Creepy - Day 18 - Perennial Hubris & Sculpture of Flesh

Episode Date: October 18, 2024

Perennial Hubris***Written by: ZugZuwang and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Perennial_Hubris***Content is available under CC BY-SA***Sculpture of Flesh***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. listener discretion is advised. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magically devious time of year.

It's day 18 of the 31 days of horror. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep. Your voice in the darkness here to guide you through the chaos to find your story, and to, well, I can't spoil all the surprises. The phone lines are open. Caller you're on with K-R-E-P. Can you help me?

Depends on what kind of help you're in search of. Well, see, I have a problem with perennial hubris. Semantic satiation. A psychological occurrence wherein the repeated usage of a a word or phrase within a short period of time causes it to lose any semblance of meaning for the listener as they begin to perceive this speech as nothing but nonsensical sounds, becoming lost in the mind as purposeless nothingness. This phenomenon plagues us all to a lesser or greater degree, because speech and written language

are all based upon the axiom that words have contextual nuance for each and every human being, where it unquestionably means more to us than it should. Every person attaches their own perceptions, memories, and personal thoughts to their language, with the possibilities nigh on infinity. The conflict of semantic cessation hits us hard because we realize that, without the human touch that we give everything in life, that attachment of value and substance, without it, all words become meaningless,

just sounds produced by the simultaneous movements that your vocal cords and tongue make. It dulls the senses to the world of linguistics, creating a less than compelling existence. And at the moment, this occurrence is happening to one such word in particular. Halloween All Hallows Eve has lost a lot of the previous nuance and ideology attached to it over the years. The original concept was forged by the highly admirable ancient Celts. It was a solemn tree.

tradition, oftentimes the part of the year that it was celebrated was linked to death, with the harsh winters, unforgiving and cruel to crops and humans alike. It was thought that the boundary between the dead and the living slackened on or around October the 31st, and that the specters of past lives roamed the earth once more as the evening set in. The Celts would sacrifice offerings of animals to their gods, a bleak compromise to keep themselves safe, with effigies and costumes made from deceased fauna that had been given as appeasement. The entire event was about protection, an unsung vow to keep one's family safe from the forces of evil during the winter months.

Those Celts had it right, and I believe this with more certainty as I grow into my mid-20s. What began as a fun piece of off-hand information became something more as I really researched their ways. I became passionate about their rituals, inspired by their tales and folklore. That's why I devote so much of my time to them, I make sure the gods know I am a believer, that I know of the old ways. I wear a Celtic band ring that warms my finger, a subtle sign of loyalty. I must have thumbed through the same mythology books at least a thousand times. I give thanks to the only true connection I've ever felt in this sickly place when I can, because I feel the bond. I've been called a lot of things by my peers, but I know the truth. It's the enduring, ever-present

sense of solidarity that I get whenever I think of those now seldom seen traditions, a feeling that none of my school friends family or romantic partners ever gave me. The key is here. The solution deep within the Celtic mythos. And of course, I figured it out. The unfortunate reality is that, through the adoption of modernity, semantic cessation has taken over. because as I walk through the township environment that I live in,

I find my skin crawling, my very soul wrenching and writhing as I walk past the 15th Novelty Halloween store. The plastic pumpkins, the cheap costumes, the utterly offensive occult mass-produced garbage that litters every single one of them repulses me. Of course there are still believers, but they are still so very tame, and so small in population that they barely make a difference. The scourge of Christ's doctrine has seen to that. And so a complete overhaul is needed, a harrying, a purge. My black lace-out boots trudge with anguish on the sidewalk, staring daggers at the motion-activated skeleton

with some pre-recorded scream playing as I walked by. I despise what Halloween has become. A mockery, a shadow of its former self. I refuse to engage. Every year I put up the no-trick or treating sign in the hopes that my vitriol won't spill over due to a few brats dressed like a bastardized rendition of Frankenstein. I envision them coming to the door, disgusting faces, grinning with glee,

as they thrust out their little bags, waiting for candy, a bludgeon hitting them over and over until they can no longer stand. It's revolting. The parody it has become is insulting, to the gods, to people like me. I am above that, above the filth that people call a celebration. Well, no more, no longer. No more insolent vulgarities that tarnish the deity's vision.

