Creepy - Day 17 - Wrath of the Leviathan

Episode Date: October 17, 2021

Beware...***Written by Axel Werner and narrated by Nate Dufort***Bonus Episode: "Seed" written by NM Brown***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe 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, much simply fabrications, is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 17. Wrath of the Leviathan. Written by Axel Werner and narrated by Nate DuFort. The door to the break room bus open as I reach for it, spilling the two full cup of coffee in my hand all over my pristine white dress. shirt. I bite my tongue as the scalding liquid sears my skin, soaking my entire torso murky brown.

Staggering back, I look up to see two of my young co-workers frozen in the doorway, mouth slack with surprise. With a snarl, I push past the two idiots and into the restroom around the corner. Standing before the mirror, I can appreciate how truly fucked the shirt is. scowling I unbutton the garment and inspect the tender pink skin beneath pulling the hem of my undershirt away to better assess the damage it is also tinted a garish brown but not as severely with a sigh I remove the shirt throw it in the sink and say a silent prayer that Mrs. Hahn at the cleaners would be able to work her magic and save it

as I turn the handle of a faucet I hear a deep groaning through the bathroom like old pipes protesting the pressure. I shut the water off almost immediately and step back to listen and hear the same noise once more, but louder this time. I feel the tile beneath me vibrate, and my stomach fills with the lead weight of dread. Forgetting the shirt in the sink,

I quickly walk to the bathroom door and yank it open. People are no longer working at their desk. gathered at the water cooler or falling asleep in a conference room. Some are gathered at the windows, all others stand near their work areas. All stare at the east side windows, still and silent. I follow their gaze just in time to make out the word Dagan, printed in massive faded white letters as the bow of the ship smashes into the building. The floor shifts beneath my feet, sending me to my knees as torrents of glittering razor

sharp glass explode across the office. The concrete above and below gives way like sand as the ship blasts further through the structure. From the floor I watch as screaming people, voices shrill with fear are crushed by debris, cut to ribbons by sharp glass and the metal shrapnel, while still more fall and tumble through the expanding canyon of the compromised floor. mercifully the ship comes to arrest halfway through the office floor desks and chairs and bodies and food and everything that was once normal is crushed beneath or against the barnacle-crusted hull of the freighter called Dagen with a final mournful groan the ship comes to arrest halfway through the building and as the sounds of destruction fade and settle a chorus of sobs and whales floats up among the creaking and

popping of the stressed, ruined ship in the center of it all. I feel a hand to my back, and I look back to see. Megan, Martha, a young girl that had just started Monday as an intern in my department. A jolt of terror takes me as I gaze into her ruined face before I realize that her mascara has formed a black mask around her eyes. Dark lines tracing down her face like ghostly fingers where it had run. She trembles, mouth, open and disbelief, as she takes in the catastrophe before us. Taking her smaller hand in mind, a gesture toward the bank of elevators to our left.

Let's get out of here before it comes back. Go. Call the car. I'll gather whoever I can. Go! She rushes to the panel set in the wall, furiously stabbing the down button with a manicured finger. Turning, I cast my eyes to the floor. worrying more about those hurt too gravely to walk themselves out of here. Others in the vicinity have taken notice and make their way toward the elevator doors. I call out to them.

Check everyone. They might need help. Get them out of here. As I searched for the injured, a dark-haired woman crushed between her desk and one of the large support pillars. I put my hand over my mouth and walk on. An older gentleman, his face and neck coated with bright red blood. He's gone No sign of breath

And no pulse Closer to the ship A small hand Complete with a Mickey Mouse watch It's all I can see from under a pile of grey rubble A pool of blood spreading and running through the spaces in the rock Tears run freely from my eyes As I make my circuit

And I can't find anyone else That hadn't already made their way to the elevator area All I see are corpses, the unlucky ones caught right at the worst of it. Maximum carnage. Minimum survival. The elevators crammed full when I walk up. Mary, Megan, whatever her name is, holds open the door from the front of the pressed crowd. I see wide, scared eyes, lots of tears, in concrete dust and hair, coating their skin and clothes.

As I set foot across the threshold, I hear a small voice, calling out in distress. I hesitate, turning back and scan the room for movement. Megan calls out to me again, pleading for me to get your ass in here so we can leave. I glance back at her, just as another vibration comes through the building, sending me wheeling my arms for balance. As it fades, the open car of the elevator drops a few and a few. inches and the occupants scream. I look into Megan's eyes, wide with fear, before the cable snaps and the car drops. I rush to the edge of the shaft, watching the steel cable whip and waver with tremendous

speed as it follows the card down the 55 stories to the ground. The blood-curdling screams fade as the car gains speed, sending 20 or so people to a quick death at the bottom of the shaft. I vomit then. coating the thin gray carpet with what used to be a frozen breakfast sandwich. I hear the small voice behind me once more. No words I can understand. Just the keening wail of an abandoned child.

