Creepy - Day 24 - Tarentella

Episode Date: October 24, 2021

Parents, check your children's candy...***Written by Marcus Demanda and narrated by Michelle Kane***Bonus episode: "It Wasn't My Skeleton" written by Sum Gigh***Find our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or how simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of the world. violence and explicit language.

Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. The 31 Days of Horror. Day 24. Terentella. Written by Marcus D'Amanda and narrated by Michelle Kane. We did it.

We really did. And though I can hardly believe it, everyone else did too. Must have been every kid in the goddamn neighborhood out there tonight. There hasn't been door-to-door trick-or-treating in this town since I don't remember when. Never mind the lockdowns and the CDC guidelines. Long before the pandemic made this world stand still, Halloween had moved from our front porches and neighborhood streets into schools, shopping, malls and even churches. But not this year. This year, the nefarious Cheryl Bridges of our local homeowners association actually did something good at the beginning of October and sent out a mass

email. Subject, let's go trick-or-treating. Suggested guidelines. One, 12 and under only, please. Two, children under 10 must be accompanied by a parent or a sibling of at least high school age. Three, no knocking on doors past 9 p.m. Holy mother of God, that shit actually worked. Little Liam, who at age 7, had never gone trick-or-treating in his life, wanted to put on his venom costume at 4 in the afternoon. Yes, I know. Venom. Not the ideal kids movie, but whatever. Boy does his homework and doesn't spook easily. Whatever sleep issues he's inherited from me, notwithstanding. Plus, Big Liam was right

next to him on the couch the whole time. A working mom has to pick her battles, right? Anyway, at 545, with the sun half down and with Big Liam remaining behind to stand Candy Century at our front door, little Liam and I ventured out of the house and into a forgotten dream. The kids were out and they were everywhere, all in costume, plastic masked goblins and gray-faced zombies, Supergirl and Spider-Man. A mother-daughter wonder-woman duo. There seemed to have been an unspoken agreement to get this going early. Already cries of trick-or-treat!

Emanated from a distant porch step, quickly followed by a chorus of, Thank you! How about it, tough guy? Venom looked up at me, nodded with enthusiasm, and I could feel the smile I could not see behind the mask. It wasn't long before we ended up partnered with his, friend and schoolmate, Nate Richards, whose older brother was only too grateful to ditch him, and after that, Mr. Torkinson and his boy Jake. Candy piled up in handheld plastic pumpkin and

skull buckets, and it wasn't long before our group had three parents and seven kids. By six, even though our iron-willed busybody, Mrs. Bridges, was bound to be casing the neighborhood somewhere, cruising at a predatory five miles per hour in her gas-guzzling Buick, just waiting to find someone, anyone, not following her guidelines. We relented and let the kids go free. We kept a street corners and just watched from a non-imposing distance. The girls and boys scuttled with delight from house to house, door to door, shrieking and cackling with mirth. They get the hang of it fast, I thought, finding myself close to actual tears. They've never done this before, and they're having the time of their lives. I sucked it up, though, when Mr. and Mrs. Draper

emerged from their house and palmed off their eight-year-old daughter to our group, bringing us grownups a few treats all our own. You two are lifesavers, I said, taking the proffered bottle opener, popping the top off my Sam Adams and sharing a toast with them. From street to street to the final cul-de-sac, our group continued, never coming too close, never getting in the way of the most sacred childhood ritual. But we kept our collective eye out, especially when the whole herd of them, 12 strong by now, departed what would be the penultimate house at 8.30 and darted down the sidewalk towards The Farnsworth House.

Hey! I called after then, summoning my inner drill sergeant, hurling the word over my third beer and across the street like an Olympic discus thrower. It stopped them cold and earned me more than a few impressed looks from my parental peers.

But now I had them, I could tone it down. Whoa, there. Stop. Not there. The kids look to the house. house then back to me. So did the other parents. The house was dark, a reality and a prohibition made somehow all the more ominous by its fresh paint job of midnight blue. There wasn't a light on anywhere. Inside of it, the for-sale sign in the front yard was prominent. There was nobody home, nothing to go to. And it was flat out creepy under the moonlight. No one was going there.

