Creepy - Day 20 - Starved & The Children of the Barn

Episode Date: October 20, 2025

Starved***Written by: Ridge Jolliff and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***The Children of the Barn***Written by: Lawrence Dagstine***Content warning: child death***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.

Good morning, everyone. We have some new patients this week I'd like to introduce. If you see them sleepwalking or cutting in line at the cafeteria, please say hello to Jennifer Tate, Megan Isherwood, Jason Skinner, Evan Biller, Emma,

and vintage either. These patients found their way to the the Institute through patreon.com slash creepypod, where they are eligible for some extra perks during their stay. To find out more, please visit patreon.com slash creepypod. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 20. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and chilling and a 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. Good afternoon, everyone. And how are we all doing this morning? Great. I haven't had a nightmare all week. Really? No.

Last night I dreamed that I was at a job interview, but instead of sitting across from a manager, there was a panel of five raccoons wearing tiny suits and glasses. They were very professional-looking, but every time I tried to answer a question, one of them would steal my granola bar and start eating it. Then, midway through, the raccoons insisted I demonstrate teamwork and rolled in a giant inflatable bouncy castle shaped like Abraham Lincoln's head. They told me to climb inside with them. And once I was in there, they started a dodgeball game with me against a rival team of squirrels wearing bowler hats.

Then they all started to eat me. You think that means anything? Yes, Owen, very interesting. Your dreams suggest you feel judged by others, but also that you secretly believe raccoons could run the corporate world better than humans. The inflatable Lincoln had simply represented. your unresolved issues with history class and dodgeball. That sounds about right. Thanks, Doc.

And how about everyone else? Has anyone felt progress in their sleep cycle and severity of their dreams? No, not really not at all. That's okay. No one is expecting overnight change. It's been a little longer than overnight. Yes, of course. I should have been more specific.

There really is no expectation for when you will all feel that you have achieved what we have set out for here. Some people are short-term patients needing no more than a few sessions. Others look at more medium-term therapy that can last several months. Months? Yes, sometimes. And still others have to look at long-term therapy. This is usually for people using dreams as an ongoing tool for self-discovery, which we have touched upon a bit in our individual sessions.

My goal is for you all to leave here with the tools to help yourselves in the future. Patient heal thyself? Something like that, yes. Now, who would like to share their dream from last night? Yeah, I guess I can. It was last night, and when I woke up, I couldn't stop. feeling... ...starved.

The minnow spawned late in southwest Missouri. In October, you can lean over the bank of the creek and see the fry scooting through the water. They're smaller than the mayflies that glide over the surface. Their tails are translucent, and their eyes are larger than their bodies. The entire colony could be crushed by a sloppily dropped boulder, and no one would blame the human who threw the rock. This creek used to be part of a large. larger stream. In the late 40s, the stream was redirected to avoid flooding the small town of Waverly,

which hugs the state line. Part of the stream was directed north, where it circled around downtown Waverly and connected with Lost Creek in Oklahoma. The rest of the stream was directed into an abandoned quarry about 12 miles south of town. The quarry was over 60 feet deep, and now it is over halfway full of water. There is a decaying red house that stands at the top of the quarry. Sometimes you can hear screams coming from that house. In 1971, a corn farmer named Thomas Shiner built an ethanol factory just outside Waverly and opened a storefront along the downtown strip. Every man in town strapped on a respirator mask and went to work at the Shiner factory.

In front of the store was a bronze statue of Thomas, barrel chested and smiling, holding his pitchfork. The pitchfork he posed with was the same pitchfork he used. used to murder his wife, Marla, and their two daughters, Erica and Evelyn. The youngest of the Shiner's, Marlon, was the only survivor. The factory closed and Waverly fell into a depression. Thomas escaped town before the bodies of his victims were found. He seems to have disappeared completely, though rumors timed to a string of homicides taken place over the span of decades throughout a small town in western Kansas. After the murders, the infamy of the Thomas Shiner became legendary. Despite public outcry, the statue in the front of the old

Shiner store was never removed. Waverly has become known as the home of a killer, and the town's economy is entirely dependent on dark tourism. Every October, the Waverly Halloween festival attracts thousands of visitors. Main Street is closed for the entire month, and the traffic is replaced by food vendors and street performers. The entire block smells like a lot. like cinnamon and fried dough. Warm lights are hung from the white molding of every red brick building. A giant net hangs high above the street, and within days it becomes a glowing orange canopy of fallen leaves.

When I lived here as a child, I hated all of it. As someone who lived for summer, I struggled to understand why my parents would want to live in a town that delighted in the dropping temperature. A town where people painted their faces to look like zombies and wore skeletons. suit and waited around corners to frighten adults and children alike and expected to be thankful for it. Were people idolized and even dressed up as a murdering lunatic, posing for photos in front of his statue? The Halloween Festival in Waverly, to me, felt like a celebration of death. So, in October of 1996, I announced that I would not be joining my parents at the Halloween

festival this year. I would be going for a walk by the creek to soak up the last bit of sun before the darkness of winter enveloped us. The seasons always seemed less harsh in the forest. It felt cooler in the summer and warmer during the spring and fall. I knew my parents wouldn't return from the festival until dinner time, so I walked further than I ever had. Eventually, I reached the end of the forest. I followed the creek until it dropped into a waterfall, feeding into the quarry. For the first time, part of me recognized the appeal of the Midwest. The treetops on the other side of the quarry were bright red.

