Creepy - Day 20 - Burned or Buried Alive...

Episode Date: October 20, 2021

Make your choice...***Written by BrenWillPohn***Bonus episode: "Night Drive" written by B.A. Ries and narrated by Rissa M.***Find 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 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 20. Burned alive or buried alive. If you had to, which would you choose? Written by Brenwell Pond. Burned alive and buried alive. The two worst fates for any life,

living creature that I could ever possibly imagine. If forced with the choice, which would you pick? Unbearable physical agony or extreme mental torture? The most excruciating pain imaginable are the utmost form of horror that the human mind is capable of conceiving. Up to a few years ago, I didn't know either. Why would you even consider it, if not force, to. Well, one day I found out which I'd choose. One day so dreadful that there's no adjective

in the English language strong enough to properly convey the horror of it. A day so awful that I struggled just to recall it. I had the choice put upon me. Here's what happened. Years ago, I bought my first home. Being an overall fan of the macabre, and living in rural New England. I decided on a nearly ancient American colonial style home. Remenicent as something out of a Nathaniel Hawthorne or Arthur Miller's story. It was a product of a bygone era. Though it was built in the early 1800s, as the cliche goes, it had good bones and had been fairly well maintained considering its age. That being said, it still needed some work. A few weeks after closing, while fixing some of the faulty old wiring in the basement, I came across

a centuries-old drain set into the stone flooring. It was maybe three feet in diameter, covered with a heavy iron grate that was worn with many decades worth of rough brown corrosion. It resembled the entrance to a dungeon. Like I mentioned before, I have a curiosity for all the dark and morbid elements of the world. Finds like this were the exact reason I wanted this house. I wanted this house. So I decided to have a closer look at the forgotten thing. I laced my

fingers through the dirty old grate and gave it a firm pull. It opened with a pained and rusty cry. I gazed down into the hole. A faint, acrid stink arose from its depth. It was as dry as old bone and quiet as a crypt. I assumed, due to the home's location on the side of a small hill, At the basement had once been prone to flooding, and that modern technological developments had rendered that, like so many other things in this place, a relic of the past. I poked my head a little further in and looked into the deep, dark recesses of the ancient plumbing. I could make out just the faintest bit of light at the far end. I went out into the yard and found the outlet hidden deep in the thicket of tangled brush. Evidently lacking access to chicken mesh, someone had covered it with a make-shed.

shift criss-crossing of a merciless-looking barbed wire, apparently to keep any unwanted creatures from crawling in during the night. I thought that whomever had done so it made a smart choice. The pipe looked nearly big enough for a person to squeeze through. A few months later, I was back working in the basement. The previous owner had left boxes upon boxes of yellowed old newspapers, books, and other forms of aged literature stacked under the stairs. I wanted to move out with What I could is they were taking up a lot of valuable storage space and were a possible fire hazard, especially under the dry splintery wood of the basement risers. Honestly, though, I really wanted to look through them to see what sort of curious old volumes

might be hidden within the dusty mound. About 30 minutes into my task, I sifted through and moved about five of the boxes without finding anything of much interest. In the sixth box, however, I came upon a strange volume bound and worn leather. It looked like it must be older than the house itself. It had the words Kitab al-Kanoos embossed on the cover and was written in what appeared to be Arabic, no, I'm no linguist. There were English translations or notes of some sort written in the margins.

They seemed to say something about the locations of lost and hidden treasures. This was exactly the kind of thing I was looking for. Excited by my find, I moved out from under the stairs and searched a better lighting to read it by. I went over to a large floodlight I had left in the basement from a previous project and flicked it on. The decrepit wiring running under the stairs sparked violently. I spun quickly, and in doing so, tripped and fell backward. By the time I got up, the sparks had already lit a fire in the stack of boxes that stood nearly a meter high. It was licking and biting at the withered stairs like the jaws of a hungry animal.

