Creepy - Day 21 - Knit One, Purl Two & Buyer Beware

Episode Date: October 21, 2025

Knit One, Purl Two***Written by: Whitney Adkins and Narrated by: Nichole Goodnight***Buyer Beware***Written by: Marcus H Noir***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.

Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 21. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures 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. Hello, is this where I'm supposed to go?

Yes, Nicole. This is where you can record your dreams and feelings for Dr. Hall to review. Unfortunately, she isn't available to review the notes at a one-on-one session, but she or her assistant will be in touch if there's anything of concern. Oh, okay, so I just sit down. down and talk? That's right. The room is wired for video and sound.

You won't be interrupted, so take all the time you need. Does that mean you can hear what I'm recording? Not to worry. The intercom is open right now just in case you have any questions. As soon as you close the door, it will turn off. If you need anything, just press the red button next to the door. Uh, thank you. No problem.

We're here to help. Okay, this is only a little bit weird. I guess I just start talking, huh? I had this dream last night. And when I woke up, I just couldn't stop thinking about knit one, pearl two. The night is deathly quiet, save for the soft click-clack of the old woman's knitting needles. Knit one, pearl two. Her fingers, bony yet nimble, moved deftly,

and stitch by stitch her creation grows as it spills from her lap on to the bare cold floor beneath her rocking chair. Next to the chair, tucked safely in a wicker basket, is the ball of yarn from which she knits. She's a woman of many domestic talents, and she has spun this yarn herself. It is yarn unlike any other. You won't find a scheme like it in a craft store or a peddler stall.

It contains a multitude of colors. Deep purples and inky blacks, pale pinks and bold blues, bright greens and oranges. Shades of brown, copper, and pale blonde from the strands of hair mixed in with the fabric, fibers. Knit one, pearl two. Click-clack, click-clack. The antique brass lamp on the table beside her casts only the faintest yellow glow, and yet her metal knitting needles catch the light and shimmer as she works. The sharp point of the needle in her right hand still drips with bright

red blood, no sense in rinsing it clean. The blood will only add more color to the yarn. And anyway, this particular knitting pattern calls for blood. Knit one, pearl two, Click-clack, click-clack. This project has taken her years, but tonight she will complete it. Tonight it will serve its purpose. Only a few more rows of stitches to go, and then finally she'll take back what was cruelly, violently stolen from her all those years ago. In the adjoining room, the kitchen is her son, her only child. His body lays stretched upon the wooden table in the center of the small room.

Though badly decayed, it is still him. The old woman nearly died from her. the enormous effort required to bring him home. Unearthing the coffin, exhuming and transporting his large body were nearly too much for her thin, frail frame. But a mother's love knows no bounds, and a mother's strength is a force unlike any other on this earth. What wouldn't we do?

What price wouldn't we pay for our children? Knit 1, Pearl 2. Click, click, clack, click clack. Tack to the kitchen wall is a calendar featuring cheery, bright orange jackalantons. The month is October. The date is the 31st. Halloween. Traditionally, of course, it is a night for tricks and treats, for sweet candy and gleeful mischief. The night when little ghouls and goblins frolic and run amok before morning dawns and ushers in all Souls Day. For the old woman sitting in the creaking rocking chair all alone in the dark and shabby house,

Halloween is also an anniversary of the worst imaginable kind. It was on this night, ten years ago, that they took her son from her, leaving in his place a gaping, jagged, hole in her heart. From the very beginning, her boy was different. His birth took two days and nearly killed her. His tiny body came out twisted and malformed. He yowled like an injured cat as he entered this bright, cold world, covered in his mother's blood. From the beginning, he was different. From the beginning, he was hers. Knit 1, Pearl 2. Click, clack, click-clack. Different in mind as well as body and deeply misunderstood by all except his mother. People in the town called him simple, stupid, and worse. Some pitied him, others reviled him. Only she loved him, nurtured him, knew the sweet innocence of

his spirit and the kindness of his heart. Things worsened as the boy grew. By the time he reached adulthood, he was taller than any other man in town, broad and strong, but he was a gentle giant, and he faced the wrath of the town bullies nearly every day. Young men with too much time their hands and too much venom in their souls, and yet her son remained soft and sweet, too trusting, too naive. It would be his downfall, and hers. On Halloween night, her son's last night alive, a young man named Jonathan invited him to a party. Eighteen years old and full of dangerous charm and unearned confidence, Jonathan had a cruel streak known to many in town, and yet that evening he was all smiles and jovial laughter, as he told her boy to join him