I'd seen two other mobs of kids skip clean past it already. Liam turned his venom head to me and pointed to the front porch. He didn't speak, and I instantly knew why. You're embarrassing him. Shit. I sighed, squinted my eyes to focus on the shadowy porch. There, sure enough, a bull had been left out on a snack table. There was a sign on the door, too.

I couldn't make out what it said from here, but it seemed to beckon people to come closer, to read what it said. No one else had noticed it all night, I guess. And then I blinked. The porch light had come on, just at that moment. Someone was inside, and whoever it was, was watching. Mr. Torkinson chuckled under his breath, muttered something about how, if they were, that wasn't Halloween, nothing was. I supposed he was right, but I started walking anyway. I didn't yet know if I was going to call an end to everything, for my boy at least, or just

reassume my duties as escort. Either way, seemed like a responsible mom thing to do, and the other moms and dads seem to agree following after. What the living hell? I said, pulling one out from the bowl and hold. holding it up under the porch light. Mandy. Mr. Torkinson teased me, winking in that flirty way that made me want to punch his lights out.

Language. I've heard worse. Liam chipped in from behind his mask, getting the laugh in the night. I hardly noticed these things, these treats in the bowl, were awful. They were lollipops of a sort.

suckers, as big Liam would have said, translucent hard candy on a stick. Green, red, yellow, blue, purple, easy to see through, and far bigger than the average sucker too. Generous, maybe even harmless. If you take one, the sign read, you must eat the whole thing tonight.

But inside of each one, trapped in a thin brick of bright sugar, was a single small creature. Lifting first this one than that, I held to the light a cricket, a grasshopper, a millipede, a scorpion. A fucking scorpion. That's it, I said, taking Liam's hand.

Good times, kiddo, but we're done. Come on. Again, laughter all around. This was news to me, but to hear it from everyone else, Kids got these things all the time. The gift shop in the Museum of Natural History sold them. Kids ate them as dares or for fun, and with no harm done.

Little Miss Draper, dressed convincingly as Wednesday Adams, deadpanned, protein factor, healthy, and took a green one with a firefly inside. Neither of her parents objected when she dropped it into her bucket. Liam's hand went to the bowl next, and I could not stop him because all of the kids are taking one. Girls and boys alike, and the rest of the parents just found the whole thing so amusing. I couldn't do that to Liam. I couldn't be the only parent with the stick shoved so far up her sanctimonious protective ass that I couldn't let her son have a little gross-out fun on Halloween.

I pointed to the sign. You see that tough guy? An indulgent huff for my seven-year-old. Yeah, Mom, I won't waste it. But when no one else was looking, I leaned in toward his ear and whispered. You can, you know. When we left, we were done for the night. As soon as we were off the porch, the light went back out.

There's something not right about this, I thought. And to top it off, my very own son had chosen the, worst of the suckers. Inside of it, frozen in time, was a small, dead tarantula. Still, all in all, I chalked the night up as a win, and a grand win, too. Liam ended up with enough candy of all kinds for the better half of a month. He was exhausted at 9 p.m. on a school night, also a plus, and he was happy. Not that he wasn't just. generally happy anyway, but now he knew. He knew Halloween as I had always known it. I hadn't thought that was possible, not in these dark days of suspicion and uncertainty,

and the tarantula sucker, unlike the rest of his candy, didn't stay in his bucket. Instead, he had jammed it like a grand flag into a plug of silly putty and propped it under his lamp as a desk ornament. Boys, unsurprising, really. I can't get this dumb, goofy smile off my face. Such a good time all in all. I am a very happy mother tonight. Dream Diary. I can't believe I'm up. I can't believe I'm doing this. But here I am following doctor's orders after another bout of sleep paralysis. I thought I'd be out like a dead light bulb tonight, but no, it's two in the morning and my way too easily spooked mind has gotten the better of me again, just after I thought I'd gotten over the damn bug on a stick thing too. Tonight's episode began with the bedroom doornaum rattling,

then turning with a resounding click. I looked away from it. I could move my head but nothing else, and even that moved as though in slow motion, as though against small hands that tried to hold it in place and failed. I lay flat on my back, hovering six inches over my half of the bed. The covers all drawn to Big Liam's side. He was cocooned in them, facing away from me, curled into the fetal position, nothing more than a gently breathing lump of blankets. Ablievous. No help at all. Small feet patted under the doorway. I turned my head back up and found my son there in his t-shirt and sweatpants. Which was normal, he'd sworn off PJs this year. His dark hair was sleep must. Even in shadow, I could see that his eyes had rolled back. He was

sleepwalking again, and he might just piss himself for good measure. When that happened, he'd come to himself. There'd be a complete meltdown, an absolute obliteration of his confidence and spirit that might linger for days, even though no one knew about the problem but us, his own mom and dad, and Dr. Tucker, of course. And I could do nothing. I knew exactly what was going on, but I was powerless. Whether or not little Liam was really there or only a manifestation of my own treacherous mind was a 50-50 call. But knowing these things didn't keep me from wanting to scream in pure frustration and fear.

