Creepy - Day 19- Book Lore & Laughter from the Woods

Episode Date: October 19, 2024

Book Lore***Written by: Rissa Montanez***Laughter from the Woods***Written by: I. V. Holloe and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***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. 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 19 of the 31 days of horror.

A time of cool winds, pumpkins, falling leaves, the ticking clock. Can you hear it? The minutes, the seconds passing by until that day. The day. You're listening to KREP and I'm your host, The Creep. As much as music and audio takes up most of my life, I've always enjoyed curling up with a dark tome.

And it looks like I'm not alone. This listener writes him to share the book lore. I don't get to share this story often. Matter of fact, I think this is the first time I've ever been able to just talk about it without someone thinking I was crazy. Thanks ahead of time for being on my side. I'll get right to it. Not sure if any of this is out there already.

We know how quickly social media can do the legwork on something juicy or paranormal. But I digress. I didn't exactly plan on going into that bookstore, especially on a night like that. I should have called up a few friends for a drink or taken myself out to see a movie. Things just felt a little off, some kind of odd feeling hanging in the air. Do you ever get a feeling like that?

I hope not. It isn't exactly a feeling that you can easily shake. And if you try to ignore it, it just builds. and builds over time. If I had to describe it, okay, this is going to sound like, bullshit. But it's almost like the atmosphere

was just waiting to open its mouth and pull everyone and everything into this big void of nothingness. As if it would have been okay to just let go of everything you know and ceased to exist for a few seconds. Given how my night went, I wouldn't have minded not doing or thinking about much. That was the night I'd just finished a deal.

I left a bad taste in my mouth. I work in real estate, and sometimes I get to sell prime properties to politicians who claim to know right from wrong. And they do, as long as the cameras are rolling. One in particular seemed okay on the surface. But one look into those eyes of his and you knew he was just a cobra dressed in an overpriced suit, ready to strike at any second. His business wasn't any of mine until he added a little extra to my commission to the sale.

The property was an old warehouse, down by the river and pretty much abandoned on nights his crew wasn't using it to dismember bodies of people he'd struck deals with. A deal didn't have to go bad. he was just that much of an asshole. He told me he needed more properties, and with a wink he said, this will be our secret. Don't let me catch you telling any stories about me. And I agreed.

To be fair, I was surrounded by his crew in that same abandoned warehouse, meeting there to get the paperwork signed off. Didn't exactly have a choice. voice. He smiled and then he left. His crew following behind him. That guy smiled a lot, actually. Only sharks smiled that much. That's how you know they're circling you. Did I sell my soul? Maybe. But the commission was good and in this economy? is what it is. My safety was a priority.

I won't say no to a decent payout. And damnation could wait. Real estate wasn't supposed to be my life. I didn't enjoy a few of those real estate reality shows. Always some type of drama happening. Nah. I had other plans. I actually used to think I'd be a writer.

I loved writing as a kid and, hey, six months of writing to see if a story or two can launch me into the realm of writing? I had the time. As cliché as it sounds, that's where my heart was. I wanted to create these entrancing and memorable stories, ones that could knock the dust off your soul. ones that could take people out of their ordinary lives for a couple of hours and help them tap into something deeper, something more meaningful, something that could reach out of the part of their existence tarnished by disbelief or trauma, or forgotten about with age, or, well, you get what I mean. Sometimes life is shit, and we don't get what we want.

Our dreams don't come true. We all know someone who's been through it, you know. Happens the best of us. Making the choice between our childhood dreams and the shit we have to do to survive adulthood. Bills piled up and a steady paycheck was a priority, so I had to bury those dreams, even if I was tucked right into the back pocket of a public figure with blood on their hands. The stories I used to carry with me don't get much airtime. but that's okay

there's always an opportunity to create another one just putting it out there but listening to this one just might inspire you to create one of your own anyway

I hadn't set foot in a bookstore in what felt like forever hadn't written a damn thing and even longer than that if you can believe it that night felt different it was a soulless transaction

one that was too intertwined with danger. Maybe I needed to be around something normal, something grounding, something that would put together some piece in me that had been wrecked by this job. I felt this pull, this need to be around stories again, even if they weren't mine. Irony in its most pathetic form. My urge to get lost in books and stories, tales from places that don't exist, That's how I ended up standing in front of the book lore. It was a tiny place, and as many times as I've been around that part of the city, it kind of

appeared out of nowhere to me. It was tucked between a beautiful high rise down the river from where I just made that sail, and at the side of it was a dark alley that looked like it could swallow you whole, because, of course, it had to look like that. It wasn't anywhere special. Had to really like bookstores to have any desire to go into this place whatsoever. Picture an old bookstore run by someone who didn't care about organizing anything. Didn't dust or bother to have any shelves.