at a nearby farm for a Halloween bash. There would be hay rides and ghost stories, plenty of food and drink, and plenty of pretty young things in pretty little costumes. You know how girls are, Jonathan said with a gleam in his eye and poisonous honey in his voice. They like to act all scared and helpless. They want a big tough guy to protect them from the spooky ghosts and monsters. That guy could be you, he added with a mischievous wink. The woman's son blushed and grinned, embarrassed yet secretly thrilled to find

finally be included in the fun. And so, against his mother's wishes, the young man set off with Jonathan for the party, a sheet with cut out eye holes thrown over his tall, hulking form, as a last-minute ghost costume, the woman could see right through Jonathan's facade, and she didn't trust the sudden offering of friendship one bit. Yet despite his childlike mind, her son was 19 years old now, a grown man. As much as it pained her, she knew he had to let him go, had to let him figure the world out for himself. She could, couldn't shelter him forever. Resigned, she watched him get into Jonathan's fancy little sports car and speed off into the night. She resolved to wait in her rocking chair for him to return, but sleep

eventually overtook her. Hours later, the shrill ring of the kitchen phone jolted her from her slumber. On the other end of the line was a doctor at the town's only hospital. Her boy, her baby, her life's purpose was gone. An accident, they said, a prank that went horribly wrong. A prank that went horribly wrong. eye drops nicked from the drugstore were added to his cup of orange punch while his back was turned. Someone had wanted to make him ill thinking perhaps he'd vomit in front of the partygoers, embarrassing himself while amusing them yet again. It was just another cruel stunt at his expense. But too many drops were added to the cup, and the joke ended with an unintended, awful punchline.

Her boy lying comatose in the hospital. At least she made it in time to tell him good night and sweet dreams one last time before his gentle. till heart slowed to a stop. Knit one, pearl two. Click, clack, click, clack. No charges were filed because no one there that night would step forward and admit to the crime. Or point the finger at the guilty party. But she knew.

She knew it had to be Jonathan or one of his cronies. Life went on for them and everyone else while her son's death was quietly swept under the rug. It was awful, sure. But perhaps also a blessing in disguise, people in town whispered. After all, what kind of future could a boy like that hope to have? Surely he was always destined to meet a tragic end. Years passed, the young men responsible for her son's demise grew into men with jobs, wives, and families. The old woman lived out her days alone.

On the rare occasion she ventured into town, others would give her a cursory nod, or avoid eye contact altogether. They found her pitiful and repulsive, just like her dead son. Of course, before his death, even before his birth, no one. one in town paid much attention to the woman. She existed on the outskirts of town and the outskirts of their minds. Had anyone bothered to talk to her, really talk to her? They might have learned that she descended from a long line of skillful women. Gifted women, knowledgeable in the old ways of the old world, women who knew ancient secrets, women who passed those secrets down,

mother to daughter, generation to generation. One family skill, candle making, had slowly helped the woman exact her revenge on this wretched town. And tonight, a certain knitting pattern she learned from her mother as a child will reunite her with her son. Knit one, Pearl Two, click-clack, click-clack. The unfortunate truth is even in small towns, children can go missing. They cross paths with danger never to be seen again. In such cases, people tend to blame vagrants, transients, overly friendly locals, unmarried uncles, and even the parents of the stolen child. No one in this particular town has ever thought to blame the unexplained disappearances of its children on the poor, frail, ancient old woman living all alone in her dreary home. Lucky for her.

There are two graveyards in this town, the large public cemetery full of ornate tombstones and crypts, and the small, unmarked graveyard that was once the old woman's back garden. Here, the children who visit her home on Halloween find their final resting places. Tonight, just like every Halloween, Halloween night for the past decade, a candle burns in her front window. A stout, plain white candle covered in ribbons of dried wax. She made the candle herself in the days after her son's death. There's nothing outwardly special about it, but the words she whispered as she placed the wick and the single drop of a young rabbit's blood she stirred into the hot wax give the candle its magic.

