Creepy - Day 19 - Ethel's Enigmatic and Chaotic Carnival & The Skeleton's of Stratton Street

Episode Date: October 19, 2023

Ethel's Enigmatic and Chaotic Carnival***Written by: Opalescent Custard***Bonus episode: "The Skeleton's of Stratton Street" Written by: Laugh Man and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***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.

No. 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. significance of my selection, but I gave her attached picture three seconds of polite acknowledgement before I drafted a message.

Hey there, your baby blue eyes are absolutely electric, and I was hoping to get a chance to see him light up in person. Halloween isn't for another two days, but I thought a spontaneous lady like yourself would be interested in a fun first date at a local carnival filled with ghosts and demons. Maybe I can win you a prize, or maybe you can keep me safe in a haunted house. If you're interested, I can shoot you the information and we can meet there tonight. I'm sure you've got an inbox full of men and women clamoring for your attention, but I hope you let me take you on an unforgettable date,

unless you're too scared to have a good time. After tapping Send, I returned to the message boards where recent posts were outlining their experiences at the carnival. With their instructions and testimonials, I was sure to have a good time as well. Anxious static swarm beneath my skin. A gnawing fuzz of uncertainty flooded my veins. My finger kept clicking the side of my phone, awaiting any notification. Every 30 seconds, my eyes searched the home screen for a response from my prospective date. The woman with a dazzling sapphire eyes had been my ninth attempt at securing a plus one for the carnival.

With October almost over, I was desperate for a date. Time was running out. While I waited for someone to latch on to my digital bait, I made a post in the message boards, congratulating those who had found success in their visits while hinting at my concerns about being unable to attend myself. Once I submitted the post, I received a few replies from other users offering encouragement. Their positivity was appreciated, but fleeting as I sank back into my desk chair, wondering if my desperation would steer me towards Craigslist, before I could entertain that on appealing avenue.

I received a notification from Tinder. A knot drenched in dread coiled within my chest as I checked my messages, expecting another rejection to further pollute my veins. What I was greeted with was a chipper reply from the blue-eyed woman. She agreed to meet tonight, citing a love for the rustic charm of carnivals. For the next hour we exchanged messages of childhood memories, favorite films, and workplace woes. By the time the sun began to descend, I was already on the road, following the dwindling sunbeams. Because the carnival spawned in a new location every October, I was determined to attend this one, given it was only an hour away. Online, there were accounts of people traveling to other continents and investing thousands of dollars, intent on consecutively chasing the carnival for years.

Time wasn't an issue, but money certainly was. and I refuse to let this opportunity fade back into nothingness, only to reappear next year outside a random town in Japan or somewhere else unaffordable. Unlike my online friends, I was not going to sink money into traveling when I was barely getting my utilities and bills paid. This was my only chance to be happy for once.

Killing my engine, I came to a comfortable stop in front of a collection of rides, booths, and colorful tents. To my left, cars were parked in an orderly pattern, despite the grass having no marks to designate spaces. The delightful cries of children came in waves, but they were dampened by my black helmet, which I unclasped but kept on. Since we hadn't discussed dressing in costume, I decided to keep my punk garb on and swung my leg over my motorcycle to dismount. I pulled out my phone and messaged my date that I was waiting by the entrance, though I didn't expect to. reply if she was still on the road. Now that I was finally standing in front of the coveted carnival, my dream was almost tangible.

After tonight, I knew my life would no longer be a test of mental endurance but an actual blessing. After tonight, I would get a better job, moving to a swanky apartment with an ocean view, make friends, and probably win the lottery. Tomorrow I'd no longer be plagued by hardships and rancid luck. My new life would arrive with the morning sun. All I had to do was endure another few hours of stress, and everything would be better. My luck would finally be golden.