The frustration was my, directed only at myself. But the fear I reserved for my son, I didn't want this to happen again. It had been so long, and he was doing so damn good these days. It... The front of his shirt rippled right over his belly. A small raised bump, like a living tumor, seemed to flutter there. Four thin, hard feelers poking out from either side, rigid and bent and twitching. The whole thing was about half the size of his fists, both of which he kept ball tight.

at either side. His potty shook. He was terrified. He huffed breath in and out as though waiting for something to happen, something horrible and completely inescapable. And there I fucking floated like fucking sleeping beauty, despairing for my son. Mama, he started struggling to speak. His eyes still slates a blank white. Mama? I heard it chittering. This thing over his belly button. I heard little Liam piss himself.

The cuffs of one pant leg drip urine onto his bare foot in the hardwood floor. It's going to bite me, Mama. Mama, stop it. Mama help. I drew in breath to scream and failed at that, too. I couldn't even do that for him. Nor could he. His breath caught.

when the thing bit him. I heard it happen. Heard the teeth actually sink into his flesh. Little Liam's mouth opened and froze in place. The muscles of his face tightened. He didn't even blink. The only thing that moved was his tongue, quivering in his head like an injured animal,

as growing circle of blood dampened the front of his shirt. still standing in place, he vomited, without hunching over, without clutching his stomach, and still without closing his eyes. Little Liam's belly clinched, and out of his mouth he expelled the contents of his stomach in three successive jets of dark, liquid filth that never even touched him, but splashed down instead at the foot of the bed. In the dream, it didn't smell like puke. It smelled like sweetened shit, and from the floor there emerged a crackling vapor, as though the hardwood was being eaten by acid. The fabric of his shirt poked up, tinted, then split at the center of the bloodstain. The shadow of the spider emerged from it and scuttled up toward his neckline.

Little Liam's eyes rolled back forward to the blue, but did not close. He saw him. happened. He watched with eyes crossed down the bridge of his nose as the tarantula flitted into his mouth over his spasming tongue and disappeared down the back of his throat. Finally I shuddered, a physical tremor I felt through my entire frame as the dreadful hold of the dream weakened, then finally started to break apart. I felt the blessed realness of the bed. I felt the blessed realness of the bed, against my back as I settled back upon it. Little Liam fell forward in a full bone-crunching face plant as I finally screamed, lurching upright and awake in bed. And when my eyes opened back to reality, the house was completely still.

My bedroom door was still closed. I still had, oh, optimistically, 40% of the covers. and though I was heaving my breath in and out like I was on the verge of a heart attack, my hand was over my mouth, and evidently the dream scream hadn't made it to the waking world. Next to me, Big Liam rolled over to face me, blinking. No sign of little Liam anywhere at all. My husband pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to muffle a yawn,

then managed... Again? I nodded, palming my eyes. He sat next to me, squeezed me about the shoulders. Want me to sit up with you for a bit? I nodded again. When I could, I said, Liam, I've got to. Go on, he said.

Get it right now while you still got it. I forced myself out of the bed, went for the light. Can I read it this time? I shook my head. I stood there gathering myself. Liam, wait, I said. I mean, come on. I want to check on him first. He didn't ask any questions. He got out of bed and joined me. Together, we made sure our boy was all right. I didn't see it when we peeked into his bedroom,

only opening the door a crack. Liam is one of those boys who does not want to be checked on, generally speaking. So we were quick and quiet about it and withdrew back to our bed, but not to sleep. Sitting up side by side, but without speaking, I hammered out the details of my dream into my laptop, while Big Liam watched videos on his, headphones over his ears. It had never occurred to me to check little Liam's desk, not then. Or maybe I was afraid to look there, fresh from the dream. If so, my subconscious made that decision without consulting the rest of my mind.

my subconscious is a selfish little bitch sometimes. It was at breakfast when I asked Big Liam the question. What do we know about the Farnsworths, honey? He got the honey because it was his day to make breakfast. Waffles and a small cup of sliced fruit, both of which he sat down in front of me, kissing the top of my head for bonus. The Farnsworths, he said, perplexed.