When lit, its soft glow, no matter how faint, draws children to it like little moths fluttering to their doom. Young trick-or-treaters who would otherwise avoid the gloomy house on a dark, dead-end street, find themselves compelled to visit, to knock upon her door. That's when she strikes. The spider lying in weight in her web. They never see it coming. So entranced are they by the candle's spell. A quick, forceful jab of a sharp knitting needle to the neck is as deadly to a child as the spider's venomous fangs are to the trapped moth. Once she has her prey in hand, the real work begins. She drags the lifeless bodies into her house, cuts long, thin strips from their clothes and locks from their hair, and with these she spins her yarn. Knit one, pearl two, click-clack, click-clack.

She finds no pleasure in the killings, and yet it seems only fair, these innocent young ones as retribution for the loss of her own innocent son? Why should other parents have the privilege of tucking their children safely into bed while her child withered away in a cheap coffin? underground. Besides, she has no other choice. The blood, the hair, and the clothing of the innocence are all requirements for the final enchantment. The last visitor of the evening, a young girl of about 10 or 11, came dressed in the black gown and pointy hat of a wicked witch. There was a time when the old woman would have been labeled a witch, men shouting for her to be hanged or burned at the stake, but the word witch has never felt quite right. She does not see herself as some sorceress of the dark arts,

she is simply a woman who has been deeply wronged, like generations of women before her. She is a childless mother, but not for much longer. No. For the knitted work in her lap is a shroud. Not a burial shroud, but a shroud of life,

of rebirth. She'll cover her son with it, just as she covered him snugly with warm blankets when he was a child, softly shushing him back to sleep after a bad dream. Then, the shroud will work its magic.

The young blood that went into its creation will breathe new energy into the dead young man's body. What was once decaying will be healthy and whole again. She will have her son back, and this time, no one will dare cause him harm or take him from her ever again. Knit one, Pearl Two, click-clack, click-clack,

and now, at last, the final row of stitches, cast off, weave in the loose ends. After ten long and lonely years, it is finished. She stands, her joints cracking and her bent back protesting as she does. She gingerly shakes out the shroud before crossing to the kitchen, stepping over discarded remnants of children's costumes along the way. She lays the fabric across her son's body, planting a soft kiss on his rotten, sunken cheek before covering his head. In death, as in life, he has a figure. only a mother could love. And oh, how she loves him. Once he is covered, she says a prayer not heard in any church or sacred space. She walks over to the candle in the window and extinguishes it.

Its work is done. Exhausted from the night's labor, she returns to a rocking chair and collapses into its worn seat. Once again, she finds herself waiting for her son. Once again, sleep overcomes her. In the kitchen, underneath the bloody shroud, a hand twitches ever so slightly. Yes, Nicole? I'm all done. Is there anything else I need to do? Not at all. Thank you very much for participating. I'll make sure that Dr. Hall gets your file. I believe that some of the others have gotten a tetherball tournament going. I hate tetherball. It's okay. I think they made brackets based on height. Yes! Finally. Finally. Subject status?

Stable, doctor. Ready to proceed when you are. In a moment. Leave us. I'm sorry? I said, leave us. I would like some time with the subject. But, doctor, procedure says... Do not dictate procedure to me. I wrote that procedure. Do as I say.

Unless you'd prefer to be reassigned. No, doctor. It's okay. You don't need to fight it. Your eyes are open. That's all I require. Don't strain. Don't try to speak. The tongue is clumsy in this state. But the mind, oh, the mind is pliable. That's why you are here. That's why you are important. I wish you knew how long of a journey this has. been. You are in between now, between waking and sleep, between silence and speech. It's not a comfortable place to be, is it? But you are special. You can't hold this state, navigate it like a vessel in the water. Most of the time, you are just adrift. But when we give you this, then you can come back to us, just far enough to tell us about what you see, about what you dream without dreaming.