Walking in the direction of the wall, I yell for a reply, trying to hone in on their position. My jaw drops when I stop before the pile of rubble. The hand with the Mickey Watch is scrabbling against the ground. and the muffled cries wander up from under the pile. With all my strength, I begin to pull rocks away, casting them to each side as I burrow toward the small survivor. I stop when I find a tattered, dusty pink backpack,

notebooks and school supplies visible through the holes. The cries are just below it. I call out loudly but as soothing as I can. I'm here, sweetheart. Just hold on. I'll get you out of there. As I pull up on the pink fabric of the bag, it tears away in my hand, spilling its contents among the debris. I keep pulling, casting the ruined backpack away as I finally see the child beneath. Her eyes are closed and she's covered in a thick layer of gray dust.

Streaks of blood line her skin from various cuts and scrapes, but nothing severe I can see. As I haul her away from the rubble, she goes limp in my arms, breathing soft. but alive. Cradling the small girl against my chest, I rush back toward the bank of elevators and feel my heart twist as I look at the yawning maw of the dark, empty shaft. I kick open the emergency door to the stairs

and no alarm sounds. Power is out for almost all the building. Emergency power compromised by the destroyed infrastructure. I start the long descent to the ground, the girl drawing shaking breaths of my arm, and coughing weakly. The darkness is almost absolute. But after a minute I can make out the red glow

from active emergency lighting about a dozen stories below me. The girl shifts in my arms, trying to sit up against the jarring motion as we descend the stairway. She lets out another weak cough, making a raspy sound within her throat. Her arms find their way around my shoulders, around my neck,

and slowly draws tighter as I take the stairs. steps. The skin is cold, clammy, reminding me of the cooling body of the older man I had checked earlier. She begins to cough and wheeze once more, a nasty, sick sound like her lungs were full of liquid. After a moment, I do feel liquid. It's running down my back as she expulses it. I stop at the next landing. The red lights, just a couple of floors down now, casting eerie light, in long shadows through the railing. I kneel beside the girl, watching as the liquid continues to dribble from her slack mouth.

After a moment, I gently draw her face up to look. Her features unnatural in the ominous red glow. Her eyes which had been closed or drawn to slit since I recovered her, now lay open and glazed like the many corpses above. She wretches once more, violent convulsions racking her small frame, before going still. At a moment of panic,

I grab her face with both hands and lean in close, staring into her dead eyes. After a moment, the tears begin to flow once more. And my own sobs seem to make their own echoing chorus in the strange acoustics of the stairwell, bouncing and reverberating together as I release my pain. I hold her cold, limp hand,

and stare at the familiar Mickey watch, just like the one I had when I was a kid. Then the girl sits up with a rigid bird-like series of movements, eyes still unblinking, before bearing her teeth in a demented snarl. Her pale skin looks unhealthy, dark spider webs of vein visible beneath her translucent skin. It reminds me of the bloated bodies that are sometimes pulled from the river,

pale and sickly pungent. With a raspy screech, she tackles me in an awkward assault and gangly, uncoordinated limbs. I don't fight. I'm too scared and too tired. I'm probably in shock, I think. She drags me down to the ground as her teeth bite and gnash at the exposed flesh of my neck. I feel my thoughts cloud and fade as my body goes cold. The blood gushes from the wound.

I feel the cold floor against my cheek. And everything goes. goes black. I drop the mug of coffee in my hands as the scalding liquid flows over the brim, scalding my hands. It shatters against the breakroom floor, coating my shoes and spraying the floor. The door bursts open just a moment later. The two rambunctious young men caught in conversation. They stop, silently, looking from me to the mess around my feet in a state of confusion. my hands tremble and my knees grow weak. I look out into the main floor of the office and see Megan striding by,

a leather bag in her off hand as she holds a phone to her ear with the other. As she disappears around a corner, I realize the two guys have been talking to me, asking what happened with my coffee. As I turn to face them, I do a double take as I catch a ball take as I catch a box. bright spot of pink standing out among the muted grays and browns of the mundane office. A small girl stands across the space.

A pink backpack held over one shoulder. She sees me through the breakroom windows and raises a hand in greeting. I do not wave back. I can't do anything, but stare at the familiar watch. on her wrist. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents, Seed,

written by N.M. Brown. This is my mother's first Halloween without my dad. He passed away unexpectedly at the beginning of February, and they've been married for most of her adult life. Enough time has passed

for her to be able to smile again, but I still worry about her being alone in that empty house, and on her favorite holiday, no less. College had taken me out of state during the golden years of my father's life. Love and parenthood had kept me there, eager to settle into a beautiful life with my family. Kieran I never married. She was too free for that.

When she told me that marriage was a meaningless construct, a mere piece of paper, I became worried about losing her. If she couldn't commit to that, I don't know why I thought two kids would have made her day. So when I found out my dad died, it wasn't difficult to pack us up and move back home. Mom would need me. And selfishly, I also knew she'd help with the kids. We settled into a nice three-bedroom house at decent rent, about 20 miles from my mom's place. Anyway, Halloween. I offered to bring the kids over for the evening and stay with her, order pizza, watch scary movies, that whole bit.