I'm going to bring Sawan back to its former glory. My plan has been brewing for a few weeks. now, and today is the day I finally execute it. I'm going to be infamous, notorious, a legend among men. The idea makes me feel exceptionally good, people finally recognizing who I am. Ever since I was young, I knew I could do great things. I knew I had the potential for something more than my peers. The idea of a career just never appealed, the calling for something else gripping me tighter.

And now I know what that is. All Hallows Eve will mark my deserved place in the world, the man who restores what was lost, purging the disease of modern slobbery. I will become more than a man, in fact. The advantage is that, ironically, the deviation from the old ways of spending the last day of October means that the gods are largely unhindered. All they need now is a vessel. I need one more thing before I can fully begin, which, regrettably, is why I'm strolling around these insufferable places. One of these places catches my eye, not for its intrigue, quite the opposite.

It's the most generic of them all. I like that, because it'll make me and my actions all the more enthralling. When all is said and done, when my plan invariably succeeds, there will be books and movies based on me. and knowing this, knowing I have the power to shape the narrative, to control fate, is utterly phenomenal. I have control over the tiniest details, down to which of these miserable venues I visit, which of these alternatively dressed cashiers, gets to be graced with my presence in their establishment. I do my best to hide my smirk as I enter. It's a tacky little place called the mystifying Emporium,

and about the only thing that connects with its namesake at all is that I find it mystifying that this place is still in business. I peruse the wares, finding little interest in the Halloween knick-knacks and healing Christmas, Not a single thought-provoking item anywhere. My attention turns to the girl at the cash register, my dark green eyes meeting her baby blues for an unnatural period of time. She looks away, trying to ignore me.

Oh, no, you don't. Excuse me, could you tell me where I might find some incense? I resist the urge to break into a smirk once again. I can feel the energy of the room changing dramatically. The squirming, twisting, wonderful awkwardness she's now dealing with. Now she has to talk to me. Uh, yeah, they're like over in the back. I'll go get them for you.

The nervous lilt is unmistakable. She turns on her elevated platform heel, black tresses following her as she goes to the storeroom. I'm now alone, and I chuckle. That was the worst lie I've ever heard. The incense can be easily spotted behind the register. I passed the time thinking about what it would be like to have her. I believe in endeavors of that kind, but only a select few pass. And I decide that she

doesn't, too self-obsessed, consumed by the trends she follows, utterly vapid. I doubt she knows a single skill beyond applying the vampire-like cosmetics she likely does every day. The only reason I would keeper would be as a concubine. She'd be luckier than some. She comes back with a few boxes, placing them on the counter. I approach them, all the while making sure my gaze strays a little too close to her assets, relishing in the clear discomfort she's displaying, shifting her feet, looking anywhere but at my face. I want her to remember me. There are several different types presented in front of me,

candles, sticks, and powders, most notably. I choose the frankincense, benzoyne, and lavender mix. Of the stick variety. Earthly scents to invoke exactly what I need. I finished paying, my wallet now several dollars lighter. My boots stamped towards the door,

and just before I leave, I flash her a devious smile. Happy Halloween. My fruitful trip out has finished, and I'm sad at home once again. My apartment is small, utterly oppressive and dingy, but it beats being on the street with the homeless.

That would truly be a pathetic existence. But of course, the gods would never allow that to happen. My location has many blights, not just homelessness. Poverty, drunkenness, drug dealers, and gangsters are, but the surface of the refuse that infects this whole town. and those in control do nothing. Wretched souls are allowed to fester, legacies scarring their surroundings long after death.

There is no longer any solidarity, no cohesion in repelling the forces of evil that rot at the very core of our society. But that's going to be a thing of the past. I have everything I need on the coffee table. The aforementioned incense, a red fuel container housing gasoline, a set of zip ties, a lighter, a loaded pistol, and finally, my journal. The journal was one of the most important pieces in this grand plan.

It contains the knowledge I've painstakingly compiled, the analysis needed to restore the world afterwards. It is a thesis to unlock the mind, and it will provide the gateway for the greater good. All I must do now is wait. I check my watch. It's a half hour till eight. Time to move.