So here, hold still. I don't want to have an infiltration now, do we? There you go. You can feel it already, can't you? I know. I know. This is stronger than what you had in your room. But you've shown such progress. We just knew you were ready to move. on. Now focus. Tell me what you see. Tell me what you remember. I remember. Byer B. Shikes. Halloween's approaching fast and I haven't gotten a costume yet. Between my better half giving me the evil eye because we couldn't go on vacation this year and my other half, my car, being out of commission again. I was caught between a knife and a meat grinder. It's been slow at work, so any chance

of overtime was wishful thinking. My sole credit card was maxed out, and the minimum monthly payments will take two lifetimes to pay back. I don't want to add to my mounting debt by borrowing from friends, or Lacey, my girlfriend. I need to come up with some cold cash, or my next costume may consist of a cheap mask and a plastic weapon. I'll walk in in the air's business. I'll walk in the bank, scream, trick-or-treat, give me some money, or something more clever than that. Well, the very next day, an angel must have heard my prayers or please, and sent a gift in the form of a contest. The local radio station was hosting a Halloween party, and the main event was a costume contest. First place prize? A cool and attractive $5,000. Second place prize, $3,000. And third place, we'll leave

with a little wiggle room. However, there were three obstacles standing in the way of me in that beautiful cash. Number one, in my town, there are a lot of creative people. And with that kind of money on the line, the creative juices and talents will kick into high gear. Problem number two, there are only a few options to purchase said costume, and those without DIY skills will head there. That leads to problem number three. coming up with cash and lots of it to purchase a costume that would give me the slightest chance of winning the coveted prize. Winning the main prize would alleviate my problems, albeit temporarily, but those are problems for another day and headache.

After tearing apart my small apartment and draining my petty savings, I came up with some cash. I know, I know. It's like the lottery. But like the old slogan goes, you got to be. in it to win it, right? Anyway, I hope it'd be enough. I think not, but it'll have to do. My plan was to purchase whatever I could afford and then turn to YouTube or Pinterest to raise the bar

and give my costume any chance of winning third place. At least I can use the third place prize money to choose either fixing the car or taking Lacey on a very budgeted vacation. While my plan fell apart after exiting the last of the stores at sole cost Pissed and frustrated, feeling the heavy boot of defeat pushed down on me. They must have smelled my desperation, because the prices for those pieces of crap, which they call

costumes, weren't even worth half the price. The local discount stores had them cheaper, and there at least you could get what you paid for. At the end of it all, my broke self couldn't afford any of it. I walked down the street, disgusted. kicked a discarded water bottle and watched it skip across the ground and hit a nearby light post. Then I heard someone ask from behind in an authoritative tone, Aren't you going to pick it up?

Feeling indignant, I looked in the direction of the voice and saw an officer with arms folded, glaring eyes, itching for me to do or say something stupid. It's the last thing I need, a littering summons, I thought. I muttered an apology and approached the bottle. bent down and retrieved it. Stead up and noticed a white, glossy, rectangular sign made a plastic posted on the light post. It looked hastily displayed,

as if someone had rushed to apply lots of clear packing tape around it and to the pole. The words on the sign were neatly written in black ink. In large aerial font. It read, Need a costume in a hurry, make everyone envious, and it doesn't leave a hole in your wallet? Check out our Halloween store room.

scan the QR code for details. Blow the QR code, it continued. Our prices are so low, even you can't say no. The word you is in all caps. At first I was dubious about scanning the QR code. I didn't know what the creator's intentions were. It could be a scam or a hacker wanting my info, or worse, a telemarketer. Then I heard a throat clear and remembered the officer.

I gave a sheepish smile and deposited the bodlin in a nearby trash bin. From the corner of my eye, I watched the officer depart and re-read the sign. A strange, almost warm feeling overcame me. I thought I heard the sign whisper, scanned me, like it was a personal invitation. I thought about taking a chance, and then decided not to. The following evening, I sat on my couch, my only companion, my flat screen playing some sci-fi show, which was only background noise. In front of me, a half-open bottle

of cheap red wine and an empty whiskey glass. Lacey was out with her friends, and I was left racking my brain trying to come up with a costume. A thought sprang into existence. How about selling plasma? But that thought I was interrupted by the ringing from my cell phone.