In hindsight, had this very... moment. I should have sprinted through the flames to safety. Whatever burns I would have suffered with a paled in comparison to the trauma I was doomed to endure by staying put. But, like they say, hindsight's 2020. Instead, I sat frozen in shock of the sight in front of me. When I snapped out of it, I looked around frantically for any signs of something to douse the flames with. But of course, there is nothing. Nobody thinks to keep a fire. fire extinguisher in their basement. The blaze rose higher, engulfing the staircase and spreading around the door jam at the top like some type of hellish decoration. I tried desperately to hold back

panic and think of a way out. My basement had no windows and no hatchway either. Then the fire spread to the exposed fiberglass insulation in the ceiling. It jumped from section to section like a stone skipping across a pond. The air became thick with a baking heat. The sounds of flames crackling was now constant and unrelenting. Smoke was filling up the already close air, curling and twisting through the space. Every breath I took tasted of hot ash.

I finally decided my only hope was to sprint up the stairs through the inferno and prey my injuries weren't life-threatening. Thoughts of pink stinging burns, blisters, wet, peeling flesh and skin grafts flashed through my mind. I hesitated. I tried to steal my nerves against it all. Then the staircase collapsed. I drew back against concrete wall behind me, hoping for respite from the sudden gust of

fiery air that followed. It didn't help. It was like standing too close to a bonfire, but with no way to back up. I looked up at the doorway. The threshold was just a fire. I was 15 feet up and surrounded by flame. I moved away along the wall, desperately searching for any relief from the heat and smoke.

Everything was on fire now. I could barely see. My eyes burned and every breath choked my lungs. I was beginning to feel lightheaded and nauseous. I was going to die down here, exfixated and burned alive. I prayed to God to feel as little as possible. I got down on my stomach hoping to delay the inevitable.

My hands felt cold metal on the floor. I heard it grind and shift with my movement. My fingers slipped through elongated holes. I was lying on top of the drain. My heart jumped and then immediately dropped to the pit of my stomach. I had a way out, but it meant squeezing through hundreds of feet of suffocating underground tunnel. I pulled it open. And it gave that same rusty cry as before.

I put my head inside. The air felt cool and fresh compared to the basement. I looked at the speck of light way down in the darkness. It looked miles away. I tried pushing myself inside. My shoulders pressed against the sides of the drain, pinning my arms tightly to my sides. Clostrophobia hit me like an electric shock.

I scrambled back up immediately. I couldn't do this. It was so narrow. I'd get stuck in the pipe and slowly die in there, deep under the earth. I sobbed and cried out in utter despair. The fire was closing in around me. I could barely breathe anymore. The heat was like being in an oven, like baking to death.

I felt flames lick at my back and I jumped forward. Fire burnt the skin of my face. I pulled back. I had nowhere left to go. Without stopping to think any further. I shoved my body headlong into the hole. I wriggled like a worm. The flames burning at my feet and legs,

giving me the dearly needed motivation to move forward. My arms were pinned to my sides again. Because of the L shape of the drain, I had to go in upside down. It was like being stuck in a cave miles below the earth's surface. dread and anxiety like I've never felt before consumed me. I wriggled and squirmed and kicked. I moved mere centimeters with each desperate effort.

The sides of the pipe clenched around me like a fist. Every move felt like it was going to wedge me hopelessly in the pipe. In my position, I couldn't even see where I was going. I had no idea how much progress I was making. If I was even getting closer to the opening, and the darkness was total. I sobbed and screamed and squirmed further, scraping my skin on the rough sides of the dried-up old pipe.

My mind was pure panic now. I pushed with my legs all I could, but I only had room to lift my knees a few inches. I struggled wildly to keep moving, the sides of the cylinder grinding against my shoulders and hips. My manic breathing and hopeless cries, go deafingly in the pipe. Then I came to arise.

I could feel like a ridge under my back. The build-up of centuries of rock, hard mineral deposits created a stalagic mite-like formation underneath me that gradually rose up the sides of the passage. I kept pushing and squirming as feverishly as ever until I felt my shoulders squeezed right up against my neck. I kicked and I twisted and yelled but I could not move. I was pinned within the Jagged Ridge. There wasn't room to move forward and I had no way to back up.

