Creepy - Day 24 - Sacrifice & My Family Doesn't Hitchhike Anymore

Episode Date: October 24, 2024

Sacrifice***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Heather Thomas***My Family Doesn't Hitchhike Anymore***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***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.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. listener discretion is advised. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magical time of year.

It's day 24 of the 31 days of horror. A time of cool winds, falling bodies, pumpkin-spiced lattes, and, well, pumpkin-spiced everything. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep. Caller, you're on. Hey, creep, I've got a story to tell you. That's good. Not sure what we talk about otherwise. But I'm a professional. I can make do.

Actually, that's kind of what I called in to talk about. It's about a sacrifice. People suck. Just because me and my friends choose to dress a certain way doesn't mean we deserve to be harassed. Yeah, we like to wear black. and our makeup is usually dark. We identify as goths and listen to the music, rarely smile, and don't take kindly to strangers approaching us.

That doesn't make us witches. Our public school has a surprising amount of openly religious students. They're the type that'll stand on street corners outside planned parenthood with posters of dead babies. I know a number of them that have actually been detained by the police, for getting a little physical with some of the people, people that went in just for a consult. Sometimes I think if they'd act like normal teens and get laid on occasion, they wouldn't be such assholes. Ashley, Constance, Kylie, and me tend to hang out

in the library during lunch. We always skipped eating and used to hang out in the quad, but those religious pricks badgered us too many times. It was really bad when the most outspoken of them, Jericho, got right in my face and said, You know, Quinn, if you accept Jesus as a your lord and savior, I'd actually consider dating you. I kicked him in the balls for that. I got suspended, but damn, was it worth it? There's a number of students that spend lunch in the library, but they're far from the type to harass us. If anything, they either lust after us, or are completely unaware we're there. Nerdy and geeky types are too shy to actually come up to us and chat. That, and they probably think we'd bite their heads off for trying. We wouldn't with them,

only those that look down on us and discriminate. As we usually do, we go up the stairs past all the tables and hide in the stacks. There are thousands of books up here, and we always find something new to enjoy. Over the last three years, we've been making our way through the available stock, working one shelf at a time before moving on. We started with the rows in the middle, and this year we've been working on the ones along the walls. We're almost to the middle of the back wall and are on the bottom shelf. Each of us grabs six books to go through, leaving about half the shelf full. Today I'm the last one to grab up my books, and as I do, I notice something odd.

The absence of so many books has shifted the balance of weight, and the empty end of the shelf lifts up a little. If this were one of the higher shelves, that wouldn't be. so strange. But the bottom shelf is supposed to be part of the structure, unable to move. Placing my books on the ground, I reach out for the elevated side and lift it up. The bottom shelf doesn't rest directly on the floor, but on a three-inch platform. From what my uncle told me when he was building bookcases for my mom, the only reason to have a platform like this is to have the back of the shelf flush against the wall. Most walls have baseboards that make that impossible, unless the platform it sits on is short on the backside. I figure I'm about to stumble on some stoner stash or

something, but what I find hiding under the shelf isn't drugs. It's a very old book, museum quality. There's nothing like this leather tome in the library, not even in the reference section. The leather is a dark, ash-gray with cracks all throughout the cover and binding. As I inspect the untitled book, I expect there to be a layer of dust covering it, but there isn't even a speck on the leather. I can't imagine the hidey hole was completely sealed to preserve it, so someone must regularly put their hands on it. Aside from us, I don't know anyone that frequents the library that often. Just when I'm about to open it, I start to feel warmth radiating from the leather, like it's alive. But the four of us sitting on the floor in a circle,

I lay it on the floor in the center of us. The others lean in to have a look at the oddity, and it suddenly opens on its own. The pages flutter from back to front before it lands on a specific page. It's not the first page, but there can't be that many before it. Looking at the words, I find it hard to read, until I realize the language isn't English. I think it's Latin.

