Creepy - Day 22 - The Fog Won't Lift & Hell on Horseshoe Bend

Episode Date: October 22, 2025

The Fog Won't Lift***Written by: Scott Savino and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***Content warning: domestic violence***Hell on Horseshoe Bend***Written by: Jeff Presto***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.

Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 22. 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. Kind of cozy in here.

Like a church confession. Which I suppose it kind of is. Or a recording booth. Which is the point, right? It feels weird talking to nobody. I mean, it's not, but... This is different. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

That's the job, right? An empty booth, microphone, and my conjuring worlds out of breath and silence. Except I'm usually holding the words in my hands, not recalling something that I don't even really want to remember. Why does this feel so weird? Okay, let's pretend. Pretend this is just another story. Pretend the doctors who hear this are the listeners.

Pretend this isn't a padded booth in a sleep clinic and just tell you about how the fog won't lift. The fog hangs heavy on the trail, slicking your skin before the first branch brushes against your arm. You're already running, drifts of fallen autumn leaves crunching beneath each stride. You don't remember when you decided to or how your shoes found their way to the trail. Your breath matches the rhythm of your feet. Something about the path is wrong. You know that for certain. The trees hang low all around you.

They are October colors rendered in shades of gray by the moonlight. Their branches are damp and heavy. They seem closer every time. It's like they're listening to you as you breathe, as you run. You don't stop. Your body knows this path, even if your mind cannot recall it. The trail curves left at the half mile mark, and you brace for it before you even see it, before you should even be aware that it's there.

Your chest aches, but it's not from the effort of your lungs. It's a memory. It's trying to. push through. There's a sound before it happens. You always hear the sound just before you see it. A scream laces through the autumn fog. It covers the path everywhere and nowhere, distant yet too close. The sound of your own feet spends away from you, becoming further and further away. There's a snap of something breaking in the underbrush. Then there's silence. You see her again. She's curled in the ferns like she's sleeping off a hangover,

except she isn't sleeping. She's you. There's the angle of your neck, the open bleeding slashes on your torso, the gash over your temple. Your fingers are curled, as though you were clawing your way up from beneath the accumulation of leaves to the path. To help, you step closer. but not because you want to. You do it because you always do it. Every time. This keeps happening this way.

As soon as your fingertips hover over her cheek, she's gone. You're moving on the trail again. Crisp leaves grinding beneath your pounding footfalls and your legs are already moving. You're back at the head of the path. You're already running. Your feet are drumming against the path that winds through the trees, and your breath matches their rhythm. This is the loop. This is the punishment. But why are you being punished? You don't know what you did, but you know you have to keep running

because something awful happened here. You let it happen, maybe. Or you didn't fight hard enough, didn't scream loud enough. Whatever the reason might be, you know that no matter the circumstances that led to your death, when they finally find you, they'll always say it was your own fault for ending up this way. They'll say you should have left. But you were going to. They won't know it because you didn't tell anyone you were going to. But you were, you were going to.

They'll say you shouldn't have been running on this path alone at night. You should have had someone running with you. You shouldn't have been dressed the way you were dressed. You shouldn't have been a woman. You should have known better than to exist after dark. Your thighs burn, your pulse throbs by. behind your eyes. You hate the way the fog never lets you see the stars above or the looming orange moon, the best parts of running after dark. There's a turn ahead, a spot where the trees

open up just a little. You always hope that if you reach that break, you'll wake up. The trees never quite break. You never wake up. You never wake up. You pass a the creek and you know you're close. And then, and then, there she is again. There you are again. This time your eyes are open and they're looking directly at you. It's different, you think. Maybe it isn't. Maybe you're the one who's changing. Maybe you forget more and more every time you start over. maybe you remember more and more. Either way, you'll start over. Not because you want to. You kneel, you brush the fall leaves and dirt from her cheek. The wounds are deeper than last time. Then it hits you. Not all of it, just enough. Someone chased you onto this path that night.

Another person's voice calls your name as you run. You remember looking back, seeing the glint of the moonlight on the knife. She has it in her hand. You remember the blur of trees rushing by. You recall the sound of your own screams as they become one with the fog. They'll blame some man. some predatory man and not an abusive girlfriend, the one you planned to leave that night after she went to sleep. But she found out, she found out.