It's dark, and the tricker-treaters in my neighborhood mostly know to keep away from my door by now, so I won't be disturbed, at least for the time being. I place everything in the trunk, save for the pistol, secured and ready. The drive to my first destination is thankfully uneventful, as I pull up to the church, parking behind the building at the edge of the small patch of woods. The rural areas of town are the perfect cover. for what I must do.

I pull the seats forward in anticipation of what is to come, my five-seater acting as a makeshift bed. I am getting more giddy by the second. My purpose unfolding here tonight, right in front of my eyes. The old ways live through me, and I am more than happy to appease the past. The gun is concealed in my brown jackets inside pocket as I walk inside the holy place, eyes predatory, scanning for what I need.

Ah yes, there he is. Pastor Nichols. He's currently looking over the pews, likely inspecting for anything awry after the service today. I approach him, and he hears me coming. "'Hello, what can I do for you?' he asks in a friendly tone. For a few seconds, I inspect the man before me. I've seen him so many times before, preaching his impotent words in that fatherly voice, graying hair, betraying the frailty he turns to his God to hide from.

As his mouth opens to speak again, his warm and welcoming demeanor becomes wide-eyed panic as I silently raised the gun to aim at his head, beckoning for him to come closer. Getting the man in the back of the car is not an easy task, and I have to hit him a few times with the butt of the pistol before he succumbs to unconsciousness. His attempts to struggle and escape were very superficial.

My youth giving me a sizable advantage over him. His body lies still, though still breathing, sprawled across the back seats. I am relieved that no one has seen me, my decision to park round back, where I'm shielded by the overhanging trees and their surrounding shade, makes a big difference. The zip ties are open on the floor of the car, having been used to fasten his hands. My destination awaits, and I make haste to reach it. The stretch of fields that populate the outermost stretch of town are where my purpose will come to consummation.

I have been here before and found it suitable for my needs. We've come to a barren patch. Only brown, organic dirt stands here. The man in the back of my car begins to stir. My mind is flying to dizzying heights as I take him struggling and pleading out of the trunk, ignoring his frantic cries. I really should have used some tape. Please, whatever you're doing, stop.

You need help, I can help you. He says through tears, likely from the pain of his binds too. I set him down on the ground firmly and clear my throat. You have condemned the practice of all Hallows Eve, the very nature of your work has shunned the tradition. You are agents of deception, turning sinless into sinful, good into evil to further your aims. I watch him flinch at my words, my gaze boring into him as I continue. Your atonement will mark the restoration. The false propaganda will finally see.

cease, and the veil will be torn. The holy man stutters out a response, utterly perplexed, it seems. What, what are you talking about, atonement? I've never sinned, I swear on it on the Lord's name. I smile, moving a lock of brown hair away from my eyes. Your Lord ordered this modern depravity. He is of no advantage to you, nor to me. He senses it's no use, scrambling to his feet,

a wild attempt to make off an escape, barely keeping his balance. I check my watch and sigh. Quarter to ten. My boots follow him leisurely, the stumbling man, making very little progress, his bound hands making him lose his balance constantly. I enjoy the chase, as short-lived as it is, the futile struggle of a pathetic man followed by me, an apex more than he could ever hope to achieve. He's not even worth taunting. His frail body He trips and falls again and again the fragility so embarrassingly obvious that I needn't bother.

He stops breathless, falling to his knees. A vicious strike causes him to keel over onto his side. I strike him a second time. The wimper's coming from him sound like a cornered animal. Yes, that's what he is. A lowly beast. Less than human. I haul him back the way we came,

dragging him by the hair violently, his cries of pain irritating me. He'd been the one who decided to make things more difficult for himself by turning and running. Not me. He looks like, like a mange-ridden dog, spattered with mud, and covered in bruises. I can't risk him escaping again.