Leaves floated on the surface of the water, making the quarry look like the center of a volcano. Birds corkscrewed up and down the massive hole, their songs echoing off the stone walls. I wondered whether I could learn to like it here after all. I turned around and started back toward town, planning to meet up with my parents at the festival. Then I heard the voice of a child. Trick-treat! It had come from the pale red house standing on the opposite edge of the quarry. I stared at the back window for several minutes before the same voice said the same words in exactly the same tone. Trick-treat! As I made my way around the grassy perimeter, the words continued intermittently. They were not panicked or overly loud.

They sounded routine, as if the speaker was bored. My feet felt heavy as I climbed the stairs to the porch. The shade from the on and made me shiver. The door was opened just enough to tell from a distance. Inside, all the curtains were drawn, and the rays of sunlight were shining on the specks of dust in the air. To my right was a living room with a single recliner. To my left was a kitchen with a table piled high with empty cans.

In the hallway, a framed copy of the Springfield Gazette hung from the wall. It was too dark to read the body of the article, but the headline read, Industry Leader flees Waverly after slaughter and family. The photo was of Thomas Shiner, standing next to a towering steel centrifuge, wearing white overalls and a gas mask. The child's voice rang out again as I approached the back room. This had once been a large dining room, but was now empty with a small dining room. but was now empty with squares a plywood throughout the floor.

The windows had been boarded up, and the only light was leaking beneath my feet from the hallway. Rows of chains hung from the ceiling around the eastern and western walls. I took three steps and stopped awkwardly on my toes. A rectangular hole had been cut in the floor, and I had barely saved myself from falling into the blackness within it. A thick slab of plywood hung on a set of hinges. identical holes were scattered throughout the room.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, what I saw were several rows of trap doors. About half of them were open, their doors swinging downward into the darkness. The voice was coming from beneath one of the closed doors. I shuffled to one of the open doors and looked down into the hole. A cement floor glistened about seven feet below my sneakers. I felt the firm push on my back and the floor.

slipped out from under me. My kneecap exploded with pain. The harsh whir of rotating gears flooded the room. Ropes sped through a pulley just outside the cage. The door above me snapped shut. All of this happened in less than a second. The child's voice was now coming from beside me, and it had leapt to a zealous shout. It was directed at the thunder and footsteps that walked out of the room above us. Trick, treat, trick, trick, treat, trick, trick, trick, treat. I sat up and hugged my knees, watching the dust settle around me. The echo of the trapdoor mechanism seemed to take minutes to dissipate. It was almost completely dark, but using the dull glow of the open doors I was able to gather my surroundings.

The cage was about three by six feet. There was a folding cot in the corner, a thin blanket, no pillow. There was a cage just like mine to my right and in front of me. Eight cages total, each where the trap door hanged. and overhead. I stood on wobbly legs and the pain of my knee slowly subsided. A shuffling sound came from the far corner of the room. A thin man, probably in his late 50s, he adjusted himself on his cot and lie still. His back turned to me. When I called out to him, he didn't flinch. There was a boy standing at the center of the cage to my right, looking at me with a subdued

sense of wonder, but maybe disappointment. He was two or three years younger than I was. His t-shirt and denim shorts were too small for him. His hair had been cut in sloppy chops, the way a child would cut their doll's hair. He said the same words, but not as a question, and with no excitement in his voice. He said it like a greeting. Trick-treat. After a few moments of staring blankly at me, he sat criss-crossed directly. below the door. He cocked his head back and yelled, Trick-treat. Then he waited. He yelled it again a minute later. He yelled and waited, just as he had when I was on the other side of the quarry, as if I wasn't standing in the cage

next to his. I looked at the splinter of wood above me and cried. My parents had walked the creek with me dozens of times. They had told me never to go past the bend at the edge of our neighborhood without them. And they had trusted me to adhere to this rule, to generally self-preserve. Their voices had played in my head as I walked far past the bend and as I entered the house. I don't remember what motivated me to keep going. I only recall the things that happened, not the reasons behind them. I know I was scared, but so many years have passed that it feels more like a second-hand fear.

It was a different person who made those decisions and a different person who suffered the consequences. Hours passed. I tried everything to get the attention of the man in the corner or the boy next to me. I screamed, rattled the walls of my cage, begged and bargained with them. Neither of them acknowledged me.

They were both so resigned to their fate that I began to believe they wanted to be here and maybe I was there by mistake. I wondered if someone would come along and let me go, apologizing for the inconvenience. By the time he entered the room, it was completely dark. The cracks in the floor above me lit up. The boy next to me leapt to his feet.

Trick-treat, trick-treat! I slid off my cot and stood below the door of my cage. Brickish boots circled the room, rising slowly and falling without grace. The boy next to me ran in place and screamed his catchphrase to the sky with elation. When the door to my cage opened, he shook the wall between us and screamed at the hole above me.

The overhead light funneled into my cage through the door, spotlighted me. At first I only saw the man's silhouette. My eyes were slow to adjust to the brightness. Then I saw a brown canvas jacket with shiner written on the pocket, a thick neck and a round head with a sloppy buzz cut, and a face covered by a forest green gas man. The eyes were black, circular windows.

There was no hose connected to the mouthpiece, and the inlets resembled fangs. He was leaning over the hole with a hand on either side, pressing his face as far into the darkness as he could without falling in, looking like a spider. His name is Marlon Shiner, and he kept me in that cage beneath his house for over eight years. He is the son and sole survivor of Thomas Shiner. Every October, Marlin stands at the center of the festival next to the statue of his father, waving and posing for pictures, never removing his mask, hiding in plain sight. I saw him myself earlier today. He didn't see me through the crowd, or maybe he didn't recognize me.