I was stuck, completely and totally stuck. I thrashed my legs and jerked my torso violently. I whipped my head around and cried out like an animal in a trap, banging my forehead against the top of the pipe and scraping the skin off. My body still wouldn't move. I cried and I screamed until I was exhausted. Then I cried. and screamed even more.

I began to fade in and out. I dreamt that I saw faces at the dead climbing out of the earth above me. I heard the voices of demons in my ears chanting and laughing at me in strange languages. I could feel the pipe squeezing and tightening and relaxing just to play with me. The world spun uncontrollably at times, making me dizzy and sick. Other times I floated paralyzed through the void. my thoughts whirled violently are on my brain like mad biting flies

my head felt like an oven with my brain baking inside the salt of my tears burned my dried up eyes I was gonna die in here alone stuck unable to move I completely lost my sanity during those hours my consciousness turned to a soup of

constantly churning manic thought with nothing resembling rational or ordered cognitive activity remaining. Consequently, it was my wild, animalistic screams that finally alerted the firefighters to my whereabouts deep within the pipe. They had to wait until the fire had died down before they could call in an excavator. Eventually the heavy machine became too risky, as it could easily have collapsed a decaying old tube burying me within. So they set to work, digging it up with shovels,

after they moved enough earth to expose the pipe. They had to cut out the section I was entombed in with a large saw. I know people were speaking to me during this time, trying in vain to keep me calm. But all I remember is the deafening, metallic shrieking that echoed through the pipe, stabbing in my eardrums like ice picks. Once freed from the rest of the conduit, they lifted the section that held me out of the ground with a small crane and set it down in the yard. I vaguely remember another floating sensation.

I had hoped I had died. Soon they went back to work, was smaller, yet barely less hideous sounding saws. It was night at this point, so I didn't even get the minuscule benefit of daylight to ease the suffering. Other than the noise, it felt no different than when I first crawled in. Finally, it felt as if a great weight had lifted from all sides of me. My body seemed to expand in all directions. Cool air brushed across my skin. I was lifted up and carried away.

This, like I said, was years ago. I'm just now regaining the sanity needed to be able to process these events and get them down. My therapist tells me it's a good idea. It'll help me get past the event to whatever degree possible. He says it may help with the night terrors too. I can barely sleep without teleporting right back into that suffocating space. The other patients in the hospital are used to my nightly screaming by now. So are the nurses and orderlies.

It was they who gave me the details of my rescue. They tell me I was stuck in that pipe for nearly ten hours before the rescuers got me out. They also tell me that crawling into it was the only reason I survived. The house was nothing but a pile of ashes after the fire and because of its subterranean location. very little heat or smoke got down in that awful drain. So, in the end, that nightmare is the reason I'm alive and able to tell this story. No, if I could go back to that day, to that moment standing above the ancient crate, surrounded by roaring flame, I'm not sure I'd make the same decision again.

I may let the flames take me. I may let myself burn alive. For your bonus episode, creepy presents Night Drive, written by B.A. Reese and narrated by Rissa M. My body aches as I stumble away from the accident. I have at least a mild concussion. I know I should go to a hospital, but I press on. My sister needs me. The bumpy dirt road curves around dense woods. To save time, I cut through the trees to reach the highway where, hopefully, I can hitch a ride into town. Thankfully, a full moon glimmers through the deep night, providing enough light for me to make my way through thick foliage. As I jog down a slope, my foot slips and my body tumbles. I slide into murky water as I crawl back to dry land, a tight force, grip.

my ankle. When I swat at it, I feel a pruny human hand. More hands reach out of the water. They extend in my direction. With a defiant scream, I pry the hand off of me. I make it onto two feet and dart away. As I run, I try not to think about what I just experienced. It's one horror too many for tonight. Instead, I think of my sister. Four years might you. at 13. She was so different from me. She deserves the life she will have if I managed to spare her. I emerge from the woods and approach the highway. For poor Catherine's sake, I ignore the obvious danger I face as I holler at approaching headlights. I walk along the road as vehicle after vehicle passes me by. I don't blame their drivers. After all, I am careful. I am careful. I am

caked in blood and mud. But I wish one would take mercy on me and pull over. Finally, my wish comes true. A rusty brown sedan rose to a stop. Its back passenger door pops open. I hurry inside. The car's interior is dirty. A layer of trash covers the floor.