I picked it up and casually looked. It was Troy, my best friend. He asked what I was doing, and I replied with exasperation, He asked if I was up to nothing if he could come over. Shortly after, there was a knock on the door, and without looking to see who it was, I turned the knob and pulled the door open. Meanwhile, I looked up from my phone and told him I had an idea to solve my money problems,

and how he could help. He gleefully asked to hear it. I explained that a local radio station was having a Halloween party and at the main event's costume contest. I didn't have enough fun to get a realistic shot at winning, but I didn't have enough fun to get a realistic shot at winning, but if we combine our money, then we might have a shot. To my surprise, he agreed without hesitation. I knew Troy was the type who always had my back. I told him about the stores I'd already been to and how the products were too generic and overpriced, or lacked the

wow effect. We sat there and racked our brains, searching the internet. We'd exchange phones every once in a while to look at each other's search results for a store or a costume that do it. After about 45 minutes the mood and search were becoming bleak when I remember the QR code. I told Troy about it and he hesitated with a look of concern. But that feeling must pass pretty quick because then he gave a shrug and said why not. And if it was a scam or hacker, they can't take anything from me because I have nothing. Hell, maybe they'd even give me something out of pity. Knowing that my girlfriend wouldn't be home until much, much,

watch later, and that the sign with the QR code is about a 20-minute walk, we decided to put our plan into action. As soon as we exited my apartment building, I stopped in my tracks, Troy crashing right into me. Before he could say anything, I pointed at the sign taped to a street light that was in front of us, looked exactly like the sign from before. I was in disbelief. Troy looked at me, then the sign, and asked if that was the sign I was talking about. I moved closer and inspected it. Like scrutinizing a prized antique coin. I mean, I was pretty certain it was the same sign.

Troy came up to me and looked at it too. I mentioned there was no address, social media listings, or website. I just shrugged and said it's probably in the QR code. I raised my phone and clicked the camera on the QR code. On the screen, an address appeared. And my heart sink. My last chance was in the well-to-do part of the city, which meant this was going to be expensive. I was deflated and about to turn around and place my phone in my pocket when I heard celebratory music playing from it.

I checked my phone again when Troy looked over my shoulder. On the screen was a cartoonish vampire, a mummy, a zombie, and a weird alien-like creature that were dancing. Above him a message appeared with ghostly floating white lettering, and scrolled horse. horizontally with confetti raining down. It read, Congratulations, you won. You're eligible for a free costume of your choosing. I'm always dropped open.

I couldn't believe my luck. It was too good to be true. But as if it read my last thought, another ghostly message materialized and said, Do not question your good fortune. There are no strings attached. Then, a realistic image of a beaten man with a disheveled, heavily blood-steened suit lowered behind the words with strings.

Ropes of flesh and intestines attached to his severed joints extended well above the screen. He mechanically danced, its movements were discombobulated, as if controlled by a novice puppeteer. His face cocked to one side, filled with anguish. His pain, pleading, red-filled eyes stared at me. His drops of blood stream past his stitched lips and down his ashen face as he forcibly winked. Another message appeared above him. It read, Look, our marionette is so happy for you he is tearing up.

Come right over and claim your prize. This offer expires at midnight. After that, the screen went blank. Meanwhile, Troy almost shouted at me demanding to show the message again. So I scanned a quote again. But this time the message appeared saying, Stop wasting time and claiming your prize. I mean, right then and there, we should have walked away.

The idea of getting anything for free, especially something I needed desperately, drowned out any screaming in her voice. It was just too enticing. We arrived at the establishment, and it was impressive. It was a high-end store with a nice storefront. The two large display windows had expensive, fierce-looking, elaborate costumes. The right window had a colossal, muscular, grayish demon that kind of reminded me of the Hulk,

except for its furry tree trunk-like legs, hooved feet, black horns, and burning coal-red eyes that chilled my blood. On the left was an emaciated, haggard-gant figure with a skeletal body, exposed tendons, muscles, and tissue. In places its skin looked charred and flaky. The floors themselves were littered with broken bones. Dark patches like dried blood coated their bodies as if from a recent kill. It looked so lifelike, so ready to pounce on anyone who came too close to their orbit. Above and between the windows was a simple wooden sign with large Times new Roman gold lettering titled Costumes and Stuff. Below the sign in between the windows was a plain, thick wooden door with a frosted central window.