But I saw him. The boy in the cage next to me never told him. me his name. He usually wore a red shirt with Mickey Mouse at its center, so I called him Mickey. He never said anything other than Trick-Treat, even after years of hearing me speak. His mind refused to progress past the age of which he was abducted, which must have been around two years old. Eventually, I was able to pick up on what he was trying to say by listening to his inflection and tone. Every morning, he would roll off his cot, urinate in the bucket in the corner of his cage and ask, trick-treat? And I would tell him, no, Mickey, today is not Halloween. He could tell

when October came, though, because Marlin left every morning to go to the Halloween festival and didn't come back until lunchtime. As the month neared its end, he asked the question with growing anticipation. When I finally said, yes, Mickey, today is Halloween, he would explode with excitement. He would sit watching his door the entire day, chime in those two words every few minutes, just like he had on the day of my capture. When Marlon came home and dumped a few handfuls of candy onto the floor of his cage,

Mickey would barely get the wrappers off before he swallowed them. Then he would vomit, lie down on his cot, and wait for next Halloween. It was hard to hide my frustration with him and to not blame him for my being there in the first place. During the first year or so, I lashed out at him often. Finally, I decided that Mickey's company was better than no company at all. I began saving my Halloween candy under my pillow

and tossing a piece into his cage every couple of days until Christmas. I knew my parents would be looking for me, but after a few months, my hopes of being rescued dissolved. I spent less of my time screaming for help, and after a couple of years, I stopped altogether. Marlins' house was twice as far from road by town as it was on foot. Even when the occasional car passed, the driver would never be able to hear me. And the type of person who walked the creek until the end was not the type of person who would turn around and go for help.

It didn't take long until I accept this is my new life. With enough repetition, the human mind can acclimate to even the worse of circumstances. If Mickey could do it, why couldn't I? All in all, Mickey actually seemed pretty happy. He undoubtedly loved Marlon, and he and I were treated favorably. Besides candy on Halloween, food and water fell from our doors on a semi-regular basis. Every few weeks, Marlin brought us out of our cages to bathe us, cut our hair, and trim our nails. He did so in silence and never removed the respirator mask.

It wasn't long before I saw Marlon and Mickey as my family. Mickey and I became ignorant of the residents in the surrounding cages, and their moans became background noise. It didn't happen all at once. During my first few years in the cage, I tried desperately to help the people around me, the ones who seemed invisible to Marlin. The gaps between the cages made it impossible to share food with anyone other than Mickey.

Eventually, I learned that once they were in the cage, what happened to them was inevitable. But I tried to keep people out until the very end. I spent my days with my ears perked, waiting for the silence of the house to be disrupted. As soon as I heard footsteps that didn't belong to Marlin, I would yell out a warning. I was always too late, though.

In an instant, the front door would slam shut, and Marlin's deafening stompbs would shake the house. A second later, the newest addition to Marlins' collection would fall through the floor, and the door to their cage would slam shut. Usually, they were too shocked to scream. About half of them died from dehydration within a few days. The other half successfully recycled their urine until it ran out, or they starred to death,

usually after a week or two. Mickey and I were not phased by their screaming and crying and begging for our help. It was when they went quiet that we knew their time was almost up. No matter how hard they fought or how loud they screamed, they invariably fell into a silent acceptance. It was like they died of hopelessness. I never saw Marlin touch anyone else once they were in their cage. He ignored them completely until their last day. He seemed to have a sixth sense for when a person was near in their final breaths,

or maybe he had seen so many lives in that he could identify even the most subtle of signs. The person would lie still on their cot for at least a few days before the life left them. But Marlon could anticipate a time of death within minutes. When he knew one of my neighbors was about to die, he would open their door, sit with his legs hanging over the edge of the hole, and watch. The circular windows of his mask reflected the light from the hallway, turning his eyes gold. He breathed heavily through the plastic air valve and waited. I don't know what it was that made Mickey and I so special.

The average person who came wandering into the house was homeless or addicted, usually both. Occasionally, it was teenagers drawn to what looked like an abandoned house, hungry for a place to call their own. But a couple of times, it was children who were no older than Mickey or me. Sometimes he would feed a person for a month or two before letting them starve. His methods seemed to be completely random. I was just happy to be one of his favorites. And then, without warning, I wasn't.

Even after decades of living away from Marlin, I still have the taste buds of a child. For lunch, I had a funnel cake and a caramel apple. I got caramel all over my septum piercing. When I was done, my hands felt so sticky that I had to go to the cafe across from the town, hall to use the bathroom's sink. In the mirror, I noticed that my tattoos were fading more every day, especially the one of my forearm that says trick-treat. As I was leaving the cafe, I looked at the

Shiner's store across the street. I saw the statue of Thomas Shiner, and next to him I found Marlin. The canopy above the tree was a patchy formation of scattered leaves, and a beam of sunlight leaked through, illuminating the goggles of his mask. He wore the same brown jacket as the day I first saw him, even though the weather still feels like September. His hair is gray now, but he still cuts it with a pair of clippers. He stood as still as his bronze father. I looked at the sidewalk beneath my feet,

feeling dizzy, estimating the number of people who died because I never told anyone about him. When I wandered into town as a 19-year-old ghost, still wearing the same zip-up hoodie that I had when I was nine, I kept my lips sealed. To tell the truth would have meant admitting that I had begged him not to pull me out of his truck, and that I'd run after him as he drove away, and that I'd spent hours trying to fire my way back to the house before stumbling out of the forest, crying, wondering why he didn't want me anymore. I had more memories with him than I had without him.