I'm already behind schedule. He's too fatigued to try anything regardless, and so I don't bother hitting him again. Instead, I take out my things from the trunk and begin. The man finds a newfound energy as I dump the contents of the container over his putrid body, as it dawns on him what I'm doing. He scrambles up again, panicked. Hands aloft, burning terror in his eyes as he starts to plead again. No, oh no, please, please no, my family! Are the last words he's able to utter

Before I ignite the flammable liquid on and around him. I take a step back, The blinding light of the flame illuminating the whole area. A brilliant orange dance takes him immediately, His agony vocalized in shrill bursts, Developing into prolonged wails as he flared, slails around, a deadly dance with no choreography, the only music to accompany it being his screams. I can't imagine the pain he's feeling, and if I ever could, the display in front of me is too

gorgeous to think about such trivial things. The beauty is immeasurable, and I feel my mind warmed by the heat. I feel so good, so complete and content. I close my eyes, savoring the moment, blocking out his final cries with a blissful sense of tranquility on my face as the runt of a man before me collapses to the floor in throes of death, flesh still burning, peeling away his sin as he expires. I begin to light the sticks of incense, placing them around the still feeding flames. I watch as incense mixes with the plume of smoke as burning flesh, lavender, and benzene coalesce, homogenizing into one united, gaseous form.

The resultant smell intoxicating to my nostrils, a heavenly concoction, one-of-a-kind in every way, assaulting my every sense receptor in a pervasive onslaught. I feel a little weak, the sensations reducing even me to sublime serenity. I must stay focused. My purpose is not complete. The fusion begins to spiral out of control, rising higher and higher, transforming rapidly. The smoke twists and contorts in on itself erratically,

forming into what looks to be a colossal face, gazing down upon me, silent and watchful. The face begins to move towards me. Towers of smoke billowing behind it, forming a mane of black around the being, trailing in its wake like the heads of a hydra. This is the beginning, a new dawn, and the creator has made itself visible to me.

My elation is incomprehensible. The ethereal being, exerting pressure all around, causing immense tremors in the ground, almost throwing me off balance as it lets out what sounds like a low, inhuman yell of anguish. The sky begins to swirl. The nighttime clouds converging into an immense typhoon, churning and circling above the vaporous crows. creature. The smoke face grows in size, becoming even more imposing than before, staring me down with those empty smoke-formed sockets, leaving me frozen to the spot.

The experience is glorious, but I'm taken aback by this power, the sheer rage emanating from this gargantuan entity. It picks up speed, and the sensations begin to rise in intensity. I can barely comprehend, barely fathom the tremendous vigor that this mighty lifeform is displaying in front of my mortal eyes. I can barely stay conscious, eyes watering, body, shaking. The smoke forms a huge mouth, a gaping maw, ready to swallow me whole, hurtling towards me at breakneck speed. My mind swims into a pool of silence, nothing but a soft red light to illuminate it.

I see the light all around me, diffusing into my mind assimilating, merging, the brightness intensifying as bolts of crimson encircle me. I feel every fiber of my body churning from the inside out. A soft sensation begins to envelop me. calming the thoughts in my head, siphoning out the panic, replacing it with calm, collected control.

My very quiddities are metamorphosing into an entirely new amalgamation. The light fades, and it's over, the brightness dimming, then submitting to blackness once again. I begin to drift towards consciousness, vaguely aware that something is different. I awake at home,

my journal clutched in my hand. I don't remember how I got here, but I know what I must do now, a new-found instinctual, compulsion guiding me. The innate knowledge is there, as if I learned from birth. There is a new power coursing within me, something sinister. I get up, my disheveled clothes and complexion, not a bother. My boots once again trudge outside, and I make a little bit of my disheveled clothes and complexion, not a bother. My boots once again trudge outside, and I make my way to the police station.

Smiling with satisfaction, my eyes gleaming. I walk to the front desk and recount everything. And so, where I am now is in the interview room, while the police are assessing the crime scene, awaiting an audience. After what seems like hours, an officer finally walks in. He sits down with a sigh, and I study his weathered face, filled with experience and age. The faint sound of drums echoes in my mind, and I realize I can sense my own heartbeat. This heightened awareness of myself is new.

even for me. The officer rubs his bushy mustache and gets up to turn the video camera on. Good. Soon, they'll all be watching. He sits back down and looks at me with what I know all too well to be a state of reluctance. I smile very slightly, which elicits a sense. sigh from the middle-aged man sat across from me. Uh, state your name for the record on video, please. I go to answer, but find myself lost.