A pale elderly man sits in the passenger seat before me. He reaches past me to slam. I'm shut, the open door. Sorry, I say, I should have done that. It's been quite a night. Are you heading into town? He does not respond. Instead, with wide, curious eyes,

he scans me from my wet, dirty feet, to the tear around the waist of my dress, to my teary-eyed and bruised face. The driver of the car is even less welcoming. He wears a dark green sweatshirt with its hood drawn up over his head. He does not acknowledge me. When the old man finally speaks, his voice has an empty, mechanical timber. He asks me if I'm heading into town.

Yes, like I said, I'm sorry to impose, but it's urgent. I need to make haste. The man croaks one word. Why? My sister needs me. The man repeats why I said, She needs to go to town because her sister needs her. He gestures toward the driver, who starts the car.

I feel relief as we fly by the trees that droop ominously by the side of the road. The old man makes a sign of the cross with his hands before tapping a button on the car's audio system. A deep, male voice emerges from a musical intro of haunting piano. Welcome to Cemetery Stories, the podcast guaranteed to frighten you to your core. We examine the most disturbing urban legends we can find. Listener discretion is advised.

I'm not exactly in the mood for this. Still, it's harmless enough. All that matters is that this strange duo brings me to town. What difference does it make what they listen to? I settle into my seat and try, to enjoy the moment of relative calm. Tonight, we examine a legend over 300 years old, the curse of Susanna Archibald.

I bolt upright. What? I exclaim. Susanna Archibald was born in 1680 in Hanover County. She lived in an agrarian community in a Puritan settlement. As you'd expect, she grew up surrounded by strong religious institutions. What is going on? Have these two men picked me up on purpose knowing who I was?

I sense that I need to leave. Sir, I call to the driver. You've taken me far enough. Drop me off here, please. He continues to ignore me. Susanna lived happily as a part of the wealthiest family in the region. However, in her late teens, Susanna's life took a dark turn when she met a boy one year her senior named Nathan Benham. Nathan? It's one thing for this narrator to describe someone with my name, but for him to also know about Nathan.

Susanna and her little sister Catherine were seen heading out into the woods with Nathan one summer evening. He knows about Catherine, too? Nobody knows exactly what happened that night in the woods, but we do know the narrative that the town accepted to be true the next morning. I know exactly what happened, but none of this occurred hundreds of years ago like the host had seen. said. We'd driven my dad's truck out to West Ridge Park. I remember dizzying spins around a fire, dolls, and needles. Suddenly, Nathan tried to kiss me on the lips. Stardled, I turned my face. He only made contact with my cheek. He told me he wanted to marry me. Catherine gasped happily when she heard the proposal. When I told him no,

He turned red and cried. Several elders spotted Nathan acting hysterically that evening. After intense questioning, Nathan explained his behavior by reporting that he had witnessed Susanna Archibald engaged in witchcraft. I remember first hearing the accusation in the high school cafeteria. I assumed nobody would believe it. I could not have been more wrong. I was spat at and taunted by everyone around me. As word spread, Susanna quickly realized that her life was in danger.

Any association with witchcraft, no matter how flimsy or poorly supported, guaranteed her persecution. The car lurches as it takes a sharp turn. I feel sick. What is happening? Who are these men and why is the host of this show recounting my life? But placing it in the distant past, I beg the men to turn off the recording. Susanna took one of her parents' horses and fled town. The distant array of torches had convinced me to go.

I'd looked at my sleeping sister, my best friend, and realized that I would never see her again. But I reminded myself that if I left, at least she would be spared the sight of the fate that otherwise awaited me. I feel lightheaded. My mind feels like it is in the past, future. and present all at once. But the next morning, a courier arrived at the inn with news that shocked Susanna.