I basked in the glow of the strands of string lights, which formed a web above the festivities. Miniature plastic pumpkins ranging from bright orange to frosty white and forest green, coated the patrons in gentle kaleidoscope of Halloween hues. A bubbly voice called my name. To have my name associated with happiness was quite foreign to me, but I forced to smile as a tall brunette approached, her blue orbs capturing my ordinary brown eyes.

She had on a neon pink sweater with a shooting star and a purple skirt that reached her knees. I was unclear if she was dressed in costume, so I offered her a neutral compliment on her cute outfit, prompting a warm exuberance, matching her sweater to surface upon her cheeks. We approached the entrance and I paid $20 for two adults. My date was adamant about paying me back in the form of beer and corn dogs, but I shook my head, insisting she allowed me to spoil her for the night. I owed her that much.

Maybe it would ease my impending guilt. She grabbed my hand and we began to explore the carnival's offerings, but my feet were on a personal mission. of their own. Did you know the matriarch, Ethel, is rumored to be a ghost who died over 200 years ago? Some theorized she became a demon after roaming our reality, unable to fight the madness of a fractured existence. I mentioned my date as I scanned the crowd for the aforementioned owner. The brunette at my side let out a giggle and playfully punched my arm, amused by my musings.

Her carnival is a legend among certain corners of the internet. It only appears during the month of October, and if you request a special experience, you'll have good luck for the next year. I'm talking life-changing luck where people win lotteries, meet the love of their life, are cured of their cancer kind of stuff. My excitement was met with understandable skepticism. Ariel maintained her smile and tightened her grip on my hand. Perhaps I had frightened her or sounded insane myself.

She shifted the conversation to the previous carnival as she'd attended as a child and glanced to a booth where teenagers were tossing rings at colorful glass bottles. She mentioned attending a carnival last year in Romania, beneath the southern Carpathians, stating how fortunate it was that her manager allowed her to travel freely while working remote. I swallowed my jealousy and nodded along as she revisited joyous past times of globe-trotting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman with pale golden hair wearing a woman. a black floor-length sequent dress bending down to speak to a young child. Tugging my date along, I orbited the blonde as she stood and began to walk towards the Ferris wheel. Ignoring the protests of my companion, my eyes remained fixated on the blonde, suddenly daunted

by her mere presence. After years of longing, I was close enough to smell her famed scent of roses and licorice. When she turned around, I flinched. and finally released the hand of Ariel. The woman introduced herself as Ethel and welcomed us to her carnival. The dark-haired woman beside me rubbed her hand and muttered that if she was Ethel's age

and looking that impeccable, she'd be able to die a happy woman. I held back a smirk of my own. I've been dying to attend your gathering for years, Ethel. I refocused my attention away from Ariel, my breathing beginning to normalize. All I needed to do was utter a key phrase, and my life would be perfect, or perfect for the next year.

Maybe by then I'd have enough cash to pursue the carnival and extend my good fortune. Ariel spoke sweetly, saying she wished to experience the worst in exchange for the best life has to offer. As per the ritual, she then reached out for Ethel's porcelain hand. my world fell silent. My heart began pumping a torrent of frigid liquid throughout my body. I was stuck in a permafrost, unable to move or speak. I was dumbstruck and helpless. Ethel reached out to accept Ariel's hand and asked if she was sure,

to which Ariel confirmed, citing that last year's carnival was splendid, and had enriched the past 12 months immensely. This was not my envisioned fantasy. I was supposed to be the one to request the ritual. Ariel was supposed to be my sacrificial lamb for slaughter. I was supposed to wake up tomorrow and have the life I knew I deserved. I was supposed to shake Ethel's hand and undergo three tasks in exchange for her blessing. This was supposed to be my final night of misery before I received.

received a veil of protection from all forms of misfortune. My bad luck was supposed to be banished. Ariel tossed me a wink. She and I both knew what horrors awaited us. The moment Ethel released Ariel's hand, the deal had been sealed. A twisted black scepter appeared in Ethel's hand, and she flicked the tip at me and Ariel. The ruby rose glowed, spraying a whirlwind of red peasant. petals and my vision went dark. Having read several firsthand accounts of users completing the ritual,