She held a knife. She chased you into the dark. You flinch, your body vanishes. Your knees sting where they hit the trail. Fog presses in. It seems to echo with something stolen. You run. No one talks about girls like her. It doesn't matter if you want to or not. You run because you have to. You run because she's still somewhere behind you, waiting for you to stop. There's no hotline to help women like you deal with women like her. And ahead, somewhere up ahead, you might remember how it happened. You might remember. You might not. You might see her catch you. You might see yourself fall, or not. But it will happen. You'll run. You'll pass the creek. The trail will curve. The path will

feel wrong. You'll find something horrible beneath the mounding autumn leaves in the bushes. And then you're running again. Okay, uh, is that it? Hello? Oh. All done, Michelle? Um, yeah. Is that it? Do I need to do anything else? Nope, I'll take care of it. Go ahead and join the others, choir practice. Okay, thank you. I hope they let me sing, Give Me Some More, by Buster Rhymes today. No one appreciates how well I spit lyrics around here. Status? Stable, Doctor. Did you get the updated procedures? Yes, Doctor. Good. Leave us. You're still here. Excellent. Most subjects fail by now. Have I told you that before? They seize, they foam, they scream nonsense, and gnash at their restraints until they bite their tongues through.

You haven't. That means you are holding the state. Do you know how rare that is? No, of course you don't. Only I do. I've been dedicated to this for a long time. It's probably why I'm saying any of this to you. No one really understands.

And you'll never remember, but that's the point. We don't want your memories. We just want your dreams. Give me your dreams. Tell me what you see. I see... I see... I see...

Hell on Horseshoe Bend. All at once, it hits me. A world when a thought shrieks endlessly through my head and leaves me shaking. They wail out like the frightened cries of a newborn who's been awakened to a terrifying new reality. The world I once knew shattered before my foot could reach the brake pedal. I was going to speed limit and stayed within my lane, but none of it mattered. That hairpin turned at the bottom of the hillside still managed to find a way to sneak up on me. That fucking horseshoe bend.

I've known about it for years, and on any other night it wouldn't have been an issue. But not tonight. My hand grips the wheel tightly as I slowly come to terms with what I've done. Blackened skid marks and the smell of burnt rubber detail my descent into hell. The child lying in the center of the road, face down and caught between the glow of my headlights, serves as my tour guide for the evening. His Halloween mask, a cheap plastic lime green oval designed to look like a space alien, lays inches away from his bloodied head.

A pillowcase full of candy has been scattered in all directions. The boy's twisted limbs point in a similarly reckless fashion. Happy Halloween. A stifle gasp is all I can manage. This scent of vodka comes curling off my lips and flavors my remorse. Just a few minutes ago, I was sitting on a couch with a room full of people in the West Hills. Now I'm wondering if I'll ever see any of those faces again. A fearful part of my brain shudders as a child lays lifelessly in the street.

Things don't need to end like this for me. We were both at fault here. If he hadn't been playing in the road by himself, none of this would have happened. I would have been pulling safely into my driveway and that kid would be eating himself safe. off Halloween candy if he had any kind of awareness. He isn't blameless in all this. So why should this event, this accident, ruin my life as well? My eyes dart anxiously around the dimly lit road.

If there's anything to celebrate, it's that there's no cars around me. You're also running any houses or trick-or-treaters in my direct line of sight, but I know that several hundred potential witnesses will be out in their yards less than half a mile away. I check my mirrors and either side of the road once more as I exit my vehicle. To the left, a steep and rocky cliffside shields me from view and prying eyes. To my right, an empty grass field is devoured by darkness and stretches endlessly into the night. I'm not a bad person. But given the choice between doing one bad thing which could save me from going to jail

or living a life as the world's most noble inmate, my decision's clear. The time for action is now. I'm able to recognize an opportunity when one presents itself, and I'm not foolish enough to squander it. My hands clasper on the boy's ankles as I drag his body across the asphalt and short jerky movements. He's heavy, but not as much as I expected him to be. The alien costume boosts his physical appearance and makes him look larger than he really is. However, the boy may as well be draped in green nylon net the way. it snags against every pebble and imperfection along the street.

The last thing I need is for him to get snarled on something that'll cause me to bend over and tear him free. Not only do I not have the time to spare, but the more of him that's left behind means the more evidence that can be used against me. Fear and frustration kick in as I pull harder. But just as I reach the trunk, I realize I have a much larger problem than I originally thought. It only spans about six inches or so, but I need to act quickly before the bleeding gets any worse. Boy's ankles drop to the street as I let go and run towards his pillowcase. It's still full of chocolate and bubble gum as I dump it over the side of the guardrail.

The emptied sack is more than enough space for me to stuff the child's head inside. Right now, it's as good an idea as any. Bad enough that I have a dent along the hood of my car, but the last thing I need is a sticky red pool of blood. lead painting a bull's eye to the scene of the crime. I put my plan into action and tie the pillowcase loosely into a knot along the back of the boy's head. It isn't tight enough to stop the child's skull from bleeding, but it will minimize the amount

of blood that leaks onto the street. The trunk lid pops open as I lift the boy up with both hands and the arm carefully inside. His body doesn't move a single inch as he lays there. I watch closely for any pockets of air to float up from inside the pillowcase. But the fabric lies flat along his face. Deep red patches seep in along the sides of the bag and drip like a package of spoiled beef. It smell isn't much better. I'm already having a hard enough time processing what's happening without my brain highlighting such absurdities.