With her gone, the mob's appetite for violence still needed to be sated. The rumors about Susanna's witchcraft expanded to encompass accusations against others. The mob took Catherine and declared that she, too, was a witch, and that she would die in Susanna's place. I want this to stop. I reach out for the old man as images of the crappy roadside motel I stayed in last night race through my brain. Before I touch him, his body shifts.

I shriek as his lifeless form collapses. Upon learning this, Susanna began the ride back to town. She knew what awaited her sister and hoped that by giving herself over to the mob, they might spare Catherine. The driver remains seemingly unperturbed by his companion's demise or by my screams from the backseat. Memories continue to rush through me. In my mind, the high school I imagined a moment ago now disintegrates into a stuffy one-room schoolhouse. I tug at the door handle, ready to dive away even as the car remains in motion.

But the door doesn't budge. Susanna was hardly accustomed to riding a horse alone at high speed. She was less than halfway home when a rocky shift in elevation knocked her off her saddle. To Susanna's misfortune, the road bordered a rocky decline, and when Susanna hit the bottom, she died on impact. Why is he insisting I am someone who died long ago? Why would he do that? The lights from buildings in the distance confirmed that we have finally reached the outskirts of town.

Meanwhile, the recording continues to play. That night, a mob of townsfolk assembled. They dragged out Catherine and, ignoring her screams of innocence, tied her to a hastily assembled pyre located on a hill that overlooked the town cemetery. I beg the driver again to let me out, to no avail. The town's folk proceeded to commit the only instance of burning, rather than hanging, of a witch and American history.

history. One by one, they tossed their torches onto the pyre. Allegedly, Catherine's last words were to scream for her sister, whose limp body would be discovered off the side of the road the next morning. Their parents, heartbroken by the loss of their children, had Susanna's body and what was left of Catherine's remains, buried with the family's most valuable heirlooms. The Archibald's chose as the burial site a pair of graves they had picked out long ago for themselves, and they left the headstones unmarked. Mr. and Mrs. Archibald proceeded to jump into the White Oak River. They were never seen again.

The car turns abruptly onto a gravelly side road lined by empty fields and derelict buildings as we veer further into the opaque darkness. The ghost of Susanna Archibald has been cited many times since that day. The rumor is that she walks the roads near where she suffered her fatal accident, hitchhiking desperately to get into town, to burn in her sister's place. She keeps up with the times and is accommodating to changes in technology. If you drive a truck, she suddenly understands what a truck is. If you talk to her, she relates her experiences in terms resembling those used in the present.

She does not seem to understand that she is from the past. In the distance. Dozens of small flames flicker at the top of a grassy hill. But locals tend to refer to this not as the legend of Susanna Archibald, but rather as the curse of Susanna Archibald. The reason for this is that those who come into contact with her rarely live long enough to tell the tale. It said she has a special relationship with death, and that as someone stuck between the boundaries of life and afterlife,

she has seen the most clearly by those with few days before their departure. and those who do interact with her meet their end even more quickly as a result. Most accounts of her come from those who did not engage with her, or who contacted someone about her soon before their own death. Rumor has it that her sister Catherine still prowls the area where her charred remains were buried, eagerly awaiting the arrival of her long absent sister at their unmarked grave. The podcast cut off as the car rolled to a stop. The driver steps out, leaving me with the old man's corpse.

Out the window, the headlights reveal the driver removing some kind of stuffing from his ears and goggles from over his eyes. On the other side of the car, I discern a small spiked fence. The frail young man emerges from a light fog. As he hobbles, he gives off a sickly cough. He reaches out for the door. handle and pauses when he catches my eye through the window. He seems scared and starts to shiver. He pulls open the door and directs me to follow him. He doesn't answer the many questions I ask.

He just tells me that Catherine is ahead. As we approach the distant flames, we pass rows upon rows of old graves that stretch far into the shadows. Many of the tombings, many of the tombes stones are unmarked, and the engravings on many more have been worn down with age. He tells me he can't believe that I'm real. I demand that he tell me about my sister. Where is she? And is she safe? He responds that he has a little brother of his own, who has the same condition as he does. That if he does this job, he'll earn enough money to provide for his brother's treatment. As I ponder what he means, we arrive at the lights. In the shadows, I make out a dozen dark silhouettes of men wielding torches, surrounding an unlit pile of wood.