We looked at each other wide-eyed and slowly shook our heads, surprised by these gruesome displays. Maybe in the spirit of the season it was tolerated in this area. Suddenly, the door slowly opened with a quiet buzz. I suddenly felt this overwhelming feeling of just being welcome. Without saying a word, we slowly walked toward the door, as if pulled forward by an invisible, unbreakable thread. As we approached from the corner of my eye, the demons had moved and watched us intently, like we were its next meal. Without hesitation, we walked in.

No, there was a little bit of fear in the back of my mind. We passed the door and entered a semi-lit, short, constricted hallway. The walls were lime green, no decor on them. The wood floor was pristine. The low ceiling was beige, and it was a dimlylead. At the end of the hall, there was another door, except it had no window, just a brass door handle. Halfway down the hall, the first door closed, and the hallway was temporarily consumed by darkness, then quickly illuminated from right to left by now glowing walls.

The walls gave off a disgusting, green glow, like they were covered in slow-dripping snot, making squishing sounds. We almost gagged, but somehow held it together. like walking a tightrope we walked the rest of the way in a single file afraid of touching anything as we neared the other door the knob seemed to sparkle like holding a diamond in the light i turned the knob and pushed it slowly creaked like the hinges desperately needed oil i peeked my head inside and saw nothing but dimly-looked candles of various sizes It felt like we entered an enormous warehouse. Then this sent a rosemary and a hint as something metallic hit me.

I noticed we were the only visitors. No one came to greet us. I spoke a quiet hello, sounding more like a question than a statement. There was nothing but silence, except for my uneasy breathing. My eyes tried to penetrate the darkness, but without, luck. I looked up and saw nothing above me but more darkness, like being inside a cave. Troy let out a nervous whistle and approached, immediately stepping inside with me. The door slammed shut, echoing like closing a tomb. Before we could turn for the door,

loud clap of thunder exploded over our heads. We yelped and jumped back, startled, our eyes whipping around for the source. I felt like we'd be able to be. We'd be able to be a sudden. We'd like we're being watched. But nothing followed but silence. Each beat of my heart felt like an eternity. Suddenly there was a click, like the flipping of a light switch, and a cone of light appeared in front of us. It came from above, from an unseen stage light illuminating a realistic-looking

werewolf on a circular wooden platform. In the dim light we looked at each other with wide eyes, a silent what the hand. hell passing between us. The unmoving werewolf was almost seven feet tall, with what I hoped were fake guts and blood covering it and dripping from its fur and claws. A stench of a wet dog and death radiated from it. My stomach twisted. The wolf was snarling and its face was contorted with something dark and grisly oozing from its white, sharp clenched teeth. It's a bit of Obsidian eyes seemed to watch. No, he seemed to follow me.

The hair on my arms stood up, and we slowly started back away. Something dripped from somewhere within the room, like water, but thicker. Suddenly the far walls began to brighten with a soft light. Along the wall hung a stringy, continuous dark-colored vine. The vine was this long, moist, continuous intestine. And every few feet there was a shrunken head.

Like, you seen those oddity museums hung by a hook like Christmas ornaments. Below this were display shelves holding embryos and organs floating in light blue, thick liquid and clear jars. Thought I was going to throw up, but I held it back. and there was more lighting from above. I looked upward and my jaw dropped. High above a suspended like balloons were, I don't know, there's a better way to describe this than decorations out of Dante's Inferno.

My mind couldn't even wrap around what I was seeing as I scanned the macab ornaments. Troy gasped in disbelief. The displays were medieval torture devices. I tried to suppress this horrible thought in my head that these could be real bodies. I pushed that thought down, not wanting to entertain it for another second. But one scene featured a wagon wheel with wooden teeth or cogs embedded in its surface, on which a mannequin was placed and tied.

Its limbs were smashed over the wheel. A tooth of the wheel was protruding through its chest. In the dim light, we saw the part of the skull was caved in, and its anguished, pained face gave a soft glow, emitting soft, distant moans. I wanted to close my eyes, put my eyes locked on another horrifying spectacle. A thin, frail, naked, body lying prone was locked in a tiny metal cage. The bird-like container was tight-fitting and pushed inward. Sounds of gears moving and the quiet sounds of pain and torment drifted to our ears. Like something almost ethereal hit my face and I waved my hands in front of it trying to swat it away.