Books stacked one on top of the other. That's all I could see from the outside anyway. I stood there for a few minutes longer than I should have, thinking I should just go home. I couldn't resist it. I needed to reconnect with that part of myself that didn't feel so dead. So I opened the door and stepped inside. And that was the moment I felt a very strange sense of belonging.

The first thing I noticed was the scent of the books themselves. There's nothing like it. It kind of reminded me of middle school, but I got bullied a lot, so we won't talk about that. And actually, my mistake, there actually were shelves inside that place, and damn, they were packed tight. The lights were dim, which was a little weird, figuring that anyone walking into a bookstore would want enough light to actually read the books. Anyway, I walked down one of the aisles and just took it all in, letting go of the scariest encounter I've ever had with a client and putting my focus on the books. Their spines worn down.

I could tell how loved some of these books were. The bindings were rough, the edges were worn. But each book felt aware of my presence, like they were waiting. for me to choose one of them, or waiting for something, but then I started to hear whispers. At first, I thought it was the wind or maybe the old floorboards creaking, but no, these whispers were too close, like they were right next to me. That's when I realized that I wasn't losing my mind. The whispers I heard were really coming from the books.

Each one seemed to call to me as I passed. I kept hearing these soft, almost desperate voices. They sent chills down my spine. It felt like they were trying to get inside my head. Like they wanted me to understand them. Or like they needed my help with something. And then I saw it. A book on a small wooden table in the far corner

where the light barely reached. It wasn't like the others, no. This one was different. The cover was dark leather, the edges painted gold, it even shimmered in the dim light. There was no title or author's name just a symbol etched into the cover.

It was an open book, and the pages seemed to blow in the breeze. I should have walked away. Every alarm bell in my mind, my head started just scream at me to leave the bookstore to get out of there and fast. But I didn't. My hand moved on its own to feel the cover as if it was the best book I'd ever found, even though I hadn't read it yet.

The leather cover was warm, almost like it was alive. And that was when I suddenly felt like I'd touched something I shouldn't have. It was pretty bizarre now that I think back on it. I feel like I didn't have a choice. It felt like it was begging to be opened. Everything else faded away and it was just me in that book. I lifted the cover and the pages rustled as if they were breathing. Words on the first page moving until I could read them.

They said, Within these pages you will find the ink of the dead their dark delights, for in each line and on each page, there lies a trap seeking to end your days. I got scared more than I already was, so I tried to close the book, but I couldn't. I couldn't even put it down. The book had latched on to me, and as I looked around in a panic, everything seemed darker now. The shelves seemed taller, the walls moving closer. Closing in on me as the seconds passed.

The door was gone. The world outside had vanished, replaced by this suffocating weight of thousands of stories, all crying out at once. I was trapped. Time stopped making sense. Hours, maybe days passed in a blur. The whispers got louder, more demanding until I couldn't think straight. each book seemed to pulse with this dark energy, pressing in on me, suffocating me with the weight of

lives cut short, with all their despair inked into every page, I stumbled through the aisles, desperate to find a way out, but every turn brought me back to that same table. That same cursed book! I could see the apartment building through the narrow windows, the faint flicker of lights in the distance, but no one was there. The building, once full of life, had become a tomb. The people inside were sick, dying one by one. Their lives drained by something unseen.

Something evil. That's when it hit me. The bookstore was the source. The trees these books were made from have been cut down from this very land. Their souls trapped within the pages, poisoning every word, every sentence. The authors, their lives stolen by tragic accidents, had poured all their agony into their work, cursing it, cursing anyone who dared to read. And now, I was a part of it. Those whispers soon turned into my own thoughts, clawing at my mind trying to pull me down with them into a never-ending

series of pages where the vortex of chapters aimed to consume me, I felt their stories sinking into my skin, burrowing into my brain, and for a moment I couldn't tell where my thoughts ended and where their thoughts began. Then I heard another voice. It was soft, begging for help. It called to me from somewhere deep within the bookstore. It felt like a beacon of hope. someone else seeking refuge, seeking answers, like I was.