I barely remembered what my parents looked like. It was months before they found out I was still alive. My father died five years later. Coming back to Waverly feels disrespectful to his memory. Now I stand before a beige house at the end of the cul-de-sac. This should have been the house I grew up in. I walk through the backyard and into the forest until I find the creek. I sit on the bank and lean my back against a tree with golden leaves.

I look at the water, and after staring, long enough I see tiny flashes of movement. These baby fish have never seen the depths of the creek. Nine nights ago, they were eggs plummeting into the dirt under the moonlight, dropped by a mother who didn't bother to see where they landed. I removed the lid from my coffee cup and scooped up several of the minnow fry. If I strained all the water out just to watch them squirm, their gills flapping desperately until their bulging eyes went still,

and their inconsequential lives ended. Would I be a murderer? I spent all day yesterday trying to find the house by road. I only know one way of getting there. I dumped the meadows back into the creek and start along the shore. When the forest ends and I reach the quarry, the sun is beaming directly above the water. Steam is rising from the surface and up the hole,

and it looks like a volcano ready to erupt. I rest my head backward and my face absorbs the sunshine. I still love the warmth as much as I did as a child. The front door is closed and locked. I kick in the living room window easily. The house is silent and I head straight for the back room. I skirt the perimeter and grope at the chains that line the wall, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

I find a rusty lever and pull it towards me. I hear one of the doors slam shut. I moved to the next lever and press it into the floor. The door to my left opens. I lean on another lever and another door opens. Center row, two spots over from the back window. I make my way around the room, opening the closed doors and closing the open ones.

I'm about to call out when the front door opens. He catches me in the hallway, lifts me off my feet as I bite into his jacket. He drops me, but my fingernails claw at the edge of the hole. The door slams down on my knuckles. I collapse to the floor. The deep mechanical ring echoes throughout the room. I drool on the dirty cement as I lie on the floor,

writhing and squeezing my fingers. The shock wears off quickly, and I remove my cell phone from my pocket. I am unsurprised to see that it doesn't work. "'His cell service reached this basement, "'Marlin would have been arrested decades ago. "'I set up and lit out a guttural scream. "'I ask him if he remembers me. "'I moved to the cot where I slept as a girl,

"'and I can feel the universe smiling. "'It only seems fair that I should start death in this cage. "'The door above the cage next to mine is still open, "'remnants of sunshine from the front door "'of pouring light into the cage. I hear stirring in the far corner. A figure sits up on its kind. It rubs its eyes, stands up and walks into the sunlight.

The man has a careless buzz cut that matches Marlins, but his is brown and full. His beard is wry, longer in some areas than others. The face is boyish, but one side is covered by a scaly scar that looks like rotted stone. He is gaunt and pale. He opens his mouth. His teeth are thin and pointy like toddlers.

He looks up to the door and exhales. My breath stalls. I know what he's going to say. His voice still sounds like a child's. Trick-treat? His door slams shut. He looks at me, and his face softens as he sees my tears. He says the words again.

I roll over and cradle my swollen house. hand. Yeah, Mickey. It's me. The sun sets and rises again. Mickey's door opens. A granola bar and a water bottle fall to the floor of his cage. I hear Marlin leave. Mickey gets up, pees in his bucket, and asks me, Trick, treat? And I say, no, Mickey. Today is in Halloween. He doesn't try to share his food, and I don't ask them to. I give up hope quicker than anyone ever has down here. No one will be wondering where I am. I took weeks off from work to come to Waverly, and my mother is becoming more forgetful every day. She won't notice I haven't called. If no one came from me when I was nine, then no one is coming from me when I'm 40. On October 11th, my muscles start to spasm,

and my skin feels tight. I feel like I'm not. melting. On the 13th, my heartbeat becomes rapid and irregular. The grocery bag hanging from the corner of my cot is about a third of the way full of urine. I take a handle in each hand and bring the bag to my mouth. On October 19th, I can't get out of bed. I sleep in two-hour intervals until the sun goes back down. I can tell it's getting cold outside. I don't feel hungry anymore. It is the best day I've had in weeks. I spend the next week in a haze. The only way I can keep track of the past and days

is by counting a number of times Mickey has asked if today is Halloween. I dream of falling through the Earth's atmosphere, plumbing into the creek, getting carried by the current to the waterfall that drops into the quarry, sinking into the bottom into the Earth's core. I often find my hands sticking straight up in the air, and I can't seem to get them to rest. I don't recognize the thin muscles of my own forearms.

My gums hurt. On the 26th, I roll off my cot as if it's been tipped over. My shoulder screams. I stand up and yell gibberish at Mickey, who turns his back to me. I don't become fully lucid again until the 28th. There's a deep bruise covering the left side of my body. I lie on my back and try to cry, but can't produce tears. I wonder if this was my plan all along.

Maybe I never actually intended on freeing anyone from their cage and making amends for my silence. Maybe my only intention was to come home. On the 29th, the grocery bag is bone dry. On the 30th, I lay completely still in the dark, trapped in the web of the world's largest spider. Early on the morning of the 31st, I'm awoken by the door of my cage opening. Marlon grunts as he sits on the edge of the floor, his boots hanging just a foot or two above my knees. He leans in and watches me with golden circular eyes. I roll over to my good side, facing the wall, and try to go back to sleep.

Maybe an hour later, I hear the reverberating drizzle of Mickey's urine. He shuffles over to the wall and directs his voice at me. Trick-treat? My eyes shoot open. There seems to be seconds between each of my heartbeats, as if my pulse is unsure whether or not to continue. The fabric of the cot is cradling me comfortably, and a dense sleepiness is ready to overtake me.