I'm about to look away from it and ask if Constance can read it, since she took two years of Latin, but the words on the page begin to change. I watch as they swirl around and fade away, only to reappear, but in English this time. The large print on the top and big bold letter says, a request for power. Reading below that, it explains that not everyone who performs the spell will be granted abilities. Only true believers will be rewarded, and only if they're willing. to sacrifice for the privilege. Below that is a list of only some of the powers that can be granted.

Telekinesis, telepathy, empathy, foresight, pyrokinesis, time manipulation, teleportation, etc. What follows is step-by-step instructions on how to perform the spell. Holy shit, it's a freaking book of shadows. As if on cue the four of us look up from the book and at each other. The question is in all our eyes. Should we do it? Half the school already believes we practice witchcraft. Should we really give in to the stereotype?

All at once we seem to make the decision together. If it means we get one or more of these badass-sounding powers, why the hell wouldn't we? Besides, the odds of this being real are pretty small, and it's not like we got invited to any parties tonight. What better way to celebrate Halloween? The others place the books back on the shelf as I stick the gray tome in my bag. Once everything is back in place and in the proper order, the bell rings.

Instead of Ashley dropping us off like she normally does, we'll head to each of our houses, gather supplies, and head out to our normal hangout spot. What's so strange is that no part of this plan is being said out loud. It's like we've already been granted a power within our group, an ability to communicate without speaking. That's one way to make people into believers. Sadly, we have to endure the last class of the day before heading out.

As much as we'd like to skip, the spell requires darkness. Even if we left now, we'd have to wait until full dark before starting the spell. Might as well stay at school, but none of our minds are on class. even though none of us are in the same fourth period, we can still communicate. If this is only a taste of things to come, life is about to get so much better for us. Time drags on, and I'm not the only one thinking I'd like the time manipulation power. Not that any of us had the chance to look up that power in the tomb.

It could potentially come in handy right now, unless it's another way to say you have the ability to free time, as opposed to moving it forward or backwards. There are too many unknowns at this point, but it's fun to think about. With the four of us silently communicating, the slow ticking of the clock manages to get away from us. Before we know it, the final bell rings.

Like a starting gun before a race, it sends the entire student body into motion. Gathering our things, heading for the door, everyone moves with purpose. Some have to catch buses. Others have parents picking them up. For a fortunate few, they head to the student parking lot for their own vehicle and rush for a place in line at the traffic light.

The four of us make it out to Ashley's car in record time. In fact, the only student to beat us to the parking lot is Jericho. And the look he shoots us is shocked. I don't know why it surprises him that we're out here at the same time as him. Maybe because he sees an opportunity to, harass us again. But since he's without the rest of the God Club, he doesn't have the balls to take us on solo. Without giving him a second glance, we pile into Ashley's car and get on the road as more students make their way to the lot. Some of the items we acquire at our houses are

matches, various herbs from spice cabinets, a bottle of wine, a stainless steel bowl, the fanciest wine glass we can find, and a personal item that holds the most sentimental value to us. Once we have everything we need, we head to the woods. Our favorite spot would surprise everyone at school. Instead of being some dark, moody place, we like to spend time in nature, out in the sunlight. We read books, talk about boys and girls we like,

and share our hopes and dreams. the typical things a group of high school girls do when they're alone. Hell, on occasion we smoke some pot or drink alcohol we manage to snag from our parents, but that's a rare thing. It doesn't take very long for us to gather stones to make a fire pit and wood to fill it. The spell is very specific about how many stones and how big the fire needs to be. We don't have to search hard for the necessary items. It's almost like nature is providing the things.

things we need with ease. The one thing we do spend a lot of time on is building the fire itself. None of us have actually made a campfire before. Deciding to consult the book to see if the spell specifies how to make the fire, I look at the few pages before the spell. As I hoped, there's a whole page dedicated to instructing how to build a ceremonial fire. We follow the instructions exactly, not wanting to screw this up. The spell doesn't say anything about not being able to attempt it a second time if it doesn't work, but if it doesn't work the first time, what are the odds that it will the second? We gather several handfuls of moss to use as fuel, then start creating a pentagonal pattern

with the wood. By the time it starts getting dark, we've created a three-foot-tall pile of wood in the fire pit. This isn't a mere camp-fell. but a ceremonial bonfire. As the air cools with the coming night, I'm going to be grateful for the flames, but fear someone might see them. We're fairly deep in the woods, but a fire this big is almost like shooting a flare into the sky.