I followed that voice, struggling against the pull of the surrounding books. There pages howling at me in fury until I found myself standing in front of this small, unassuming book, tucked away on the bottom of an empty shelf. It wasn't like the others. No emblem. The pages were yellowed with age. It was very plain and coated with a thick layer of dust. It looked like it hadn't been touched in years, maybe even decades.

When I reached out for it, I felt this warmth. It spread through my hand and up my arm. The kind of warmth that chased away the cold, almost like I'd come in from a snowstorm. The book just seemed to come alive. But this one wasn't as malevolent as yet. others. This one, this one was different. This one felt like hope. I opened the book and the words inside of it seemed to glow. It was as if they were illuminated by moonlight. It was kind of beautiful,

almost serene. The story itself was pretty typical. It was a story about love, pirates, and a selfish prince undeserving of his throne. The author's name was written in this delicate script at the bottom of the page. I could barely make it out, but it doesn't matter who wrote it. I'm glad that they did. As I read it, the warmth from the book spread through my whole body, pushing back the darkness that had been trying to take me. The whispers from the other books faded. Their voices now heard as this gentle silence. And I began feeling this sense of peace that I hadn't felt in, I don't even know how long. But this book wasn't just a story. It was a warning. And oddly enough, a way out. It talked about the power of intention, how the act of creating something could either inspire love or goodness

or could inspire destruction and cruelty. It warned about writing with a corrupted heart, about creating stories for all the wrong reasons, power, fame, money, that kind of stuff. It turns out that anyone who did that would end up trapped in their own creations, and that their souls would be forever bound to the pages, their lives damned to remain embedded in the various stories they themselves created. The only way to break the curse was to be kind to the books, to treat them with care and respect, to understand the lives and the pain that had gone into their creation.

The book in my hands was different from the others, so this one was born out of love, and it had chosen me to set things right, but in doing so, it sealed my fate. To break the curse, to set all the souls trapped in these books free, I would have to take their place. I'd become part of the bookstore. a guardian of the stories, making sure that only ones who truly loved the art of storytelling would ever leave this place with a book in hand. Didn't even matter what genre it was.

Anyone who came here to exploit the stories, twisting them for their own gain, would find themselves trapped until they learned the true meaning of creation, of art. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. Besides, it was either this or end up unalived by a politician's mob crew. As I closed the book, the warmth that had it given me began to fade, and it was replaced by this cold emptiness. Then the bookstore started to change. All of the shelves began to slowly close in on me, shifted around me.

The walls began closing in. in and the whispers returned. But they were different now. They weren't cries of anguish. They were whispers of joys and gratitude. As the curse began to lift, I felt myself pulled into the book, the words wrapping around me. And those whispers started to get louder. The ink started rising from the pages to claw at my skin, my clothes,

trying desperately to pull me down into the story. Once it did, I felt content. A tiny room full of books. Some were empty, waiting for me to fill them with stories. Others were simply waiting to be read. It was freeing. It felt right. I could even feel the weight of the other books lifting.

Their stories finally given the free. freedom they deserved, their pain finally put to rest. It was beautiful. I mean, there's worse ways to go. I made a name for myself in real estate, made a ton of money, but now I'd get a new life. Not having a pulse was just a small detail I was willing to overlook. I'd get to spend the rest of eternity writing and making sure these tales, these lives. These lives. legends and lore, the words of those who came before me, were treated with the respect they deserved. A book is always more than just paper and ink. It could be a dungeon for trapped souls or a haven for stories that are meant to inspire. But luckily, my story ends here,

and now yours begins. Try not to think of this as punishment. You didn't come here looking for answers, you came here for an escape. So here's your chance. An eternity is keeper of the book lore, or that book that seems to be following you around while you browse. You're more afraid now. But that's okay. Fear is the story we tell ourselves when we don't know how the next chapter will end. I should know, but over time, I think, found peace in my purpose. Now it's time for you to make a decision, keeper of the book lore.

Or not, take your time. I'll just be here, watching, waiting. Might share another story with you. We've got all eternity. And now a word from our sponsors. Welcome back. Looks like for the first time in a while, all the lines are open and lit up.