I force myself to roll over slowly and bring my gaze to meet Mickey's. I inhale and prepare my voice to speak. Yes, Mickey. Today is Halloween. Mickey's fingers hook into the wall of the cage as he jumps up and down. He looks at Marlin and screams with joy. Trick, treat, trick, treat! Marlon's eyes stay on me.

I'm still looking at Mickey. Do you want some candy, Mickey? He shakes the walls fervently, and the chain link detaches from the car. crossbeam at his waist. You better go get your candy before it's all gone, Mickey. There are tears in his eyes, and a vein in his forehead bulges as he screams the words. He reaches for the top of the fence and yanks it downward.

Make him give him your candy, Mickey. The wall between our cages folds in half. Marlon drops into my cage and shoves Mickey through the fence, then begins straightening the wall. Mickey falls to the floor. His eyes lock on Marlin. Trick, treat! Mickey gathers himself and jumps through the fence. The wall collapses on top of Marlin.

Mickey moves it easily to the side. He straddles Marlin, pins him to the floor. He grabs the straps on the sides of his mask and slams the back of his head into the cement. Marlin's arms fall to his sides. Mickey turns to me. I point to the hole above. With the last of my strength, I rise to my feet and lift my hands as Mickey pulls me out of the hole.

I collapse on the floor of the hallway. Beneath me, the chain link rattles. Marlin's mask face appears from within the hole. He grabs my ankle, and I can feel his filtered breath on my foot. The door slams down on his head. Mickey stands in the corner of the room next to the lever. I lose consciousness. When I wake up, I'm lying on the living room couch.

I hear a deep, muffled scream that comes from beneath the floor of the dining room. Mickey is standing over me, offering me a fun-sized candy bar. Trick-treat? I'm curious, Alicia. Did anything about the dream feel familiar to you? Why? What do you mean? I just mean that it feels as though your dream has weight, something that feels remembered instead of imagined.

You think this really happened to me? Are you kidding? No, I just mean that the imagery you shared feels like it has connections. Take the minnows, so fragile and easily crushed, they feel like an opening act or warning. A reminder of how small life can be, how it can be ended without consequence. It sets the tone. The tone? Yes. Then there are the quarry, the house, the trap doors.

These are not random constructions of the mind. They feel ritualistic, deliberate, as if your unconscious has preserved a memory of violence, and it plays it back in symbols that you can't ignore. But it was just a dream. Yes, it was. But notice how the dream never gives you freedom. Even in the moment of escape, Marlon's hand grabs your ankle, even after Mickey intervenes.

The scream beneath the floorboards tells you that something remains alive down there. The cage is never empty, Alicia. The cage always. has someone in it. Sir, you're saying I feel trapped. Like, I'm a captive because... This dream isn't about captivity. It's about contagion.

Violence that seeps through generations, that seeps into communities, that seeps into you. And the real terror is that you can't really tell whether you escaped it or became a part of it. Is everyone having dreams this shit? I know it's appreciating, I got to say. I know it isn't fun to hear these things, but we are trying to unlock the reason you are all having the same problem.

And sometimes that can feel painful. Think of it like tearing off a band-aid. It might hurt now, but the more we hesitate, the more painful it will be. And we need to heal. I'll try to remember that. remember that. Now, I do have some unfortunate news. Oh man, come on. The one nice thing about being here is that you don't play the news on TV. I wouldn't mind something a bit more recent than Gilligan's Island reruns. It's nothing to concern yourselves about it all. However, another matter has taken precedence

recently, and I won't have the same time to make rounds and do our one-on-one meetings. So, for the But this week, and hopefully only for this week, instead of having our usual meetings, I would like those of you who feel comfortable to it, to instead record yourself talking about the dream. You mean like some reality TV confessional? Exactly. Is that really going to help us talking to ourselves? I'm very, very happy with everyone's progress.

And I think, as far as timing goes, this is about as good as any of us could have hoped for. Are you kidding? I'm still barely sleeping. It doesn't feel like I'm getting better. Sometimes it feels like things are getting worse while all along you are healing. Like a wound starting to itch. This is a signal that the body's cells and nerves are active during the repair. process. The fact that you all have been more consistently remembering your dreams and open to their interpretations means that your minds are opening to the actual healing process. Please, trust me, you all are on a very positive path. Dr. Hall, I'm sorry to interrupt. However, you are needed in the observation room. Thank you, nurse. I'll be there in... I'm sorry.

Sorry, doctor, but your assistant told me to tell you that he needs your approval on the treatment schedule. I see. Well, I'm very sorry that I have to cut things even shorter today, but I'm afraid we're short-staffed this week. Nurse Natalie will be in soon with the details of how this week will go and where the recording will take place. If you need anything, she can also page me. Take care. I'm very proud of all of you. Status? He's just waking up now. Monitors are showing his brain waves are shifting from the alpha-theta blend and transitioning to beta.

What is the speed of the transition? With unexpected parameters, he shouldn't be fully awake for another 20 to 25 minutes. Let's hope that's enough. Be still. You're okay. My name is Dr. Hall. I'm here to help you. Please pay attention. I need you to think about your dream. My...

Yes, your dream. I'm going to give you an injection now. It might make you feel a bit funny. Just keep focusing on your dream. Can you do that for me? Can you focus on your dream? Yes. Wonderful.