Once when I realized it was a fragment of a web. Then another and another. But not the fake ones you get, these were real. Not some cheap knockoff, but authentic webbing coming from actual spiders. The image of hand-sized Australian oranea popped into my head. Their hairy, multi-leg bodies and eight beady eyes just ready to leap down. That was it. That was it.

It was time to go. I turned and looked for Troy. But he wasn't beside me anymore. My head swiveled in all directions while waving away at the webbing. Fortunately, I quickly found him. him standing nearby. A look of horror plastered his face while he looked at something behind a darkened wall. I whispered to him and asked what he was looking at.

All I did was raise his arm, his finger creepily waving me over while never actually looking at me. I walked over and saw a corpse, flaccidly swaying and twisting ever so slightly in the air, as if riding a soft breeze under another cone of light. It was naked, shriveled, and gaunt like it had been dug up from the grave not long ago. There was a gaping hole below its chest. Its white ribs barely visible beneath the leathery-looking skin. Its withered face with skin pulled tightly bulging open, deadpan eyes staring at nothing. Its hairless head tilted oddly to one side and a thin noose wrapped so tightly around its neck.

I looked up, and an extremely thin rope led upward and disappeared into the light. When I looked back down at him, something in its face had changed. Its shriveled lips moved, just barely. I did a double take and my heart froze. Word spewed softly, slowly, pausing, like speaking took too much effort. It said, Help me. I hear that? Bewildered, I stared at it.

The person was alive. Then its eyes stared at me. I started to backpedal as my head turned towards Troy's direction, expecting to see the worst at this point. Instead he stood there, admiring something. Turned back to the hanging corpse, but its gaze was unfocused and its lips were sealed. no sign of life anymore. I mean, it wasn't real, I told myself.

It couldn't be real. But still, my hand reached out. I was ready to touch it just to convince myself that wasn't flesh. It wasn't alive. But before I could touch it, Troy tugged at my arm and pulled me back. He seemed excited despite the fact that we were in the middle of a freaking nightmare. This changing him was wrong. He asked if I was okay and said that I needed to snap out of it

because he had to show me something. He started to walk and all I could do was follow him, dumbfounded. We rounded a corner and there was sinew ma, a blaze in light perched on a display case. It was pure shock and awe. Like throwing cold water. on me. Sinyu Ma was a monster from one of the streaming services that's popular with horror fans,

but not so well-known to the general public. Those are grotesque, towering, hunched monstrosity cloaked and rotting leathery flesh. Where stomach should be lies a gaping cavity, writhing with muscular, rope-thick intestines, slick, pulsating tendrils that snaked out like living whips, snapping out to snare victims and dragged them screaming towards a creature's chest cavity, like not with teeth but with grinding bone plates. As it feeds, it clamps down, crushing their skulls between bony ridges.

A large tablet perched on a metal pedestal in front of it, its screen showing off its greatest hits of kills in high definition, showing every detail of the killing process, the sounds of desperate screams and pleas, crunching bones and flesh being consumed seared into my mind. Though disgusted, curiosity got the better of me and my finger slowly moved forward

trying to touch this one as well. The skin felt cratered and cold and hard, as if bone lay just beneath this organic shell. Then loud footsteps from behind made slow, clomping sounds, as if pausing with each step. I twisted in place, searching and squinting, but found nothing. But then, something caught my eye.

A man-sized silhouette lurked just beyond the radius of light. I tapped Troy's shoulder to see if he saw what I was seeing. He didn't budge. He just stared. We both just stood there, staring at him. Then a disembodied voice boomed from everywhere. Its tone was deep and amused, but calm and commanding. It said welcome to costumes and stuff.

At costumes and stuff, our merchandise is 100% authentic and nothing less. We are meticulous with details down to the moaning. Before I could muster a word, it spoke again, saying everything on display was generously donated, and that the donors wished to bring joy and fright during this festive time of year. I found my voice, but it came out small and weak. I asked where and who are you? He answered everywhere and no one.

What can't answer is that? It asked if I'd chosen a costume, and I was ready just to get the hell out of there. But Troy had other ideas. He turned to me and grabbed my shoulders. He stared into my eyes, but his eyes weren't his. They were devoid of personality, cold. His gaze looked past me and deep into my mind.