My companion tells me that this is my chance. I instinctively know what to do. I step forward. A loud, deep voice, ring. out. Susanna Archibald may have fled, but God demands justice. And justice will be delivered upon the sister who shares in her wickedness. Through fog and heavy smoke, I see several masked men in dark hoods drag a blindfolded girl in a yellow dress towards the pyre. The mob freezes as the boy who led me there announces that Susanna Archibald has arrived. I cry out. Take me instead, like you always wanted. Just let Catherine go. As I progress toward the site, a new set of memories overwhelms me. I recall waving down dozens of vehicles. Carriages, buses, Ford Model T's,

vans, trucks, friendly drivers, perverted drivers, soon to be. be dead drivers. None have guided me all the way to my destination. Until now, I lean against the wooden pyre and close my eyes. Ropes tighten around my legs and wrists. Am I being tricked into walking into my own death? Will I really burn? And even if I do, will that save Catherine? How can I make a difference if she really perished centuries ago? I hear each torch as it is added to the pile. I cough furiously at the smoke. My body glows, scorches, and in flames.

Pain engulfs me. My consciousness dims. I begin to settle into a long, awaited, sleep. But from the void before me emerged dozens of bloody, callous hands. They reach for me to pull me down. I resist. I run the way I always have from what's waiting for me. On the other side, I open my eyes in the morning night. My naked form is sprawled across cemetery grass. Behind me, Arbets of ember from a dead fire. I am healthy. My skin is unburned. I gaze upon the graveyard just outside of town that my parents took me to as a child. It was much smaller then. I slip into a neatly folded

set of white clothes that lay before me. A note beside them reads, Sister, how I've yearned for you. Your body was buried here, but your spirit remained. so far away. Please, come find me so we can finally move on. I know where to go. Like most parents in our village, Mom and Dad had shown us the plots they'd reserved for their own burial. The oak tree that loomed over the pair of graves had once been so small, so young. It had become fully grown long ago. Now it was decrepit and dying. I kneel and call for Catherine. I sense that I have done everything right. After so many years of trying, I've finally been burned in my sister's place, but nothing happens. No spirit appears to float away with me. I wait in silence, certain that I have

broken some kind of spell, but puzzled to not be experiencing the outcome I had anticipated. As I depart, I gaze jealously at grave, after grave, of bodies buried in contentment. Their souls having parted on in a way that I know mine never will. I am outside the cemetery when a metallic clang draws my intention. I follow it to its source. By my family's graves, a man I recognize as my car's driver leads a group of nine others, eight men clad in black, and a grown woman in a yellow dress. Several drop their shovels and hop into the deep hole.

A man speaks with the voice I'd heard from the podcast in the car. Yes, I'm sure this is the one. The boy swears this is where Susanna went after reading the note. The desecration before me fills me with rage. The driver pries open an unearthed coffin and pulls from it a golden necklace my mother once promised to me. The group cheers. Others remove more of my family's jewelry and riches.

When a small skull rolls out of the grave, I collapse. When I awake, I don't find myself like I know. normally due by the location of the accident, nor do any hands from below reach out to take what I owe them. When I interact with the concerned passerby, I can touch him and speak with him like a real, living person. And I sense that, unlike so many others, he is not doomed as a result. The ritual I went through, one I realized had been staged. had an odd effect. It dawns on me that somehow, this group of con artists,

who had cleverly managed to trick a ghost, have accidentally freed me from my purgatory. No longer am I sentenced to roam the stretch of highway around where I died. Instead, completing the journey that motivated me seems to have returned me to life. I was never supposed to actually make it back to Catherine and burn in her place. Even if what I thought was a mob may have really been nine grave robbers holding two torches each, I take a deep breath. I don't know how I'll survive in this new time, but a sense of purpose guides me.

The mob was wrong about Catherine, as mobs so often are. She was a sweet girl who'd never touch anything related to witchcraft or sorcery. I, on the other hand, have ten people to track down.