Now, you might feel a slight pinch. What was that? Where... Your dream. Focus on your dream. Tell me about... your dream. What do you remember? My dream. I remember? The children of the barn. The ghost of Natalie Crosby had first appeared on a farm on all hollows Eve. A night when most locals

claim the spirits of children roam the human plane for mysterious or mischievous reasons. The farm's owner, Toby Linder Scott, encountered her on a windy, moonlit evening. And he had remembered her in life. He remembered all his children. Toby had visited her at dusk while his wife of 20 years, Jackie, was running a bath for him. He couldn't stay long and went to sleep with his flashlight, scared, yet proud of what he'd captured near the plowing fields. Still, if he felt brave enough, he intended to creep out after the others were asleep. Once the trick-or-treaters went home with their buckets full of candy, the pastures grew quiet,

saved for the rustle of fallen leaves across picket fences. He was awakened by a soft, urging crying beside his bed, and found the spirit of Natalie hovering beside his pillow, looking down at him. This was the first time she'd come to the upstairs part of the house to find him. The first time any of the children had sought him out, while, for three nights, he had left. left her free to run the corn husks, the barn door opened so she could come and go. Jackie was downstairs, up late as usual, working on her suspense novel. His eldest son Brad, turning 18 in a month and a regular school jock, was often found

conked out with his headphones on and music blasting. Neither of them knew he collected the ghosts of children. Neither knew he had the capability to conduct such a feat, and neither could see them or know the reason why. Now he pulled the sheet over him hastily, folding it tightly against his chest with his arms, afraid that the spirit might be there to haunt him. He was also afraid Jackie would come upstairs and finally be able to see her, or Natalie would be vindictive and wake and haunt his son. But the ghost wouldn't stay with him for long.

She struggled around the room, struggled in the atmosphere of the living, and grunted in protest while he refused to look at her. As soon as he let the covers down, she began her insistent wail with a note of irritation in it. All right, I'm coming, he said nervously, and as soon as he slid his legs out toward the cold floor, she flew onto the window ledge. Though he couldn't see her outline very well, it was more an ethereal. image, blossoming in and out and pulsating wisps. He felt sure that she had the other children with her and had come to fetch him so that he could admire them. His collection was diverse after all and consisted of little boys and girls ranging in ages 5 through 14 with Natalie being the oldest. When he moved away from the bed, she jumped from the open window, the same way certain jungle

animals prance in slow motion in their habitat and ran off at once through the fields and her tattered white night dress giggling. Toby went downstairs, out the back door and ran behind, not thinking at all of the darkness, but full of pleasure, because she had left the children alone and unprotected in order to fetch him. Natalie reached the barn ahead of him, and when he switched on his flashlight, he saw that she had gone into one of the metal stalls he had put up for the horses and to cover the soil beneath it. On her knees, she was tearing away at the dirt, pebbles, and bits of asphalt with which she had lined it, phasing in and out of the world of the living.

He shone the light at her and looked carefully at the torn-up floor, but there was nothing. The children aren't there, Natalie, he said with a small sigh of relief, tears of thankfulness pricking the back of his head because she seemed to have thought. of him. Thought of what he did when the moon fell strong across the farm and his family were fast asleep and only ever in the month of October. But at the same time, to have him know he wanted to be there when the children were awake and abraved the rotting smell and the people who suspected him of kidnapping. When he squatted in front of the stall and talked to her, she stopped digging in the dirt and came out, touching his face and responding in high-pitched, varied tones.

For a ghost, this was her ultimate sign of attention. He affectionately called them her poltergeist mutters of protest, which changed nothing. No, Natalie, he said, smirking. I'm sorry, but you're not under there either. After a while, she returned to the stall. When she had torn up a little more dirt and asphalt with her nails, she gave up, then patted it down like a sandcastle and sat beside it. Toby got up, intending to go to the supply chest along the far wall,

where he had hidden a tornado lantern in matches for the occasion. But as soon as he moved, the girl drifted out of the stall protesting. Silly girl, he said shaking his head. There are no corpses tucked inside the bales of head. or buried beneath the piles of manure. You know I'm smarter than that. And I'm not going to stay out here all night. I shouldn't have left this door open.

Look at the headache you've given me. It seemed the girl had no intention of haunting him. And for this, he was relieved. However, there came a point where she pushed him and interrupted, and he added, Yes, yes, I know. I know I'm not your father. But I was the one who bludgeoned you to death. And from this point on, that makes me your daddy.

Clear. But you refused to believe him. She followed him to the supply closet, crying and pleading while he filled and lit the lantern. She didn't settle again until he had pulled an old spread from the wall hook and curled up on it, where she could see him plainly. After a while, he turned the wick of the lantern low, so the middle of the stall and the girl's eager face were lit, and the dingy barn was in shadowy half-light. Time passed. Toby began to shiver a little. He felt slightly sick with the excitement of not knowing what to expect.

Usually, when there was a new kid, it was at the barn. It was the most logical place to keep them. It was when he had put his head down and closed his eyes that the girl moaned. He looked up quickly and saw that, still sitting in the room. inside the stall. She was trying to disappear with effort. Toby sat up and turned up the lantern, anxious to see, to miss nothing of what was happening. She wailed heavily again. When Toby put out his hand and grabbed her by the throat, he said, you can't leave here, Natalie. It doesn't work like that. You're an entity now, and I have control of that entity. You're doomed to to stay here until somebody freeze your spirit. She answered him with the soft shriek she'd often used when wandering the corn husks or with the other children.

After a few more moments, he released his grip on her and said, Don't ask me how I'm able to do that. I must be gifted in that regard, like you. Natalie drifted out of the stall and sat on the supply chest. In the faint lantern light, her eyes were glassy with concentration. She began to hover, floating in circles, searching for a suspicious looking spot. She tried hard to locate the graves of the other children with her ethereal body. They had to be buried here somewhere.