Nothing, right? here less than six months, no kids, kept to themselves. Maybe their kids are already grown, I suggested, digging in, not looking at him. He shrugged sitting down. Possible, he said. They're old enough. What's up? I shrugged back at him. He pointed a fork at me, one thin wedge of waffle dripping syrup dangerously near to the edge of his plate.

You suspect witchcraft. I can see it in your eyes. Briefly, I attuned my hearing towards the upstairs. No hint of sound from the boy. Outside, it was still dark. On Mondays and Thursdays, Liam had the early shift. And I taught ninth and twelfth grade social studies, which pretty much gave me the early shift all week.

Oh, fuck off. I said with a half smile, wonder why that house hasn't sold yet, the way the market's been. It's the candy and bug factory in the basement. Big Liam persisted undaunted, obviously. And that's when it happened. From upstairs. Thump! Big Liam and I shared less than half a glance before I fairly kicked my chair out from under me and thundered up the stairs. That had been loud. Little Liam had either just dropped something on the floor that was as big as he was, or he had rolled right out of bed.

I could hear Big Liam right behind me but didn't look back. Instinct had taken over. I wrenched open my son's bedroom door and stopped. Liam was on the floor all right. But what he was doing made no sense, and it scared the shit out of me. He was on all fours, still in his nightclothes, throwing his head right and left, drooling, spittle, turning circles. But he wasn't crawling the path of a circle. No, my seven-year-old son was turning over an invisible central point, as though on a rotating disc, hands and feet scuttling back and forth, back and forth. He was propped up on his splayed toes and suddenly claw-like fingers. His back arched. His tongue, clicked and his teeth chattered.

And this was not a dream. This was really happening. Liam! I shrieked. Then made as though to bound into the room and scoop him up. But his father stopped me. He caught me around the waist from behind. Mandy, stop.

He urged me, straining for calm himself. Then lost it. Stop! Wait! And drew out his phone. Let me go, asshole! I shouted over my shoulder at him. This isn't a fucking TikTok moment.

For the doctor! He shouted back at me. Dr. Tucker, Mandy. Dr. Tucker. I let him shoot the damn video for three seconds, four, five. This was impossible. Little Liam's head reared up, still drooling. His eyes seemed to clear.

but his body wouldn't stop moving. And then I saw this central part around which his body scooted and twitched. It was his fucking candy bucket. That stupid piece of plastic weed emptied into one of the desk drawers after coming home last night. What's happening? He asked his voice pitiful and small. He stopped, swooned. His head went completely still.

He seemed to stare down between his hands. hands. And now there was a river of drool and snot dangling from his face as his eyes remained fixed on the floor. Then he collapsed onto his side. I shoved myself free of my husband and knelt to him, rolling him onto his back. He was out, but his breath seemed regular. What the fuck was this? A seizure of some kind? If so, maybe it was a good thing. I hadn't gone in. I hadn't gone in. and charged him right in the middle of it. Maybe it was best to let it run its course, play out, whatever. Big Liam would know better than me, EMT, after all. Mandy, he said. Hard as it was, I stood back from little Liam, let Big Liam take a knee and take over. My eyes went to the desk.

Liam's sucker was still there, or most of it. But it was broken. down the middle, cracked as though it had been struck with the blunt end of a screwdriver or something. And the tarantula that had been inside of it was gone. All of that was hours ago. Little Liam was again fully awake by the time we were halfway to the emergency room at Centera Hospital. His dad drove while I tried to talk to him. Sweetheart, how do you feel? He only shook his head, arms crossed over his stomach.

Liam, speak to me, okay? He looked up at me, tears streaming. Where are we going? Hospital, hon. Just to get you checked out. Why? He sounded honestly confused. You don't remember?