Not sure when those other phone lines came back. So let's dig in. Caller, you're on with the creep. We're waiting for you. We're going to. The time of year for prank callers. Line two, you're on with the creep. You can't get rid of best that easily.

We found. Okay, kitties. I think it's past your bedtime. Line 3. Got a story for us? Oh, I have a story for you. It's a story about a radio station, VJ, who... Sorry about that, folks. Looks like we're going to need to get a bit better at screening out prank calls.

Okay, one more time. Caller, you're on with The Creep. Hi, um... What was that kid talking about? I'm sure I don't know. Got a story for us, listener? Yeah, um, sorry. That was weird.

Um, my story. Right. It's just that I keep hearing laughter from the woods. My partner and I moved into our new apartment in mid-October, a time when we'd hope the temperature wouldn't be too uncomfortable for physical labor. The apartment we ended up renting wasn't quite as nice as the other apartments we had previously seen online. Instead of faux hardwood, the floors were mostly carpet. The appliances were older, and the walls were eggshell white rather than slate gray.

The rent was cheaper, however, and since we were each a few years out of college in struggling to pay off some severe student loan debts, cheap was our best option. Besides the low rent, the main reason I had liked this location was the scenic forest that separated the building from the Mississippi River less than half a mile away. I imagine taking relaxing walks during crisp autumn afternoons, but neither my partner nor I could afford to take much time off work to move and settle in. Our days became dedicated to slowly unpacking our belongings between our opposing work shifts, which didn't leave either of us much free time. Two weeks had passed since we'd moved into our new apartment, and Halloween was creeping around the corner. I finally slid the last item from the last box onto the bookshelf. A green rubber duck with black sunglasses and ducking awesome written in

bold white text across its chest. I broke down the box and gathered the other flattened squares of cardboard, intending to recycle them before checking out the walking trails that cut through the woods. I exit the lobby into the afternoon sunlight, which warmed me despite the fall chill that had settled into my slice of the Midwest. A paved pathway bordered the parking lot and curved around the side of the apartment complex leading to another lot with a stretch of garages, ending with dumpsters for trash and recycling. Beyond the lot in garages was the tree line, dense with Auburn foliage, despite the breezes that

threatened to strip the leaves. On my way to the recycling bin, I admired the few Halloween decorations I saw stamped on some of the neighbor's windows. The bloodied handprints stuck to the glass and bats that hung from the top sills, all brought me a bittersweet joy. My partner and I both loved Halloween, but moving had been expensive, and we didn't have the money for decorations right now. It's not like we would get any trick-or-treaters at our door anyways, so we were planning to have a rather plain holiday this year. My thoughts refocused as I hoisted the flatten boxes into the bin and headed to the closest of the two trails that wove between the trees. I paused to appreciate the branches bowing towards each other overhead, forming a nearly

perfect tunnel of trunks and canopy. I took in a deep, refreshing breath of crisp October air and began following the path. Vibrant yellows and oranges filtered in from above, dancing between the leaves, swaying in the breeze. shadows from the foliage were occasionally joined by the quick swoop of birds, chirping as they flew overhead. The tranquility was only broken by the birdsong and the crunching of gravel under my sneakers as I strolled along the trail. The apartment itself hadn't proved nearly as peaceful as my partner and I had hoped, so I really appreciated the quiet and privacy that I found on my walk. I was reluctant to leave the sense of serenity that I had found, but as the orange glow filtered

between the leaves began to bleed into red, and as the shadows stretched their forked fingers, I knew it was time to make my way back to my new home. I hadn't reached the riverbank this trip, but there would be time to do that another day. Perhaps a day where my partner could join me since our conflicting work schedules meant, we'd had very little time to spend together so far. I began mentally planning this future date and heading back the way I had come when a new sound pierced the air. A hollow cackle that echoed between the trees. It didn't sound human, more like a bird mimicking human laughter. It was unfamiliar and unsettling. But I figured that's exactly what it was.

was. A bird call. I paused to listen for the sound again. Wondering if I should try to record it to share with my partner once they arrive home from work, but I dismiss the thought quickly. Whatever the sound was, it had come from a way off the trail, and I was sure my old phone wouldn't be able to get a good recording of it. Most of the other birds had quieted for the evening, and the thick canopy made the forest feel dark and intimidating. So I was getting anxious to be back home. As I hastened back towards the apartment, I thought maybe once I was back inside, I would look up what kind of bird could make such a sound.