I knew the first task would be centered around inflicting pain. The second would involve cannibalism, and the third resulted in death. My death, to be specific. The third task never changed, but the previous two would adjust circumstances to keep things varied for Ethel's entertainment. All I could do is await my fate, still coming to terms with the fact my date had lured me into my own trap. And from the sounds of it, this was not her first time completing the ritual either. In a way, that made me feel a little less stupid. Maybe her luck was supernaturally better than mine, and this was an unavoidable fate. My eyes abruptly recoiled as my vision returned.

As expected, we were still at the carnival. It was still October 28th, and the night sky loomed overhead. Ariel and Ethel stood in front of a booth with a collection of ten-inch darts in front of them, both looking annoyingly giddy. My arms and legs were strapped to the wall and angled. the foreman axe. Based on research, I knew those who passed by the booth wouldn't see a captured guest, but merely an array of balloons ready to be popped in exchange for a stuffed animal.

I tugged at my limbs, but they were unmovable. Ethel gestured for Ariel to begin. The blue-eyed woman picked up a thin silver dart and threw it with frightening strength. It punctured my left forearm, and I could. cried out. I still had on my helmet, leather vest, blue t-shirt, and tattered jeans, so I had some protection. But I knew it was minimal. Ariel gathered a handful and flung them at me, the majority sinking into my lower abdomen and a few clattering silently against the grass. As she armed herself with another dart. I tucked my chin down to protect my throat, but the dart still penetrated

my right cheek, slicing my flesh open. My tongue prodded the silver needle and whimpered. I tasted bitter metallic and gagged. My cries must have been pathetic. And in a way, I was glad there were only two witnesses to my torture. Ariel was encouraged by Ethel's praise and continued skewering my body. With half-lited eyes, I anxiously watched her pile of weapons shrink, praying I would survive the final few rounds of darts. Blood splattered the wall and stained the ground. It was a faint scent of urine, and as Ariel threw her needle, I closed my eyes.

Relieved, the game was finally over. The final darts stuck the side of my neck. A thin flap of skin flopping down to trail blood, which was soon absorbed by my shirt. Ethel congratulated Ariel on her effort, and when I opened my eyes, I was lying on my back, free of the numerous slivers of silver that sliced me open, and to my surprise, I wasn't restrained, but I was still unable to move. My body was weak due to blood loss and shock. Ariel and Ethel knew I wasn't going anywhere without a miracle.

Ethel remarked that Ariel must be starving after such an exerting game of darts. She then used the head of her scepter to cut through my jeans, the sharpened edge of the red rose shredding through without any snags. With my bare right leg exposed, Ethel waved her twisted staff to entice Ariel further. I knew Ethel had cast some kind of spell that gave Ariel the illusion she was standing in front of a tasty-looking meal, conjuring comforting smells to make the mouth salivate. The second task's descriptions were ones I glossed over because reading the gory details was more than enough to scare my appetite away for hours.

Ethel began to describe the meal. A thick, juicy turkey leg, sausage links. And gravy. You know she's lying, I whispered. There is no food. Ethel cackled and reminded me that Ariel had completed the ritual four times, and that by the second had developed a taste for the forbidden meat. Ariel licked her lips and bit into my leg, using her teeth to saw and tear through the layers

of skin until she found bone. Patrons walked by with cotton candy, popsicles, and caramel corn. Blissfully unaware they were funding a sadist game. I screamed, but knew the only one who could hear me was the ringmaster herself, and she was howling in amusement. Nerve endings were severed, nails crawled at my gaping abdomen to dig into my intestines. The pain was beyond comprehension. My brain mercifully shut off as the sounds of slurping filled my ears. I told myself if I could escape, I could still live.