Again, he shook his head. Am I sick? I don't feel sick? His voice was desperate. I could hear his very soul quail in the words. What's wrong with me? Nothing, Big Liam said with feeling, locking eyes with him through the rearview, turning onto the main drive to the emergency entrance. You had a fit of some kind, big fella. Happens with kids your age sometimes. So we're just going to see if the docks can

pin down what caused it. That's all. Going to be a boring day for you, partner, worse than school. but you'll be fine. You are fine. He offered his most reassuring wink. Little Liam took in a breath, calming himself. When will you come pick me up? It was like a sword through my heart. Jesus, I said, unable to stop myself, hardly able to keep myself from picking up where he left off with the crying. He thought we were going to just leave him there? Liam, I'm not going anywhere. Already got off work. And this is where I work, buddy, Big Liam added, parking the car. At least one of us will be with you the whole time. That was 5.30 in the morning. It's 9 o'clock now, and I'm still here.

They admitted him, had him in a gown for a complete checkup, blood drying, and a cat scan within the hour. Then there was the EEG. If all of that comes back normal, we can leave and pray this was an isolated incident. Random and inexplicable, but not unprecedented. Weird shit happens with kids sometimes. There'll be a follow-up with Dr. Tucker, too, who I talk to over the phone but haven't seen yet. He's the best general practice pediatrician Big Liam knows in the area, and Little Liam thinks of him more or less of a...

Wise old uncle. But I've got the feeling that if there's anything to this, we're going to need a freaking neurologist on standby. They haven't ruled it out. If there's another episode after this one, my son may need to come in for a continuing EEG, which would keep him in the hospital for days. It's a parental nightmare,

even though I know that millions of parents go through this kind of thing every day. and little Liam's just been so good about everything, not complaining at all. But he's scared, mostly because he remembers none of it. Big Liam and I trade off at 11 in the morning, but it wasn't so I could go in for half a day of work or anything stupid like that. What I could do, since my son wasn't under any dietary restrictions, at least not yet, was make a run to the drive-thru and bring him back a happy meal. First, I had another errand to run.

I've called the Draper's, the Torkinsons, all of the parents whose kids visited the Farnsworth House last night. Crazy, I know. None of them experienced any similar episodes with their children, and Nate Richards, at least, finished off his sucker, Millipede and all, right after coming home with his older brothers standing his witness. There weren't any cars in the driveway of the Farnsworth House, not that there'd been any last night either.

No one answered the door, though I knocked on it repeatedly for the better part of 30 minutes. I got the number for the realtors right off the for-sale sign, though. You don't understand, I told one Marjorie Black of Gateway Real Estate. Someone was in that house last night. Whoever it was put out a bull-and-lawful. of candy and everything. They turned on the damn porch light. The voice on the other end was long suffering, her patience clearly strained. Whoever it was, Mrs. Fenwick, it wasn't Mrs. Farnsworth.

She's living in New England with her oldest daughter, until we have a sale on the house, and that's a lot more than I should be telling you already. Now listen, sounds to me like, What about Mr. Farnsworth then? Long silence. Then. You must be kidding me. Look, Mrs. Fenwick, are you sure somebody was actually inside the house? Because if that's true, I really should be calling the police instead of...

It was at that moment, I realized. My patience was strained as well. What about Mr. Farnsworth? I screamed into... my phone. Ms. Black, please, it's my son. He's a sigh on the other end. God, she really wasn't kidding. Mrs. Farnsworth, I mean. She told me the first time I talked to her, no one in your whole neighborhood gave two shits about them. We might as well have not existed, she said. I held my forehead and my hand, fishing for the best way to frame an apology.

Smooth move, Mandy. Wait, what? Mr. Farnsworth is dead, Mrs. Fenwick, she said with finality. He's been gone for two months, and one of your neighbors has a very sick sense of humor. Ms. Black, I'm sorry. What are you talking about? Goodbye, Mrs. Fenwick. And the connection went dead.

They used an X-ray to look at his upper GI, then some direct abdominal imaging via an MRI. Big Liam told me before I went back into the room to deliver the boy his happy meal. No, don't freak out. I asked for it, Mandy, just to rule it out. I waited for it, blinking. I could see where this was going. How big did you say that thing was? He asked one eyebrow arched. "'inch and a half, for sure,' I said. "'Maybe two inches. "'It was a tarantula, Liam, not a 1950s horror movie prop.'