He told me that Sin Yuma wanted to be free, and that I had no choice in the matter. I felt hypnotized as I found myself nodding in agreement. An eager, excited, excellent, boomed through the air, followed by, The costume will be delivered this evening. Suddenly, Troy blinked and released his grip on my shoulders. He looked at me and asked what was going on. Before I could utter a word, the stage light on Sun Yuma started to soften.

I scanned the area around Troy noticed the flames from the candles and the wall lighting and the lights and surrounding displays were fading. As if I found a dimmer switch. That was done. It was time to go. I knew it wasn't going to be a good idea to stick around. when the lights were completely out. I grabbed Troy's arm and pulled him towards the only exit, which seemed to be getting dimmer with every step.

In the darkness all around us, in between the sounds of our running footsteps, were grunts and menacing cackles and howls. Finally, we reached the door, pushing through, and we were on the sidewalk. I bent over with my hands on my knees, panting, sweating. I turned to face Troy and realized I was alone.

I frantically searched the deserted streets while calling out his name. All the nearby shops were closed. I looked at my watch and it was 3 a.m. I grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket to call him. Only his goofy voicemail answered. I called three more times but only got voicemail each time. With shaking hands, I sent a text, begging him to call or text me. But still nothing.

I looked back at the store and thought for a second about going back in, but I couldn't move. And then the door slowly opened. I called out for Troy, hoping that was him. Then massive, shadowy fingers seemed to wrap around and out the door frame. And that's when my fighter flight kicked in, and I turned and ran without looking back. I spent the rest of the night sitting on my couch with Lacey by my side. I told her all about it. She tried calling him, tried texting him, hoping he was just playing a mean joke.

The rest of the day went with no response. We went to his place, who staked out the local coffee shop and Chinese restaurant across from his apartment in hopes of catching him. That's when we decided to go to the police and report him missing. And he thought of the contest or the mum. money was inconsequential. I just wanted my friend back. Halloween came and went without much fanfare. Troy was still missing.

I felt like a zombie. I was barely sleeping. I decided to go back to the cops to see if they'd heard anything. When I was exiting my building, my phone chimed. I got excited digging from my phone thinking it was finally from Troy. It was a text message from my bank. Troy zeled me $5,000. My jaw dropped and Lacey asked what happened.

Been a week. Still no word from Troy. Lacey and I are worried that he's part of a series of gruesome murders that have started popping up on the news. The police found was left of victims with missing bones and organs, chewed skin, somewhere even decapitated. A few days later, I got a text from costumes and stuff. They said they're pleased with the outcome of the transaction, and that Troy's participation in their own contest had yielded the grand prize that he so generously wanted to donate to me,

and then they sent me a picture. I'd never want to think of that picture again. I wish I'd never seen it. So that wasn't the last image I would have ever. have of Troy and then they sent me one more text saying they hoped that I would visit their shop next year and ask that I give a five-star rating. What's going on? Hey, hey, what are you doing with that?

What do you... Do you feel that? That's not the machine or the drug. Well, not entirely. It's you. Your brain emits such wonderful. resonance under the right circumstances? We didn't expect it at first. Frankly, we thought the instruments were faulty, but no. It is you. You are the instrument. I know you don't understand

yet, and I know you won't remember, but I've spent so much time on this, so much time with you. Remaining silent seems like an insult when we've gotten so close. And if any part of your subconscious is able to retain what you are hearing, I hope you know that when the time is right, you'll understand everything. For now, though, we need you to remain in the middle place. Not awake enough to resist and remember, not asleep enough to ruin our progress. We need you in between.

Where it's thinner, it's not over yet. My only concern is that you stay, that you endure what no one else has. The others broke so quickly, but you, you, bend, don't you? Now rest as much as you are able to. Don't resist. We're here to help. Continue to monitor the patient for the next eight hours.

If he remains stable, I want you to set up an IV drip for future injections to speed up the process. Yes, doctor, but... What is it? Well, I'm supposed to report this. We deviated from the procedure. Go ahead.

Give them our audio recording. See what they say. I wonder if they will be as patient with interruptions. Is there anything else? No, doctor. Good. Then do as I say. The procedure is what I say it is. We've never gotten this far before.

I won't stand for anything impeding our progress. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.