignera was the following weekend. so Mom let me stay with Grams for the night. When Mom dropped me off at the ranch, she said to enjoy the carving, and that she would pick me up the next day as an enchanted woman. Age 15 is a rite of passage for us, but it's an extra special right of passage in our family.

Grams said our blood is connected to the energy shift, and that we had to provide the beacon of lights for spirits, seeking to slip through the thin veil between life and death. Grams also said never to tell anyone that. My friends thought it was weird I would spend my birthday with Grams instead of them, but I was so excited. Mom and Aunt Irma always talked about how special their 15th birthday was, so 15 was this magical age in my mind,

and I couldn't wait to see what would happen. When Mom dropped me off, Grams was already waiting outside in her overalls and balancing an axe on her shoulder. She told me to hurry and change into my ranch work clothes and meet her in the barn. We were going to carve a jack-lantron. Mom and dad dressed us up in homemade costumes every year to go trick-or-treating, but we'd never carve jack-o-lanterns before. Dad used to tease mom about it, saying she was too paranoid about letting us carve pumpkins with knives. I've never asked him if he knew what the real reason was, why Mom made us wait until we were 15.

I still remember how pissed you were when you found out I would get to carve a jack first. Mom reminded you that I was a lot older and would get to do these special traditions first, but you cried anyway. You even tried to hide in the trunk of the car to sneak along, but we found you. You stomped all the way to your room and slammed your door shut so hard that the pictures fell off the wall. Anyways, once I was inside the barn, Grams had me sweep the hay into the stalls and move her horses to the smaller stable. She rolled a large wooden table into the center of the barn. below an opening in the loft that allowed a perfect beam of moonlight through. It was still too dark for me to see, though, so we lit candles and placed them around the table.

Grams's ranch had electricity. She wasn't that old. But we both agreed a special event, like a first jack-lantron carving, was more fun by candlelight. Grimes was very much a hands-on learner, so she taught me in the same way. We walked out to the back field where she had three jacks still tan. tangled up in the vines, lying in the dirt. She told me it was a common misconception to start with a smaller one for your first time, that the larger ones are relatively hollow and easier to get your hands into when gutting them. So I picked the largest one, which was lighter in color, and free of blemishes.

Mom wouldn't tell me much, but she did tell me to pick one free of blemishes. Graham squeezed the jack between her hands and smiled. I didn't even have to tell you to pick the first. firmest one. This one is definitely a prized specimen. After she severed the jack from its body with the axe, we cradled it between us, rather than pulling it by the little hairs that stuck out the top, and carried it back to the barn. Once we got it on the table, Grams unrolled a velvet cloth that contained multiple knives, ranging in size from butcher to pairing. As she ran each blade against her stone sharpener, I filled a bucket with warm water, and wiped my prize down with a rag to

remove the dirt. Now we're ready for the mess, Graham said, and guided my hand with a serrated blade into the top to cut out the lid. She kept her hand on mine to maintain a 45-degree inward angle so that the lid wouldn't fall in when it was empty. I'd known carving jackal lanterns was messy, but I wasn't prepared for so much liquid to pour out. At first I thought I'd grabbed a bad one that was rotten inside, but Graham said they were all like that. It was a little, gross, the slimy lumps that fell out when I tipped it on its side to empty it out. Grams handed me a large metal ladle to scoop the rest of the gore out and slop it into a bucket. When I asked why we weren't just throwing the guts away, Grams said,

Waste not! She told me we'd take everything out to the burn pit later and leave it for the wildlife to eat. She was a big believer in the circle of life. She also believed, as she took care of nature with her farm, nature would take care of her. Now we know to burn it all, so nothing is left behind for others to find. When I finished emptying out the jack and cleaning up the lid, Grams pulled out a smaller serrated knife and said it was time for the eyes.

She traced the edge of the knife in two triangles, leaving a thin red line for me to cut along. I was thankful she did this, otherwise I'd probably have ended up with two lopsided eyes. I didn't have a steady hand or artistic eye, for things like tracing faces on circular objects, but Grams said I would learn with practice. Once I cut through the skin, meat, and bone, the two triangle eyes popped right out, but they left a spider-web of stringy tendrils behind. Grams handed me a craft knife to neaten up the edges and

cut the strings. Then we repeated the process for a triangle nose, large, gaping mouth. Graham said the following year we would work on leaving the teeth in and designing more of an expression on the Jack's face. The first time she just wanted me to get a feel for the process. After an hour, we'd cut, gutted, and carved a face that, while not necessarily spooky, was definitely a jack-o'-lantern. It might not seem like that big of an achievement, but I was pretty proud of how it turned out. We threw all the entrails out by the fire pit, and Grams hurried me back to the barn. Now for the best part, she said, clapping her hands together and dancing as she used to do when she was excited.

She pulled a long, skinny box from under the table and handed it to me. It was wrapped in the most beautiful and shiny purple wrapping paper. Our gifts from Grams usually came wrapped in the Sunday comics, so this was definitely a special gift for it to be wrapped in real wrapping paper. Graham's eyes glistened with so much excitement that I knew whatever was inside had to be nothing short of magical. I used the pairing knife to carefully cut the edges of the paper and unfold it, revealing a wooden box. I unlatched the lock, and inside was a fat yellow candle.

The wax was wavy and speckled with brown spots, and a long wick stirred at the top. I made it myself, from the fat of your mother's first jack, Graham said, taking the candle out of the box. I've been waiting so many years to share this with my first granddaughter. her. I didn't know you could make candles from the guts, I told her, and she just laughed and told me there was a lot I didn't know. But soon you'll know as much as me. Heck, you'll know more than me someday. She slipped the candle through the top hole in my jack and pushed it into the soft flesh at its base so it would stand upright. I peered through the triangle eyes and watched as Graham struck a wooden match and lit the candle wick. She handed me the lid and, using the little hairs left on top to hold

I placed it on top of my first jackal-lantern. We walked around the barn and blew out all the other candles so that all that was left was the soft yellow light behind the triangle eyes, the triangle nose, and the wide, gaping smile. Now that is a gruesome jack-o-lantern, Graham said with a grin, I'm so proud of you.

When I asked why we carved jackal-lanterns, she cackled and said, Just because where the beacon to pierce the dark veil doesn't mean we can't shine from a fun lantern. While she wouldn't let me take a picture, for obvious reasons, every time I close my eyes, I see that first jack. Grams loved her rituals, which is why I made you wait until Halloween after your 15th birthday to carve your first jack-lantern. Grams can't help us in person anymore, but I'd like to think she would give me her blessing to teach you. She always said I reminded her of herself when she was young, so I'll do my best to conjure her spirit tonight. I was only able to wrangle two jacks for us tonight, but they're both good specimens.

I'll even let you pick first. Don't worry. You will have no trouble carving one of them and your first jack-lantern. I am so excited to pass along her craft now. Honestly, I love Halloween even more than Christmas, and it's because I always got to spend Halloween with Grams. couple years haven't been the same without her. Mom's done her best to make up for it. She's been great with the conjuring. You laugh, but mom can really hold her own. She even helped tangle the vines around the Jax's. That's how she got the black eye. But even with her, it's not quite the same. But now you're here. It warms my heart to know I can finally share some of Grams's knowledge with you. After all, it's up to us to carry on the family traditions.

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