I slam the trunk lid closed, kick any straight piece of candy off the street, and throw the child's green alien mask in the back seat of my car. My engine roars the life and I know there's no turning back now. I should be feeling relieved knowing no one was wrong. to witness what took place. But I take no comfort in what I've done. I've made my choice, and now I'll have to live with it. I'm not even 100 feet down the road before I realize how truly difficult that'll be.

My eyes drift toward my rearview mirror as I watch the glass and muted panic. There's no one behind me on the road, either on foot or in a vehicle. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. The sensation is overwhelming, but for my sake I have to ignore it. I glance away and focus on the road for several seconds before allowing myself to look back up at the mirror again. As I do, the face looking back at me nearly causes me to swerve off the road. It's the face of a child wearing a bloodied alien mask. Immediately I stopped the car and spin around in my seat.

There's no one there. Worse yet, I know that there never was. The green mask still rests in one of the footwells at the backseat. I know it's impossible for what I just saw it have actually taken place, but the image is already burned into my brain. It's as real as any other memory I have, and I'll need to work just as hard to forget it. I can't stop to check my backseat every mile or so down the road until I reach my house,

not unless I want to attract attention from the neighbors or the police. My best bet is to just get home in one piece. No matter how badly I might want to turn around, I'll have to force myself not to. It's that simple. I might be going crazy, but I'm not dumb. I'm not an idiot. Besides, I tell myself, it's better now to be seeing ghosts than it is police lights.

There isn't even time for the smile to fade from my face as the sirens. cry out from behind me. Speak of the devil. My life flashes before my eyes as I pull over to the side of the road and comply. My eyes are locked in a straight ahead stare through my windshield as I nervously count a seconds. But it's not enough to keep the questions in my head at bay. How long was he following me?

What all did he see? My heart races uncontrollably until I hear the officer knock softly against my window. I try to remain composed. as I lowered to speak. Hey, I managed to smile at the officer without slurring. Good evening. The officer notes that I slammed on my brakes pretty hard and asked if I'm okay. Yes, sir?

I reply smoothly. A light came on in my car. I didn't know what it was, and it scared me a little bit. I was worried something might be wrong. Emotions for me to continue. I shake my head. No? No issues here.

The officer stares at me for several long seconds without saying a word. I know better than to stare back. It doesn't need to see any more on my face than he already has. Instead, I continue to gaze ahead through the windshield. The officer continues to ask questions, his finger pointing clearly at the dent in my hood. A dear. I hit a deer. The officer repeats the statement suspiciously, regarding the time of year and it being the wrong season.

It's hunting season. Those things run all over the place each fall. He asks if I'm known to hunt. I do. That leads him to ask me if I had a gun in my vehicle. No, sir. Another long silence ensues. I'm instantly regretting, ever having brought up the topic.

The last thing I need is for a cop to go searching through my car. I'll need a warrant. But that won't get the body out of my trunk before he can investigate. If he wants to, he could hold my car right now until he's granted one. I just have to hope that he doesn't think to ask. My freedom may very well depend on it. I can practically hear the dead boy cackling in my trunk from inside the bloody pillowcase. He asks where I hit it.

About five or six miles back? Up by Sawmill Park over near the lake. He pats the dented hood, saying that as long as the car is running all right, I'm free to take it home. Absolutely. I nod. He tells me to have a nice night as he turns and walk back to his car. Thank you, sir. You too.

I watch as the officer walks back to his squad car and try not to exhale too loudly as I roll up my window. A few seconds later, I start out my car and drive away slowly. I can only hope he doesn't notice the drops of blood and straight pieces of candy along the side of the road, not even a couple miles back. All that matters right now is that I get home From there I can figure out what to do with the trick-or-treater in the trunk I can only imagine how much blood must be back there right now Thankfully the cop doesn't try to follow me

It takes me in my word and lets me leave Well my problems are far from being over Some issues are too big to outrun Five streets later when I'm finally pulling into my driveway I feel no joy or relief in my driveway I feel no joy or relief in my arrival. My anxiety flares as I pull into the garage and in doing so willingly convert my town home into an active crime scene. I kill the engine and click the remote to close the garage door, but I can't bring myself to get out of the car. I'm not ready for what comes next.

Lights in the garage cut out after 30 seconds or so as they reach the end of their timer. It seems there's a natural expiration for everything. That doesn't make my situation any easier. I sit alone in the dark for several minutes as I attempt to summon the strength I need. I'm in my own little coffin. I sigh as I fish my cell phone out of my pocket. I can either crawl out now and get busy living, or I can stay right here and get busy dying. My fingers begin to type before I even know what I'm doing. I'm texting Alex to come over and telling him I have beer and pot.