I'll get you whatever snacks you want from the store. We can watch Bride of Reanimator. I know you've always had the hots for Jeffrey Combs. Come on, Ma. What do you say? Surprisingly, she adamantly refuses. I'm fine, Jake. I already have a full evening ahead.

Not even for wine, chocolate, and combs, I teased. Stop it. She laughs, swatting. at me. She starts to ramble about the pumpkin that she grew in her garden, saying it'll be the best Jack Lantern in the world has ever seen. All these summers, I tried to have a pumpkin patch, and all these years I haven't gotten anywhere. Barely a single sprout. This year is different, though. I didn't get a whole patch, but I was able to grow a single pumpkin. Isn't it gorgeous Jake? She holds the winter squash proudly in the air with both hands as if offering it to the heavens.

It was larger than a pie pumpkin, rounder than a Cinderella pumpkin, but smaller than a jackal lantern. In reality, it looks like a mutated tomato. The skin is smooth and has a rust-colored vermilion hue. If not for the trace of orange at the top and bottom, I think my mother lost her mind. Still, she grew it and I'm happy for her. Once she starts explaining the slow, patient process of roasting the perfect pumpkin seeds, I politely concede and promise to leave her to her evening. On the drive home, I can't shake the feeling that something's off.

I make a mental compromise with myself, deciding to bring the kids by for a quick hello before trick-or-treating. If everything's fine, we'll be on our way. Surely she can't be annoyed when she sees them in their costumes. The kids are already dressed when I get home. Jeremy in a shining night outfit while Bella dawns a black wedding dress and face paint. We're going to stop by Grandma's on the way to the big neighborhoods, okay? I think I saw two full-sized candy bars sitting on her kitchen table.

Wonder who they could be for. I tease. Neither sun nor moon or in sight when we get to Mom's house. A perfect state of time. dusk. Her porch light shines off the metal witch that sits on the porch. I announced my entrance as I enter the front door. The kid bounding past me to look for their grandmother. An acrid stench curls my stomach along with the hairs in my nose. It smells like disturbed earth, along with sweet, stale rot. My stomach flips as my mouth fills with spit in order to purge itself, but my daughter's word

stopped the bile midway in my throat. Oh my God, Grams, are you okay? I hear Bella's voice squeak out against the silence. I run to them. Hundreds of fatal scenarios flashing through my mind all at once about what I'll see when I turn that last corner. The silence, the smell. What I see isn't as bad as I thought it would be, but still very alarming.

My mother stands at her kitchen counter with her back to me. feverishly hacking away at the pumpkin. Flex of blood speckled her bare feet in the kitchen floor. Each time she draws her arm back, streams of crimson shoot from in front of her. Christ, Mom, what happened here? I ask. She turns to a slowly, a hauntingly wide smile on her face. I look her over quickly, finding no abrasions or even evidence of broken skin.

The red liquid was coming from the pumpkin. I brought rare seeds to grow a special type. Pretty cool, huh kids? She winks at my children, now with wide smiles of their own. No freaking way, Jeremy exclaims. That's so cool! Language, Jeremy. My mother then turns to me, the smile quickly melting into a scowl as she meets my eyes.

And you coming to check on me. What? Did you think I'd fall and break a hip, Jacob? Her hands wave with emphasis as she speaks at me, covering herself with pumpkin blood splatter. The smile returns to her face as she looks at my son. I swear, kid, you clothe them, feed them, wipe their ass for them, only for them to treat you like a life alert commercial.

We help her clean up the rest of the pumpkin guts before heading out. She pops a raw seed into her cheek as she walks us to the door. My face scrunches and unease. I thought you were going to roast them, Mom. How can eat them plain like that? They will be. I only need this one. She comments before swallowing the seed like a pill.

The kids visit most of the houses that participate, though there aren't nearly as many as there were last year. Contact fell off with my mother a little while after that. We would call and text intermittently, but each time I told her I'd come by, she told me she wasn't feeling well. I gave her some deserved space and privacy, figuring the sickness may have been mental and not so much the calm and cold,

when she didn't want to get together for Thanksgiving, well, that's when I started to worry. I was about to show up randomly for a well visit, whether she wanted me to or not until a voicemail changed my mind. I'd miss the call due to being at work, and I didn't get to listen to it until I got home later that evening. Jake, it's your mother. I've been feeling a lot better lately and want to make up for the time we've missed.

I so miss the kids, and yes, I guess you too, but only a little. She jokes before continuing. I want you to come over with the kids and see for Christmas. We can have presents, music, and food, just like when you were little. I love you. We arrived for Christmas. I reel to see the state my mother's in. The skin across her belly looks stretched and swollen.

Her face is drawn, pale and gaunt. After dinner, she joyfully calls us around the Christmas tree saying she has big news. I planted my garden over your father's body. Even from death. She pauses, smiling at her growing belly. He was able to give me his seed. For even more from creepy, including how to submit your own story for consideration,

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