Despite all my awareness, I cannot remember my name. Then, cogs begin to turn in my mind, slowly but surely morphing, clicking into place as something finishes processing in my mind, changing it forever. The previous pith of the man before a part of my cognition is no longer. A flood of memories lost to the centuries cascade into my mind, rejuvenated by a physical form. Flashes of ancient woes of the under, world I ruled and resided in with my dear wife for so long, slumbering until the time came to wield my

divine hand of power, to be recognized as a formidable force of shrewd judgment once again. I smile as I look directly at the man across from me, eyes focused with intent, a glint of red passing over them briefly as I begin to ponder over the world of the people, the things that would transpire, and the depuration that awaits. My new identity flourishes in full, coming to the forefront of my mind, a name to fear, to worship, a name encompassing death itself. Of course. My name is Iran. And now a word from our sponsors. We're back on the air with KREP.

You're not alone. You know that, right? Even when you think it's just you against the world, when the struggles feel like chains striking you underwater, when life doesn't make the least bit of sense. you aren't alone when everything you know is turned on its head there are still people out there who know who understand

maybe that'll help this listener who wrote in with a problem concerning a sculpture of flesh I know about fire you could say I got in my blood my family has a heritage of foundry work It was my first job. I worked it up until I was 22 when I joined the fire department.

Spent 15 years doing that before I started working on my IAAI certification. That's International Association of Arson Investigators for those who didn't know, which is probably anyone hearing this. The parties, no one really wants to talk about their day, but they sure as hell like to ask me about mine. which is kind of silly. They make it seem like every day of my life I'm discovering some crazy arson case or instance, when in reality the stories I tell are from a combination of being a firefighter and an arson

investigator. More often than not, I avoid talking about cases. Some things you can't unsee. But that doesn't mean I feel like relive in them either. Instead, I'd treat it more like a party trick. The key is to drop me in at just the right time. Like when some friends were over and we were watching the Olympic ceremony. Throwing a quick,

did you know that ancient Greeks amazingly started fire with concentrated sunlight? A parabolic mirror that focuses solar rays is still used to ignite the Olympic torch. Some people are interested. Some just nod. Others don't much care. Which is really my endgame. anyway, to get people to stop asking. Not that I don't like my neighbors and friends, just that,

well, if your job involved having to see what happens to a human body exposed to extreme heat, you wouldn't really want to be chatting over that while spooning up some buffalo chicken dip. You get me? Sometimes I get contacted by outside departments to help out. Not because I'm some kind of renowned expert. It's just that we tend to get a lot of cases. cases. A lot. Nationally, arson is the number one cause of fires in the United States, with about 250,000 happening each year. Causing just north of a billion dollars in property loss, 2,000 injuries,

and almost 500 deaths. Only about 15% of all arson cases are solved by making arrests. And half of all arson cases are juveniles. I don't know if the new numbers are up, but the last I heard, Illinois was a state with the most arson cases. But people always think the answer's Michigan. Probably because of that movie, The Crow, and all that devil's night stuff. I remember watching it in high school and thinking the same thing for a long time. But the truth is that Devil's Night really hasn't been a thing since the mid-90s when the mayor finally crack down and started something called Angels Night,

where volunteers walked the streets, trying to make the fire setting more difficult. And it worked. No more devil's night So yeah We stay busy I have more cases than I can clear They keep saying they're gonna hire more people on Try to get some cops to get certified

But it's slow And our funding is shit Maybe if we had more help The cops wouldn't have called me for a consult Nothing I could do to help them anyway But I get why they called I would have too Didn't make any sense at all.