My leg would need to be amputated and I'd have to undergo several surgeries to repair my internal damage. And of course I'd need a damn good therapist and as much medication as they were willing to throw at me to keep the nightmares at bay. But I could live. I wanted to live. I needed to live. Despite the suffering, I wanted to live. Even if I was destined for a mediocre life that served no grand purpose. I wanted to live even if that life was cursed with rotten luck.

Please. I was weak and knew my time was evaporating fast. I don't want to die. This was the third and final task. ask for Ariel, the pumpkin carving. I was seated in a metal folding chair in the central gold and red tent. An audience gathered as Ethel charmed her guests with jokes and spooky factoids. Ariel stood in front of me, holding a knife and a hammer.

Ethel explained the night's festivities would conclude with a guest carving a pumpkin and displaying it somewhere for future attendees to enjoy. The crowd clapped and whistled at the lucky blue-eyed beauty. No one noticed the blood-stained teeth hiding behind her innocent smile. Like the previous task, I was unbound, but my egregious injuries ensured I wouldn't get far. Ariel closed the gap between us and raised her blade. I expected my skull to fracture and my brain to ooze out. But instead, my head remained gloriously intact, in haste.

My helmet hadn't been removed. The plastic reverberated, causing her grip to loosen, the knife falling to the side. Moving on pure instinct, I crumpled to the ground and grabbed the handle. I slashed at Ariel's ankles and she said, stumble backwards. Surely the four previous victims had accepted their fate, but I was going to seize my sudden good luck and run with it. Pushing myself to my feet, I hobbled for the exit.

My other, I'm holding my stomach to prevent my precious organs from spilling. I could hear Ariel swear in an unfamiliar language, and Ethel commanding her to complete the ritual before I crossed the carnival's territory and escaped. It was no secret that Ethel couldn't physically intervene once a ritual was initiated. her spectral self still caught between our realm and another she was only capable of casting spells still armed with a hammer aerial ran after me and i dug my left leg into the dirt and spun around so when she collided with me the knife disappeared into her chest we both fell to the ground maybe ariel finally ran out of her good luck or maybe i found some of my own but the stab wound is

landed a direct hit to her heart. We were both dying now. Her eyes darkened as she looked at me and tried to call out for help, but within a minute, she was lifeless. I lasted another few minutes before I joined her. Mechanical whirling and high-pitched music shattered the silence. I opened my eyes and found myself back at the ticket booth as I watched a flock of kids sprinting towards a haunted house, their parents grumbling behind at a glacial pace.

I watched as an elderly couple shared a rip beer float. I watched a father trying to win his daughter a prize at a balloon game. He threw a plastic and much shorter dart and the thin balloon pop. I flinched and Ariel snorted. Looking to my right, Ariel was beside me. me. Wearing a toothy, bloodless grin. You tried to kill me, I told her. My tone quiet but calm. Ariel pointed out I had attempted the same thing.

I almost smiled back before familiar laughter caught our attention. Ethel approached us. Her lips now painted a deep crimson. She explained that because we had died within the carnival's territory, our souls were chained to the roaming attraction. Ariel and I were now stuck on the most awkward and gruesome first date, as well as permanent residence at Ethel's enigmatic and chaotic carnival. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents,

The Skeletons of Stratton Street, written by laugh man and narrated by your, Cole Burkart. On the corner of Stratton and Water Street, a brick house sits snug between the corner sidewalk and a duplex. A narrow strip of patchy grass lines a small area next to the stoop that butts up against a lattice-covered crawl space. The worn shutters and weathered front door stretched tall when gazing up the porch steps. The bricks are patchy and chipped at the corners, a sign that this house has withstood the test of time. The reflective shiny windows have mirrored many onlookers

as foot traffic is high in the small tourist town. Visitors flood the summer streets from all over the globe to bear witness to the historical sites scattered across the large grassy battlefields and downtown souvenir shops. One of the more popular attractions are the ghost tours hosted nightly. Whether you're drawn to the musing haunted walkthroughs through the nooks and crannies of the alleyways, hosted by flamboyant reenactors with oil lamps, or you prefer a deeper dive into paranormal investigation with conspiracy theorists and speculators.