She could sense their presence. Maybe, just maybe, if she unearthed their corpses, she could free their spirits. For a moment she tried to gain leverage against the slab of wood, blocking a small hole with a groove in the far corner. As Toby turned, he saw the bottom half of her body lifted high in the air. Her head lowered. She was gazing inside a wooden gutter leading to the barn's back and out the exterior. Something silvery and shining was visible just beneath the dirt. Then the ghost grounded herself again and reached for the silvery object.

Toby pulled the lamp closer, his stomach churning at the sight of what she was doing. Sorry, you won't find him there, Natalie. he blurted it out. Try as you may. He felt compelled to say it. In the dust and cobwebs on the floor of the dark hole was an ankle bracelet, revealing a small skeletal foot. She pulled on it as hard as she could, uncovering part of a girl's corpse. But she did not recognize it. The head looked as if the eyes had been gouged out, with decaying flesh soft and pink, crawling with maggots and insects. Let me guess. You aspired to be a detective in life.

Toby closed his eyes, shuddering. He opened them and tried to explain. All right, I'm sick. I'm a deranged man. What more do you want from me? Even after I gave up farming, I wanted another child. Someone to spend my free time with. Even after I learned Jackie can no longer conceive.

I should have known we were too old. Brad's big now, recently applied for football scholarship and only wants to hang out with his friends. He's grown cold and distant, typical young adult. He paused, shedding a tear before continuing. After the first one, I wanted another. It became an addiction. Never did I imagine this would be habitual. My wife would have never allowed it.

I didn't tell her about my gift for seeing. It happens every October. That's when it's at its strongest. Kind of like extrasensory perception. Only I can feel it with my bare hands. But you already know that, don't you? So I abducted the kids and kept them here until they became a nuisance. And then I slaughtered them.

Still, I was fond of them. Even you. I didn't want to let go. so I figured why only collect boys and girls in life when I can also collect them in death. When Nedley turned around and touched the corpse, it turned into dust. So that's it, huh? He muttered. You're representing the children.

As the oldest victim, you're out for revenge on their behalf and your own. Some sort of judge, jury and executioner all in one. Am I right? Leaning closer, he watched as a ghost's airy hand turned another corpse's skull, cleaning it. The soft gray hairs began to stand up, resembling a fuzz of down on a large infirmed head. Toby first heard the child's voice since its death, small, angry and whining as it fought against the spectral push of Natalie's hand, craving even the smallest warmth and comfort for resurrection. "'Please don't do that,' he warned.

She seemed to him to be cleaning it off wantonly, rolling the upper half so the skeleton could be released. From what she could tell, this one was a boy. After a few minutes of frenzy cleaning, she settled, but still reached out to give it a confirmatory poke. If she heard crying, she was doing right. "'Aren't you going to dig some more?' Toby asked. He can't excavate just one child.

You might as well finish what you started. Natalie leaned back against the hole. The dust and cobweb-filled slot was filled with dead children's protests, and the ghost raging grunts made them materialize further. Toby, slightly concerned, brought his knees up to his chin, folded his arms for a rest. After some time in the dim light, with the quiet cries of the children and Natalie's ecstatic wailing,

He began to nose. When he awoke an hour later, he discovered much had happened while he slept. He reached into the hole, stirring through the dirt to count bodies. There were now eight, with Natalie's push to the back. Looking outside, he noticed sunrise was less than an hour away. He longed to be in bed, away from the chaos caused by the ghost. However, he felt compelled to ensure the young ones received a proper burial, both to avoid legal trouble and to prevent further haunting.

The nearest cemetery, an old abandoned catacomb for early settlers, was ten miles away. Not too far, but risky if he traveled along the river's edge with a bag of bones. He found a giant potato sack he'd used when farming full-time and left the barn with the remains packed. Daylight came fast. The sky gray instead of black. He hurried, afraid he might not get back into bed.

bed before Jackie awoke. He found the cows lined up patiently, waiting to graze. The horses, too, were out of their stalls, waiting gate-side, wondering when he would let them loose. It would be faster if he wrote a horse, he thought. In the Palomino, his neighbor had sold him could make it to the cobblestone well in suitable time. If worse came to worst, he figured, he could always dump the bones there and be rid of the children

for good. But there was Natalie. the intelligent ghost with a mild yet unfriendly temperament, the novelty of being put in a jam by her. Her inconsistency no longer bordered on mere attention or revenge, for when he put down the bag to see if he had collected all the remains, hers was nowhere to be found. When he got back to the barn, he found her.

She kept turning her head to watch him, then moving off a pace or two, forcing him to chase her. You can't run, Natalie. He said angrily, putting down the sack and going to a supply chest. And you can't hide. You forget, I have this gift. I can see wherever you are. Oh, and don't think because you found the others you can end this.

Bringing the children back from the dead won't work. You won't drive me mad. You remove some dolls and animals from the chest and place them on the floor for her to play with. just like he had done for the other children when he had seized them. He knew capturing her spear would make securing her bones straightforward. Confused, the girl accepted a little bit of the bait, but she was still somewhat curious and wouldn't go through with it. Come on.