"'Right,' he agreed, nodding. "'Yes, I remember, just making sure we saw it the same way. "'And here's the thing. "'That's still big enough that there should have been something in there, Mandy. "'There wasn't, not a trace, not a hair.' "'I held up my hand. That was enough. I had spent too much time already today, Googling tarantulas. Still, it was a relief, although I did not much relish the prospect of finding the dead thing somewhere in my son's room,

probably still with jagged little shards of hard blue candies sticking out of it. As for the business with the Farnsworth couple, that conversation could wait. Boys, cheeseburger, and fries were getting cold. I didn't eat it, Mom. He had told me, long before we had gotten home at 7 o'clock. I mean, I don't think I did. Not on purpose. That's what he said, as God is my witness, not on purpose.

And even though he'd spent most of the day lying in a hospital, I still had him in his own bed by 7.30. What do you mean, not on purpose? I asked him, smiling. You think you might have sucked that hospital? whole thing out of the lollipop by accident? Sheesh! He curled himself in the covers, just like his dad does, looking up at me over his shoulder. Nate says spiders crawl in people's mouths when they sleep. Nate and I are going to have words, I promised him, eliciting the tired smile I was looking for. I'm fine, and his fresh smile faded. You're fine. I'm fine. I

promised him. Again, the blade in my heart, but I didn't let it show. I ran a hand through his hair, I said, sleep can be a rough ride, kiddo, both for you and for me. Been dealing with it all my life. You have any trouble tonight, you come knocking. We'll get through it together. Dad won't mind. It brought the smile back. You have any trouble, you come knocking, he said. That's my tough guy. I kissed him, and I left him there. Not on purpose, he had said, and the doctors didn't seem to think he had eaten anything at all. I'd torn through Little Liam's room, top to bottom, before ever letting him come up here. There was no tarantula anymore. I had no idea why. I suppose I'll never learn the whole truth of it. Dream Diary. I was a little bit. I was a little bit of a little bit. I was

wrong. I did find the spider. Two hours later. It came to me as I slept. It should be no surprise, I guess, that I had another bout of sleep paralysis that night. I should have seen it coming. I'd suggest it as much to my son. And the power of suggestion over the human mind is no fucking joke. But I didn't expect it. We didn't deserve it. I felt like little Liam and I were both entitled to a night's reprieve, a little heavenly mercy shone down on a weary mother and son. We didn't get it. That night, God wasn't merciful at all. Some time has passed since then. there's no way I could have sat down and calmly recorded it right after it happened, not with all the crying and the shouting and the sirens,

even if I'd been mentally and emotionally up to the task, there wouldn't have been any actual opportunity, not for a long time, not until now. I'm still in no rush. I'll remember the dream and all they'll, it came after, for as long as I live, however long that may be. My eyes and the bedroom door opened as one. My head turned on a slow, agonizing swivel to find Big Liam was gone, though the imprint of his body remained on the bed sheets. Back up, I forced my gaze,

needing to cry out, unable to make a voice, gazing first at the ceiling, then directing my eyes to the doorway. It was empty, but I heard the thing that had already come through it. It scuttled on all fours, unseen to the foot of the bed. Mandy, no! My heart and my brain wailed. My unborn scream echoing only off of the walls of my soul, never reaching the world. Do not do this today. You can't afford to. This is a a dream. Wake up. It's only a dream. But little Liam might really be there. He might need you. You can't do this. Wake up. Please. Wake up. The first I saw of him was his right hand, reaching up and grabbing the bed frame near the post. His thin and claw-like fingers scrabbling over wood,

followed by his foot. He wasn't. crawling up here like a human boy. He was climbing up like a spider. Liam, I called out to him, drawing as deep from within as I could, fueled by a mother's terror. Liam, no. He came on, scuttling now on all fours onto the bed, tippy toe and finger crawling, somehow keeping his balance. His eyes a solid, unbroken black. He was soaring. He was soaring. still in his tea and sweats, but the shirt was ripped clean down the middle, and from his belly there dangled a long, swinging lock of gossamer thin, silken white strands that didn't quite reach the bed. He looked at me, tilting his head left, thin right, sizing me up. My lips moved,

my panicked, labored breathing filled all my world. I tried. I really did. I heard the words as they left the command center of my mind, only to suffocate and die in my throat. Liam, stop! Liam! This is your mother, speaking to you. Liam! He came to me, crawling on arms and legs that were spread wide, his fingers and toes never touching me. Even after he was on top of me, looking down on me with his dead, plastic tarantula black eyes, They vibrated loosely in his sockets before he began his dance.