This town has it all and plenty to choose from. Little do the innocent passerbyes know that something more sinister lurchs on those streets. Resting in the center of the cozy brick home's modest front porch is a glass table and three wrought iron chairs. Every day, a woman sits in the adjacent wooden rocker, pageing through a book or magazine, her oversized sun hat reaching beyond her shoulders and her large sunglasses swallowing her face as they rest on the tip of her pointy nose. Sitting for hours, she thumbs through whatever prop she has brought with her on her front Porsche excursion. She watches as people stop and read the faded plaque, clumsily plastered

to the side of her home, stating, historical house, built in a house, built in afted. 1862. It's not true, of course, but the looky-lose have no idea. Here to absorb every ounce of history they can, they read the plaque and then step back to admire the home and relish in its modern glory. They whisper to each other about the architecture and updates the house must have undergone through the years, assuming that beneath the facade, the guts of the house are true to its historic time. But all of this master aid is part of her plan, her way of scoping them out, sizing them up, secretly scheming unbeknownst to anyone. People watching is an acquired still, looking casually beyond a newspaper under the guise of sunglasses while surveying the never-ending

stream of tourists takes practice, especially when the desire is to go unnoticed. The first skeleton appeared midsummer. Propped up in the center chair, the remains sat leaning forward, its stark white alness, resting on the table's edge, its deep eye sockets staring straight ahead. Placed in front was an empty porcelain teacup on a decorative sock. asser displaying a pitiful tea party for one. A typical Halloween decoration in the middle of summer had people chuckling as they walked by, especially when an oversized t-shirt appeared on its ribcage, bearing the name of the town across the chest. The townspeople assumed the quirky homeowners were

adding some more fun to the late-night ghost hunts, since the house was en route to most of those otherworldly tours. They didn't recognize the signs that it was all a disguise until it was too late. By the end of the summer, the lonesome bones had a companion. A second skeleton, slightly smaller in stature, appeared in the seat next to the first. With it came another teacup placed on a delicate floral saucer. The skull sported a long blonde wig, in addition to the lodowed shirt, a clear counterpart to the first ghastly duel. She rested back in the chair, one arm extended toward the teacup, but never quite grasping it, an evil state to leave someone in, permanently wanting something within reach, but never getting it. The pair sat together

unmoving, unchanging, unclear if they were in a state of misery, or enjoying the staged, meet and greet. An odd sight, but still harmless in most eyes, as spooey season was on the horizon. The streets became less crowded, as schools were on the way to being back in session. The couple remained the same, never moving, never changing, and always, withstanding the elements as the long summer days grew colder, dewy, and short. As the fall foliage began to present its yellows, reds, and browns, the tourism began to ramp up again. Like the French Quarter, or Salem, it was one of those towns that drew a crowd in October, with people seating a supernatural experience. What better place to do that than the land where thousands of soldiers died in a historic battle, presumably haunting the fields forever.

Many locals relied on the business of travelers, so they endorsed and encouraged the neighboring homes and businesses of downtown to participate however they could. It wasn't out of the ordinary to see creepy decores sprinkled throughout front porches or lawns and remain in place well into the Christmas season. As long as it got boots in the door and money in the drawer, the community played its part. The front porch tea party became a cherished fixture of the Stratton Street house, as the clothing and wigs changed with the seasons, and additional elements like costumes and spider webs were added to the vestibule. As the days turned colder, hanging caldrons and stelital hands began to appear on the ledges and walls. A fun spark added to the ominous setting.