The other sense my worry and put me at ease. Of all the times we've been out here, no one's ever come across us. We've never seen another living soul out in these woods, so why would we see one tonight? Everyone is doing Halloween stuff like taking younger siblings trick-or-treating, going to parties to get drunk and laid,

or even staying home to watch horror movies. As we wait for full dark, we sit in a circle on the ground around our soon-to-be blazing bonfire. We close our eyes and feel this connection we share, exploring the limits of what it can do, feeling around with a sense that has nothing

to do with the physical is a trippy experience, and we soon discover something shocking. We can dive deep into each other's minds, see memories, and experience the other's emotions. I find Kylie in her first experience with a boy playing doctor, with him as the patient. While that's happening, I sense Constance finding my first consensual sexual experience and feeling the disappointment I felt when he finished moments after we started. While doing this, a sensation hits all of us, almost like an external force is tapping us on the shoulder. But it's not a physical sensation.

At once we open our eyes and can barely see any of the world around us. It's a full dark now, and that sensation lets us know it's time to begin. mirroring each other in perfect unison, we take a match out of our boxes, light one, and toss it into the fire. They fall into the center, touching the moss, and within moments, the flames are spreading. I don't think it takes a full minute for the flames to start reaching higher than the wood. Once the entire pile is engulfed and the immediate area is bathed in orange and yellow light. I take up the book. With the way I'm holding the gray toome, I shouldn't be able to see the writing well,

but I can read it as clear as day. It's not like the page is emitting light, but I have absolutely no trouble reading the text. Reading off the instructions, Constance grabs up the bowl and pours a generous amount of wine into it. Kylie and Ashley start adding in the herbs I read off. I notice that none of us leave our spots around the fire, meaning that it should be impossible for them to add in the ingredients. They release their pinches and pores of herbs directly in front of them, and instead of falling to the ground, they fall into the bowl.

Oh yes, this is making believers of us all. The next step is where a lot of people would falter. From the pages of the tome, I pull out a double-sided dagger with an elaborately carved handle. passing it to Kylie on my right, I don't even have to speak aloud. She takes the knife and slices the palm of her left hand. Holding her hand out, seven drops fall,

and like the herbs, they fall into the bowl. Constance is next, then Ashley. None falter as they place the blade to their flesh. No one flinches at the pain. When the blade comes to me, The book is just not in my hands anymore, even though I did nothing with it. I place the blade to my palm and swiftly draw it across, cutting open my flesh. I do as the others did, my blood falling from my outstretched hand, and it lands in the bowl.

With the book now back in my hands and the dagger gone, we all begin to chant. Gods of the earth, lovers of the wind, makers of rain and fire, we beseech you to hear our call. Three times we say this, all while the contents of the bowl are swirling and mixing on their own. Once the chant is complete, Constance has the glass in her hand, and she pours the bowl into it. Holding outstretched in her bloody hand, is a handmade blanket. The very blanket her mother wrapped her in when she took Constance home from the hospital, the same blanket that has been with her all her life.