Rotating half a body left, chittering, his belly spilling webbing onto the bed, onto me, fixing me there. Rotating half a body right, the webbing spreading over my chest and belly and legs, leaving my arms for the moment free. For all the good it did. Liam, I thought, forcing myself to stare into those blankings. blank black slates of pure nothingness. Liam! He stopped turning, his eyes blinked, focused, for a moment went normal. There they were, the beautiful blue eyes of my son.

You didn't eat it, Liam, I thought to him. You promised me, and I believe you. Liam doesn't lie to his mama, and felt just the slightest twinge of feeling. Returned in my arms, my hands. My fingers wiggled and scrunched over bed sheets, testing themselves. From his mind to mine, I heard him answer me, the living terror and unshed tears in his voice.

I was supposed to, Mama. I was supposed to eat the whole thing. All I had to do was listen. His eyes went black again. He resumed the tarantula dance. Where in all of this nightmare had Big Liam gone? Where was my fucking husband? Where was the spider?

The real one? My son had had an x-ray, an MRI, every goddamn test that any doctor could have ever dreamed of giving him, while trying to pin down that little bastard. I'd searched Liam's room like a prison guard doing a cell shakedown. Nothing. Only, Liam stopped, straddling me. His eyes now staring straight ahead.

His cheeks puffing, lips drooling gray spittle onto my face. His breathing deepened, drawing air to the bottom of his core. His stomach swelled, and the flesh of his neck rippled like running water. Then, in four places, two at either side. split and gave birth.

From each of the four bloodless gashes in his skin, as though extending out from his upper vertebra, there emerged a long, black, bristling, spider leg. They stretched out and then contracted, drawing in and out, testing themselves. Feeling the air, all the while just above my face, Liam hissed and drooled and blinked. His eyes alternating black and blue with each shuddering of his eyelids. The spider had not crawled down his throat to his stomach. It had crawled into his throat and stayed there or moved somehow to the back of his neck, coming to nest on his spine.

My son had remained unaware the whole time. He was fighting it now, his human arms and legs rigid, not moving, even as the horrible webbing from his belly button continued to spill out all over the bed, becoming one with the sheets. When inevitably the pinchers of his four spider legs plunged down to take up the thread, they would begin to spin me, to cocoon me, but Liam's paralyzed arms struggled in the effort to move. He wanted to reach up to his neck. I could tell. I could see it in his eyes when they were blue.

He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough. But when his cheeks started to ripple, threatening to blossom into fresh pettipops or colicera, I found that I had the strength. First to scream and then to reach out to my son with my hands, which yet remained unbound. The sleep paralysis,

had lasted longer than usual. It wasn't like it could hold me forever. I took two of those legs, one in each hand. I gathered breath, whispered to my son, I love you. And I yanked those fuckers out by the roots. I screamed again, and Liam screamed with me when the blood splashed my face, coating it completely in twin sprays of gore. It was in my eyes I could hardly see. I could not stop screaming. And he yanked out the other two fuckers with even greater force. I heard the tissue tear, and they came free, still bending and twitching in my hands, spider legs that thought they were still alive and acted like it. Liam heaved. and heaved, and with a mighty lurch, he leaned forward and vomited over my head onto the headboard,

expelling everything, the contents of his stomach and his throat, happy meal and fries and black chunks of overgrown tarantula all over the place. I cleared my eyes, helping him roll over, trying to roll myself and finding I was still pinned down by the webbing. and there was my son only my son bleeding steadily from either side of his neck his eyes wide but somehow calm peaceful i had a bad dream he said i wanted to sleep with you tonight then from the real world my husband shook me awake the first thing i remember coming to was that little leum was hugging me crying into crying into to me, and his neck was bleeding. It was bad at first. I can only imagine it from Big Liam's point of view. Coming out of sleep to find me clawing at our son's neck,

it must have looked like I wanted to kill him. And there remained no evidence of the horrible confrontation, real though it had been. I will take that with me to my dying day. My son and I fought off a monster, exercised it from his body and spirit, leaving nothing for Big Liam to find. Nothing to cling to, but our word. Little Liam, who never lied to his mama, had come from the same place I had been. He remembered every second of it.