Unofficially, the police referred to it as the robe. At least, that's what they kept calling it as we walked into the medical examiner's office. They were real cagey about it all. And if the chief investigator hadn't told me to get out there and the next and nothing information, I wouldn't have gone. I'm not taking up another day of work to run off on the equivalent of that shit and move where someone says, you better come look at this, instead of saying what they're looking at. Within 10 seconds to seeing why they'd brought me up, I'd figured out why they were so vague on details,

determined it wasn't caused by fire, and was out in the hall trying to catch my breath. On the table was, well, it was a fucking robe, made out of what looked like flesh. but for the life of me I can't figure out what the hell could have caused it Think like a melted stick of butter Or a candle Did you know candle flames are blue at the bottom Because that's where they take up fresh air

And yellow at the top Because rise in fumes from below partly suffocate The upper part of the flame There's something called the wick effect That I've learned most people don't know about Basically it's the idea that if a person's on fire, their own body fats act like fuel to keep the fire going. I couldn't tell you who came up with the term. But think of it like an inside out candle.

The fuel source is the human fat instead of wax. Well, the wick is your clothes instead of an actual wick. So there's a constant supply of fuel in the form of the melting fat seeping into the person's clothes. and who has ever cooked on an open flame knows plenty well how fat reacts to fire. In fact, some people think this is what's actually happening with spontaneous combustion. But the human body isn't made of wax, and it sure as shit doesn't melt. For as amazingly the human body is, the only heat relief system we have is sweating. Warmer gets faster our heartbeats.

This pushes blood out towards the surface of the surface. of our skin, importantly, away from our brains and internal organs so that the sweat on our skin can cool down our blood to keep us from cooking from the inside out. And for the most part, it works really well, as long as it's a dry heat like in Las Vegas, because then our sweat can evaporate. But you get in that humid swampy stuff and it gets harder and harder to handle. The real issue comes from our circulatory system. If it's kicking in too high to cool, it the big risk comes from heart failure. When your body temp hits 105 Fahrenheit,

the actual cell membranes of your body start to melt, and your body starts to dissolve from the inside. Even the proteins start to break down. But that doesn't mean our skin melts. Long before that would happen, our skin chars and burns. You'd probably seen pictures and movies of the body all shriveled and curled into a fetal position. And that sure as hell ain't what I saw.

Once I composed myself and walked back into the morgue, Medical Examiner gave me a closer look, actually holding it up, and there just aren't any words in the English or any other language to do justice to what I saw. It really was a robe made out of flesh. If you're thinking I was looking at some kind of Frankenstein human quilt, you're wrong there.

No stitching, no seams, just a single lump of flesh weighing probably 20 pounds. That's when I learned that our skin makes up about 12 to 16% of our body weight. So it's possible that it was from one person. If it weren't for the faces. You all like scary movies, right? I can't remember which one it was, but one of the Freddy Krueger movies had a scene where he took off his shirt

and there were all these faces on his chest sort of screaming like they were trapped in a tar pit with just their face sticking out. Yeah, like that. Three of them. One on the back, one on each side, near where the breast pocket would be. I just,

I just don't even know. I don't know what to think. It shouldn't exist. Not the way I know of fire or flesh or anything to work. If you pulled the skin off a person, then holy shit, I can't believe that's a sentence I ever had to say. It still wouldn't match up.

We don't look the same on the inside as the outside, but the entire robe appeared to be external flesh, smooth, varying shades of pink. The cops didn't share much information about where it was found, what conditions, or any of that. So I don't have much to go on beyond my first instincts of, That's impossible. Someone or something in this world figured out a way to melt no less than three different people.

Turn them into what amounts to clay flesh, mix them together, and fashion it into a robe complete with sleeves like one of those damn snuggy things people wearing a couch binging some true crime shit. This goes beyond true crime. This is unreal crime Suddenly that line I knew to exist was gone That line between possible and impossible Science and science fiction The world makes a lot less sense today Than it did the moment before walking into that morgue

And I have no answers for it I don't know what to do anymore What's the point if things like this can be real And what's worse according to the police? This isn't the first one they've found. Good luck out there. Do you know more people die from smoke inhalation than flames?

Fire can suck all the oxygen from a room and fill it with poisonous smoke and gas before flames even reach the room you're in. That's what life feels like now. It's burning all around me, but I can't see the fire. I'm slowly suffocating with the knowledge of just how terrifying this world is.

That's our time tonight, listeners. I hope you got a little something from tonight's show, something you were missing, something you didn't know how to find. As always, this is the creep, and you're listening to KREP, today, tomorrow, and forever. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story,

for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons share-a-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.