I sacrificed this cherished possession as proof of my belief and devotion. At the final word, she drinks from the glass and drops the blanket into the fire. The blanket enters the center of the flames, but instead of burning, it disappears. Ashley holds up her older brother's dog tags, the only item she has of his after he died overseas. Her father died when she was very young, and Michael became her protector, the only male throughout her whole life

that loved her unconditionally. He died just over a year ago in the army while deployed to a combat zone. His death nearly crippled her emotionally, but the three of us helped her through it. She repeats the words and drops the tags into the fire. In my bloody hand, I hold up an old stuffed bunny named Roger. My mother won him for me at a fair when I was three,

and I've slept with him in my bed every night since. Roger was there for me when I thought there were monsters under my bed or in my closet. He was there for me when that bastard of a father snuck into my room and did unspeakable things to me. When that son of a bitch died in a drunken car crash, Roger celebrated with me every night because I no longer had to dread the darkness. As the two before me, I shed a solitary tear as I dropped my companion into the fire. Kylie holds up an old vinyl record, an Elvis album.

Her parents used to play it all the time and danced around their living room before their love turned sour. Their house used to be filled with love, but one day ten years ago, they both fell in love with other people. There is no more dancing after that, and the divorce nearly ripped her apart. When Kylie is feeling really depressed and wonders what's the point in living, she listens to this record and remembers the good times. It has never failed to lift her spirits and give her hope. She drinks from the glass and drops it into the fire. The next chant goes,

Guardians of power, we beseech you as your devout, grant us your blessings, and elevate us in this dismal world. But we never get to say the words. A dozen people infiltrate our ceremony and grab us from behind, forcing us to our knees.

Out of the darkness, Jericho stands before us. us, bathed in our sacred light, with murder in his eyes. This fucking asshole has gotten all of the God Club worked up into a frenzy, and they tracked us down. Quickly, the ones not holding us in place set about creating a damn pyre with a single, thick pole stuck up in the center. At Jericho's instruction, the mob ties us to the pole, spitting obscenities at us, quoting the Bible about not suffering a witch to live and the like. Try as we might, we are unable to fight against their strength,

and they secure us to the pole. I do note that their firebuilding skills are much better than ours, but what they create is awfully similar to what we did. Moss at the bottom, wood in a pentagonal pattern. Even the insane ranting Jericho is spewing at us sounds like a chant. If we've completed the ceremony, we might have had the power to stop these fucking zealots. But we are helpless. The more we struggle against the ropes binding us, the tighter they get.

Jericho speaks as a preacher to his followers, but the words he says don't sound like they're from the Bible. If anything, they sound like something from the gray tome. That's when it occurs to us all. Jericho's words, we can understand them, but the language isn't English. It's just like when we first found the tome. Even while we were speaking our own words, we heard and understood. But we hadn't been using our native tongue. To our ears, he says,

"'Lords of the dark, I spill innocent blood for you to bathe in, a sacrifice of four that have done no wrong, corrupting the righteous. Grant me your vile powers, so I might wreak havoc and bathe this pathetic world in fire. His followers hear what they want, their leader speaking God's words to cleanse evil, unaware that they followed pure evil and done his will. At his command, all of his followers use their torches, lit by our fire, and set the pyre ablaze. Burning to death is not quick, certainly not painless,

but we don't scream out. We use that connection between us and hold each other as we die, chasing back the pain with our unity. In an unimaginably painful death, we die in peace as sisters, bonded by our love for each other. Jericho's followers, can't say the same.

Once we're gone, our souls lifted to the gods we called upon. Jericho uses the new powers granted to him by his dark lords to kill them all. He peels off skins, rips out eyeballs, disembowels, decapitates, and etc. While we died peacefully, our murderers die screaming in agony, forced to feel every little thing Jericho does to them, even after they should have died. His power makes them suffer tenfold, and their souls are cast into the darkness below

that they spent their whole lives fearing. If you ask us, it's a fitting end for those bastards. And now a word from our sponsors. We're back on KREP. I sure hope you're all safe and sound at home, or wherever it is you let your head fall at night. As much as I do love the night, it's filled with all kinds of unexpected surprises.

Not to say that such things don't happen in the daylight, too. Like the email from this caller who claims, My family doesn't hitchhike anymore. That might sound like a stupid thing to say. I think I've maybe seen one person in the last ten years that I could even consider might be a hitchhiker. cabs, buses, ride share, all that. Plenty options that don't involve you slowly walking down the road hoping that someone, anyone, will slow down and give you a ride out of the goodness of their heart.