I also tell him I don't have work tomorrow, which isn't true, but I won't be going into the office. office. Not anymore. I have a different type of work to do. Work that I prefer not to be sober for. Before Alex has a chance to respond back, I pocket my phone and step out of the car. I still can't bring myself to look in the trunk, though. I'm not nearly fucked up enough to deal with that right now. Instead, I walk straight into the kitchen to pour myself a drink. A stiff vodka and coke is what I need to calm myself, maybe even a double, or two. Maybe then I'll have the courage to face down what I've done. I stumbled into the kitchen and fumble around for a glass, but before I reach the liquor cabinet, a loud thud sends a bolt of anxiety straight through my heart. I turn around

slowly, completely slack-jawed and stare. The noise came from the garage. I tell myself that it's only my imagination, that my mind is playing tricks on me again like a dead on the drive home. But then I hear it again, louder than before. It's too much to ignore as I drop my glass and take off towards the garage. My hand claws frantically at the doorknob and twist it open. I prepare myself for the worst, but even still, it takes everything in me not to break down and scream. A blood-soaked pillowcase lays along the floor of the garage. My trunk leg popped open and hung upright in the air.

Any newfound strength that built up has been melted away. The room looks like something straight out of a nightmare. Not even I could imagine something as fucked up as this. Some kid with a fractured skull, halfway dead and gushing blood, is crawling blindly around in my house like a frightened animal. I can practically hear his broken limbs clamoring along the floor as he tries to scream with emotion. full of blood. It's a situation I know I can't wake up from, but also it's one that I can't let him live out. It's him or me, and it all ends right now. My hand slaps the light switch along the

wall next to me as my mind scrambles to come up with ways to handle the situation. I don't see the kid anywhere, but I'm going to need some type of weapon or tool to fix this. A hammer or hacksaw may do. I'll even start the lawnmower if I have to. The last thing I want to do is to stomp some kid out and an old pair of Nike tennis shoes. But if that's what it takes in order for me not to end up in prison, so be it.

Slowly I inch my way over to my toolkit, will pause whenever I realize something's wrong. The side entry door to the garage has been opened. Dark red splotches of blood stain the handle and look to be fresh as a collection of tiny crimson droplets marked the floor. He's free. Somewhere, outside in my yard for all the neighbors to see is the thing I fear the most. My sanity spirals out of control as I race after him through the side door and out onto the lawn.

I don't even bother to grab a hammer. There's no time. This problem needs to remain confined to the insides of my garage, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. even if it means dragging that problem back inside by its ankles. I round the outside corner of my garage towards the driveway to face the main road before my killer instinct disappears. Strapped to the back of my mailbox is a green alien mask. It sneers back at me through the night with its dead eyes and hollow smile.

The sight of it turns my blood to ice. Not only is this more evidence in dire need of disposal. This kid also isn't as dead as I thought he was. He's alive enough to taunt me and to understand his life is in danger. If he's capable of much else, I don't plan on finding out. I rush over to the mailbox and remove the mask before anyone else has a chance to see it. But then I'm left with a terrible decision of where to put it. I'm not running back inside while a mangled trick-or-treater limps his way home.

My first idea is the only one I have time for. I flip open the mailbox door and stuff the mask inside. Plastic crinkles in my hand as a thin layer of warm gooey liquid drips onto my wrist in the process. My eyes widen with revulsion as I jump back in shock, but not in time to notice the pair of headlights coming towards me. Alex doesn't even break as he plows into me. I barely even have time to see it's him before I'm knocked off my feet and launched several feet through the air. The wet plopping noise echoing through my ears tells me that my hip hip hip, is broken before I even hit the ground.

Another deafening crunch silence is my concerns as my face bounces off the curb. It takes everything in me to fight and remain conscious, but my vision has gone streaky. With the last ounce of strength I can muster, I turn my head towards my driveway and begin to wail. Standing alongside the corner of my house is a frightened young boy. He's missing half of his Halloween costume, as well as half of his face. but managed to smile fully at the sight of me in the street. He slinks away among the shadows and trees along the side of my house as I feel myself slipping away into a similar dark void.

Alex is standing somewhere above me and begins to cry. But whatever he's saying no longer matters. Not even prayers can save me now, not after what took place on horseshoe bend. I don't feel very good. I imagine not, but you endure, don't you? Your mind bends, yes, painfully so, but it does not tear. I think this place would breathe with you if it could.

Do you feel the vents? The floorboards, the world around you swell? We spent so long looking at the wrong place. We thought it was the chemicals, but it wasn't. It's the host. I've tried so many without consideration. Volunteers, inmates, all who swore their minds were special. Of course, none were.

They split open like overripe fruit. Their words became babble. Their faces went slack for the last time. Their bodies lay the foundation of what you are do you know what it feels like after years of failure to finally find you it feels like providence 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

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