You're supposed to be a detective, ain't you? Go inspect! Toby shook his head. Come on. Don't you want to play with me? He said. Why else would you come to my room in the middle of that? night. Once more, she picked up some of the bait, but put it back down. Come on, Natalie, you're being

awfully stubborn, just like when I blanketed out your voice. Because of you, I have to get rid of my collection. Finally, after a few moments, he left the rest of the toys beside the hole on the floor and ran quickly home through the gray dawn, his hands and feet aching from sleeplessness and his mind full of the night's revelations and manifestations. Toby slept late that morning, with the bag of bones hidden in the closet. He only got up when he heard the chatter of plates for breakfast. He dressed quickly without washing and headed to the kitchen, feeling grumpy, achy, nervous, and anxious. Well, look what the sun brought in, Jackie remarked from the kitchen saying,

I didn't see you in bed. How long did you stay up? Not too late, Toby replied. I was busy helping Bill with feeding and watering. Also, there's a rodent problem. I'll be screaming by the time I get back to the husks. I had a lot on my mind, too. Knapped under the stars.

Nothing to worry about. Hmm. It's not like you, dear. Usually I'm the one who likes to sleep in. After breakfast, Toby walked his son to the school bus and helped his wife by drawing the plates. Then he went to the closet and retrieved the bag. Jackie saw him with a large potato sack over his shoulder and asked, Where are you going with that? To Bill, where else? Rodin problem, remember? Before she could respond, he was already slipping out the door to the

veranda. He chose one of his three circuitous routes through the fields of the old barn. walking slowly across the paddock, unlike the hurried pace of the night before, fearing what awaited him. When he opened the door, Natalie was waiting in her usual frightening stance. Fear gripped him, and he wondered why he hadn't gone to the old cemetery or well with the bones sooner. He put down the bag, reached out, touched her misty face, and felt the lean lines of her restored form. Well, someone's been busy, he said with a sly grin. I doubt you have enough power to bring yourself back from the grave. You're dead, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Natalie gritted her teeth in anger, placing her colorless, dirt-filled fingernails across his lips, and silently threatened him. You just don't have the gift. He stepped back and dumped the bake of bones on the ground for her. While she examined the bones, he searched for the toys from the night before. They were gone, except for the Hug Me Tender Doll with a crushed face. When he picked it up, its squeal made Natalie look up sharply, but she seemed confident he was doing no harm to other children in the barn.

The doll soon fell apart in his hands, sending a chill down his spine. He examined each limb, asking, Where are the other toys? How did you break this? Natalie giggled. Toby turned and shot her a dirty look. Answer me! More giggling followed, accompanied by whispers of gift.

After replacing the last bone, Natalie floated back to the center of the barn to join the seven others in the shadows. Toby marveled at the forms around him, noting their instinctive movements. Meanwhile, Natalie, now nearly fully materialized, would have disappointed her complete. had she not presented him as the prize offering. Cornered, Toby faced the ghost of the children.

Little Leah five in her pink Walmart dress covered in ash. Brenda Sue ate, still in wet soil and wearing her Raggedy Ann-like outfit. Bobby Joe, seven and a half, with his stretched-out suspenders and brown colic. Johnny, who would have turned six, with his throat torn out and dried blood on his striped-eye's odd polo. the twins Diana and Michael and Natalie 14 year old Natalie Cosby Toby began laughing but the sound quickly turned into a whimper

a desperate cry for help so this was the plan huh? Natalie brings the children back from the dead save the kids whatever must be done guess that makes you more than just a ghost makes you a witch Natalie the necromancer His laughter morphed into weeping.

But what if I decided I don't want to believe in ghosts? What then? Natalie stepped through the crowd of children and took his hand. Mr. Linder Scott, she said gloomily. Her vocal cords now able to speak. It's not my place to tell you who or what to believe in. But you should have thought of that before you kidnapped us from our real mommies and daddies. Now we have to punish you the same way you punished us.

Nothing personal. The first child reached across from where Toby had been standing and slashed off a big piece of his ear. Another child pounded his back with a great big rock, crushing a portion of his spine. With a simple touch, another small girl burned the fine, fair hair atop his forehead. Natalie went on. Don't ask me how they're able to do that,

Mr. Linder Scott, they must be gifted in that regard. Like you, then death appeared in the hollow orbs of Natalie's eyes, and she got in her turn. The children closed in on him, laughing, smiling, and delighting as they battered his body and fed on his soul. He closed his eyes and gave in to the soft, mesmeric hands punishing him. And before he knew it, he was a little bit of his heart, he She became just like them. What the hell was that? Why did that feel so real? Did I...

Did I kill children? I certainly hope not. But I suppose you were referring to your dream, weren't you? Why am I strapped down? So you won't escape, of course. Who the fuck are you? I told you. My name is Dr.

It doesn't matter what your name is. You know, like the rock. I miss the attitude era. He's not as funny as he thinks he is, is he? Do you think it's a side effect? No, I think that's just how he is. Okay, joke's over. Let me the fuck out of here.

I'm afraid I can't do that. We still have a lot of work to do. Work? What work? As much as I know an explanation would be helpful, I also know you won't remember anything I tell you, which I suppose makes it ironic, that I'm about to say what's going to happen next. But I assure you it isn't for your sake as much as for the scientific record. The scientific record? Let me the fuck out of here, you crazy...

You can gag him now. Hey, hey, get that shit away. Thank you. Now I am about to inject subject zero with serum version 11, a combination of norapine dampeners, adenosine, and are engineered acetamine local line, designed to maintain REM while still keeping the subject from fully restoring their long-term memory,

a lesson learned from the previous versions. He's returned to baseline, doctor. Excellent. Continue to monitor him and check in hourly. We are now beyond the point of no return. Where we tread now, no one has before. We are making history. It's almost a shame that he will never know how important he was.

Doctor, is that? Yes, yes, it's working. Quickly, out of the room, make sure all monitors are recording. For more information on this podcast, including how, 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-Lite licensing

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