At night, a smoky fog seeped out of the wooden basement window frames and hovered on the ground. The panes of glass were black, so no one could see in, but a green haze glowed around the painted edges. It was all in good fun, the locals thought, that is, until the new additions showed up, placed in the final empty chair, barely filling the seat. A small figure appeared. Its jaw was unhinged, and one arm was tasked to the sky with philange's spread into an open-handed wave. The other arm was missing from its socket. The exposed nub was brittle and jagged. sported in an oversized Superman cape, it looks similar to the other bony figures dressed for Halloween, however, this one was of a tiny nature.

The shrunken framework of this skeleton matched that of a child, and sitting next to it on the ground were perfectly assembled bones of a dog, carrying the child's missing arm in its mouth. The startling addition sent a child's child. chill down the surrounding streets, a joke gone too far. The visitors began to walk hastily past. The charm of the spouty setting had worn off. Smiles left people's faces as they examined the group closer, feeling uncomfortable witnessing the macabre setting. It all suddenly appeared too real. The notion became solidified when the missing dog posters were plastered all over town.

Stapled to telephone poles and taped in shop windows, someone's missing pup was suddenly suspected to be the dog bones on the Stratton Street porch. Any signs posted near the house were removed by an unseen culprit. Soon after, regional reports. informed viewers of a missing child last seen on vacation in the famed tourist town. And if one looked hard enough, more reports could be found of other missing persons from across the country who visited during the summer vacation season. Hushed tones and grumbled whispers hung in the air as suspicion heightened over the next week. When the police finally knocked on the door,

Naturally, no one answered. It was too late. Nosey neighbors looked through the front windows and stood on verandas, hoping to catch a glimpse of the maleficent miscreant. Officials examined the morbid tea party, careful not to disturb anything in case it became a crime scene. The pits in their stomachs sunk deeper as this dark concept crept into reality. As the neighborhood was surveyed through official interviews, it was discovered that no one knew the woman in the large brim hat. No one ever saw her come and go, or shared good mornings or dinners with her. No one even knew her name.

The only consistent piece of information was that she sat in a rocker every day and slipped inside sometime after dusk. Police finally got a search warrant and busted down the door. Inside the house was a horrific discovery. It was empty of the unknown woman. She had fled, but she left behind the horror of her work. In her basement, staged in the center of the room, stood an oversized cauldron full of green liquid that reeked of death. Pinned to a clothing line that was strung across the room where three suits of skin, a man, a woman, and a child. On the floor at their feet was a pressed pile of dog firm, its hide dried and shaped for a rug. It took them months to piece together what had happened

because they didn't know what they were looking at. The content, of the green liquid was questionable, and the chumps floating in it were reduced to slimy slabs of what they guessed was meat and cartilage. Enough circumstantial evidence clearly pegged it as the method in which she removed the skin from her victims. What happened to the rest of them will never be known. Perhaps they were boiled away, becoming one with the green dew. Maybe the Mr. Lickwood was the remnants of many innocent lives lost under the guise of tourism. In the end, the skin matched the bones of the missing travelers, and the woman who did it was on the loose. A last-ditch endeavor, the police issued an APB for the murderous woman, but with no

description, name, or any real information about her. It was hopeless. She was gone indefinitely. It was a perfect plan. Plant yourself in a tourist town, and no one would be the wiser if someone went missing. The months went on. Holidays changed. The posters peeled, and the trail went cold.

The house of horrors sat empty, with police tape across the front door. Only curious teenagers. snuck in on a dare from time to time to see if they could bravely stay the night in the would-be witch's basement. As time passed,

the town began to prepare for the next season of tourism and tried to put the past behind them as the streets began to flood with people again. As summer reached its peak, it was as if the murders never happened.

Everyone felt at ease. One August morning, as the pink rays of the summer sun shined brightly on the rooftops, a new skeleton appeared. Down the street, and over the railroad tracks was a brick duplex with a similar feel to the first house. Its porch bore a table and some chairs similar to the last. Its crawl space was wrapped in lattice, and its narrow basement windows were painted over with black. Perched in the first chair sat a lone skeleton, much like the first time, preparing a tea party for three. 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.

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