Maybe my partner and I could go birdwatching and try to find its source. We could watch it, make it strange call, and laugh about how scared I had gotten the first time I heard it, but then my thoughts were interrupted by the laughter, which was seemingly closer. I slowed and squinted up into the branches for any glimpse of the bird, but it was too dark to separate the shifting shadows into anything distinct. When I heard it a third time, I just tried to ignore it and continue forward. And then suddenly, cackles split the quiet twilight a fourth than a fifth time in quicker succession, and they seemed closer than before.

I began to get increasingly uneasy as my mind raced. Was this bird following me? Was it actually even a bird? I knew at least some pet birds could mimic human speech, but I had never actually seen one, and I didn't know for sure if that's the sound I had been hearing. I also didn't know if, wild birds in this area could perform the same mimicry.

The anxiety twisting in my stomach spiked into panic, just as laughter broke the silence directly behind me. I whirled around with my arms up, ready to defend my face from the bird attack I assumed was incoming. When nothing happened, for a few moments, I decided to open my eyes. But there was nothing. The path was vacant.

I couldn't see anything in the branches and everything was quiet now. Then I continued my retreat from the forest, quickening my pace and pulling up the hood of my sweatshirt in an attempt to protect myself from any birds that might swoop down at me. The canopy above had become an expansive black mass dotted with fading red light, filling in the few spaces where the sunset penetrated the leaves. The bird then screeched its eerie glee with increasing frequency. following me through the trees as I tried to escape.

And then I began to run. The laughter was continuous. It wasn't just following me now, but it was surrounding me, pressing in on me. It evolved until it was no longer a single voice but a cacophony of clashing voices. Quiet giggles dissolved into hysterics while others tittered shrilly,

as if through shredded vocal cords. Shrieking, malicious. Cackles twisted around, booming resonant tortles, muffled snickers in cruel, screeching laughter whipped around me like a physical force. Any thought these sounds had been from an animal had long left my mind. I didn't understand what was happening, but I instinctively knew I was not safe here. Aside from the pounding of my heart and my ears, the cacophonous blend of laughter was all I could hear as I resumed my escape. My ears rang as the wailing laughter grew louder. Panicked, half-formed thoughts raced through my mind. I didn't think I had walked very far into the woods, yet I still hadn't

reached the parking lot and I couldn't see the end of the path. The maniacal blend of discordant laughter left me so disoriented that I felt as if I had somehow become turned around on the single path. Desperate to escape the madness I had found myself surrounded by, I continued running, following the bright gravel walking trail towards the direction I thought I had entered the forest from. But still the cacophony pursued me, those angry turtles loudly bouncing off the trees as mocking snickers whispered against my hood.

Even as I covered my ears with my sleeved hands, the wailing and warbling seemed to invade my mind. My eye swam with tears, both from fear and from pain which began to flare into my skull. There was nothing but the laughter, the pain, and the trail. My vision blurred then, tunneled, just as shadow and deranged glee began to close in around me. It was all I could do to distinguish gravel from shadow, until the path itself fell into complete darkness. And then I awoke, lying on my stomach, my cheek resting against the brittle

grass and my head throbbing with a deep ache. The laughter was gone. I brought myself up slowly to my hands and knees before shifting to a sitting position and took in my surroundings. My view above was no longer obstructed by branches, and I could see was not long past sunset as purple light lingered in the western sky. The garages and dumpsters were directly ahead of me, and to my left was the gravel path I had walked earlier leading into the dark, foreboding forest behind me. I went home, not giving the tree line a second glance as I walked away.

Since then, I've tried to explain it to myself as either extreme sensory overload or a skillfully executed Halloween prank. But I've never shared what happened that night. I also never took my partner on a walk to the riverbank. Though they asked a couple of times, I always had an excuse and they, thankfully, didn't press the issue. Even as winter eventually melted into spring,

I stopped going on nature walks altogether. I still have nightmares of it. about that evening in the woods, and being hunted by invisible forces that mock my fear. Sometimes, I look out the bedroom window towards the dark forest silhouetted against the setting sun, and I swear, I can still hear muffled cackles drifting from between the trees.

Thank you, caller. That's all from us tonight. Hopefully those pranksters got it out of their system, and we can get back to our regular dark deal. again tomorrow night. 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.