How many people do you think died that way? People got all captivated by Jack Kerouac and suddenly thought that traveling across the country, thumbing a ride, as it were, was a romantic way to live. all those disenchanted boomer kids who didn't know what their place was in the world. The rise of the teenager, of rebellion, of finding their own way. Only to realize there is little, if anything romantic about sitting in the passenger seat of a strange car or bed of a strange truck, waiting until they could get out and away from someone who seemed a little bit off. Sure, plenty of people probably hitchhiked over the years and never had a bit of,

problem. There was some big study done out in California back in the 70s trying to figure out the connection between hitchhiking and crime. And they found out that less than one percent of all hitchhikers were killed, which is actually still way more than I'd ever feel comfortable with. Of course, it was a different time. If nothing bad has ever happened to you or someone you know, why would it ever occur to you to do otherwise? That's how my mom's side of the family was. They grew up out in the country, small town in the middle of a lot of farmlands and stuff like that.

My mom's side weren't farmers exactly. They just lived out there. Grandpa broke horses. He was one of those old-timers who you never felt unsafe around. And I don't mean that you weren't scared of him. I remember being terrified of him, imagining him like some 10-foot-tall-towering Hulk you don't want to be on the wrong side of.

In reality, he was all about 5'5 foot 5. But he was from a harder time. He had these huge hands, and he used to crush apples from the apple trees, just to shock the kids. If Grandpa was around, you weren't scared of anyone else. you probably know old timers like that.

I get why people would call kids soft these days by comparison. But was how they were raised really worth it? Grandpa wasn't around for this story. As far as I know, he never even knew about it. If I had to guess, Grandma was afraid someone would die if she'd been alone. Knowing Grandpa like I think I did, I imagine she was about right about that.

Anyway, back a few years before I was born, Grandpa took Grandma, my mom, and my older sister, who I think was only maybe two years old at the time, into town to get some shopping done. I don't remember why he dropped him off and wasn't there to take him home, but there was some reason. Some innocuous reason that no one would have thought twice about. Some reason that led to three generations of women in my family to hitchhike home. after doing their weekly grocery shopping. The way I was told, they did their shopping, went to the malt shop, then started walking home. It was about a five-mile walk, so hitchhacking wasn't entirely necessary.

But I wouldn't want to walk that far with whatever excuse for grocery bags used to be. Shit, they probably carried wooden milk crates or something. So there's my 50-something-year-old grandma, my 20-something-year-old mom, and my two-year-old sister walking on the side of the road with their groceries, hoping someone would be able to give him a quick lift home. But entirely realizing they might have to walk the entire distance. I guess after about a mile or so, a guy in a pickup truck pulled up. Grandma sat in the passenger seat and my mom and sister hopped in the truck bed with groceries.

So there's my grandma telling the guy directions while mom tries to hold on to my squirming sister and the groceries as they bounced down the dirt road. When Mom saw that they'd passed by the road, they turned down to get back home. She looked into the truck at Grandma, who'd just look back at her with this blank expression on her face. She wasn't saying anything. And that's when Mom realized that look on Grandma's face was fear.

She'd never seen Grandma scared before. She stopped holding the groceries so tight and started holding my sister a little closer. Suddenly, a broken bottle of milk and grandpa's anger over wasted food and money seemed a lot less important. Supposedly, the guy didn't really talk to Grandma, and when he missed the turn,

he didn't apologize or even really seemed to care, just said that he'd turn around. And when he didn't, told Grandma that he had to stop by his house real quick. Then he'd bring him home. Understand that my grandmother, Grandma was a tough old bird. She'd survived the Depression.

She'd worked on the assembly line during the Second World War. She'd gotten two things most people couldn't imagine. Living in a world so much harder than anyone seemed to remember it being. I don't know if it was something to do with women being told whether a place was or what. But Grandma didn't put up a fight or even an argument. Maybe she saw something in the man driving the truck that reminded. reminded her of Grandpa. A seriousness that there was no sense in questioning.

Or maybe she was only thinking about mom and sis, bouncing around back there in the truck bed. I'll never know. Eventually they ended up in a place none of them had ever been. Back in the trees through the overgrown woods where not even hunters bothered to go. The trucks seeming to find the only path wide enough to get a vehicle through,

a path that if anyone had bothered to look first, it again. No one ever found. The house was old, older than grandma would be now if she were still alive, standing on its last legs. The truck pulled up near the front and the driver got out telling him to wait. He just had to grab something from inside the house. They did what they were told and sat there.

And I can't even begin to imagine in my wildest nightmare is what that weight must have felt like. What thoughts must have been going through their heads? In a world where horror movies were still very much fringe and true crime was only something you saw in the evening news. Did their minds go to the dark places they'd never been exposed to? Even in fiction? Do you think life is better or worse now, knowing how dark the world can get?

The depths that people will stoop to for power and control. Was it easier to live ignorance? ignorant to the dangers, or was that ignorance what allowed it to flourish? And even if they did know, what difference would have made? They were lost in a place they'd never been, Grandma with her bad hip and arthritic knee, my mom trying to calm and increasingly upset toddler in her arms, asking to go home, pleading to go home. They said they only waited for a few minutes, but I'd imagine it felt a whole hell of a lot

longer than that. Eventually the driver came out, followed by another guy. The first guy, they said he was plain, sort of forgettable. Average high brown hair and eyes, maybe in his 30s, the sort of face you'd forget. The second guy, though, was big, with a mess of wild, curly hair. The sort of big that made you think that maybe he never got used to his size. He sort of lumbered as he walked. his body too big and heavy. He locked eyes on Grandma on the front seat. Must have at least seen part of Mom sitting in the bed of the truck too. When he walked around the side and saw my sister,

whatever slowness he'd had around him disappeared, and he started to stomp, ranting nonsensically. He kept turning back, looking at my mom and sister, then shaking his head and spitting on the ground, all while mumbling to himself. Finally, he ran up to the driver, grabbing him with both hands by the jacket and lifting him into air as if the full-grown man was the same size as my sister.

He shook him, spit flying from his mouth and leaving long, thick strands of phlegm on his chin and in his beard. Grandma said she couldn't hear what was being said with the windows rolled up, but supposedly mom heard the guy yelling at the man, and that it seemed to be about my sister. He kept yelling, Why the little? Why'd you bring the little? Never the littles.

Before throwing the man to the ground, kicking him in the ribs and wandering back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Eventually, the driver picked himself up off the ground, busted himself off, and walked over to the truck again, head hung low. He got into the driver's seat, mumbled an apology,

then turned the truck around and headed back out to the main road. About 20 minutes or so later they were pulling up in front of Grandma's house. The guy pulled the truck to a stop at the end of the driveway and didn't look at anyone. He just had his eyes on the house. Mom thought he was staring at the house, but Grandma claimed he was staring at the flagpole in the front yard with the United States flag and Army Rangers flagging and limply in the still air. When everyone was out, groceries in hand, the truck drove off without another word.

They never told Grandpa, for all kinds of reasons I'd imagine, and they moved not too long after. Grandpa put up a fuss about the hassle, but Grandma was adamant that she didn't like the neighborhood. She'd come up with whatever new excuse she could think of from the news before they finally moved into the house they'd live in for the rest of their lives. I still remember times when I was young when I'd be alone in the house with just mom and grandma and they'd stand at the front window looking out they'd have a cup of coffee or tea with them

and I used to think it was just their way of enjoying the day or whatever it was adults did it never occurred to me that for the rest of their lives they were always waiting always watching just in case of a familiar

your pickup truck happened to roll by, looking to see if someone needed a ride. And that's all from us tonight. This is the creep and you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow. 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 Sherrillite 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 story's author.