He knew that I had saved him, that we had saved each other. He needed an ambulance. In spite of all of his father's efforts there in the bedroom, he needed to go back to the hospital. And when the ambulance arrived, they soon called for the police. They took me in, of course. Among the relatively few things, the cops seized on for the purposes of their investigation, they naturally took my journal. They've been bugging me for more than a week to finish it. And naturally, I've been kept in this cage the whole time, awaiting the judgment of people who know nothing. But here it is, you sons of bitches. The truth, as God is my witness. Thank God little Liam believes me. And thank God, big Liam believes me too. I don't need any of you,

no matter what you have in your power to do to me. Now that you've heard from me, might I I suggest a call to the realtor, Ms. Black. I believe she could put you in contact with the cellar of that house, the wife and likely partner of the ghost that put out those monsters in hard candy, the fiend that nearly murdered my innocent son. Talk to that, undead son of a bitch if you can. Talk to the other parents. They were there. They saw the light come on. They know someone was in there. Most of all, whatever else you do or don't do, talk to their children. There were 11 others. Ask them. Ask them, did you eat it, honey, the whole thing before midnight? Because if they didn't, this might not be over. You might have to deal with another incident

sometime down the line. Who knows how long these things might choose to hibernate? before coming out. I don't pretend to have any idea. Do you? The night isn't truly over until you know for sure. Happy Halloween. For your bonus episode,

creepy presents, it wasn't my skeleton written by some guy. I'm a pretty active guy. High school sports and college clubs led into my taking up jogging for health and weight management. Not a long distance run or anything.

I mostly just do 10K or so, unless it's been a really bad day at work, then I might run a little longer. Just put on my music and start to run until my muscles start that rolling burn and my breathing gets a little more difficult. Find that sweet spot of exhaustion where the endorphins kick in

and I get that runner's high. I heard somewhere once at a runner's high as an evolutionary holdover from when we were hunter-gatherers out in the middle of nowhere trying to find food. back in a time when, if we were running long enough, it was because we're being chased. When the O2 level gets a certain level in our brain,

the assumption is that we're about to die. So our brain tries to ease a transition and releases all kinds of neurochemicals to make us feel better about what's about to happen. Messed up, huh? That high runners literally chase is our body thinking we're about to die. Well, some of us are closer than others.

I used to listen to my body. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I needed at any given time. Now I have to wonder what exactly was I was listening to. It's there with little twinges here and there. My hip, my IT band, the side of my knee. I'd rest, stretch, clean up my diet, laugh drinking for a couple weeks, get a new pair of shoes, and the problem would seem to go away.

I'm 40, so I realize it's to be expected that aches and pains are going to come with starting to get older. especially with my staying active. Except, I started to wonder about the pain. Because that's the weird thing about it, right? No one really knows what their level of pain tolerance is, at least not compared to anyone else. Like comparing a woman giving birth to a man getting kicked in the balls. It's apples and oranges, and really just a stupid question.

A seven on the pain scale for one person is a three for another and a ten for another. We just don't know what's supposed to. to feel quote-unquote right. I started to get shin splints more often. Then foot pain, probably planar fasciitis. When new shoes and new insoles didn't do anything to help, I finally went to an orthopedist who specialized in sports medicine. I sat down, walked through my routine, told him about my pain.

He laid me down on the exam table and checked my leg range of motion. As he was flexing and extending my left knee, he felt a strange sort of grinding pop. I mean, I felt it too, but it was like the exam. The pain just appeared. For a second, I thought he'd accidentally tweaked something on my knee himself. But he looked at me and asked, How long has your knee been doing that?

I looked him dead in the eyes and told him it was the first time. He sort of squinted at me and twisted up his face before asking me. A little too casually, may I add, if I had good insurance. I felt all kinds of puckering in my body. I can't imagine those words are ever good to hear out of a doctor in the American health care system. He suggested that I get an MRI saying that he thought the card ledge was rubbing against my kneecap.

None of those were words I wanted to hear, but I scheduled the appointment. I know a lot of guys out there don't like going to the doctor because they're afraid of getting bad news, which seems dumb to me since that's pretty much what they're there to find out. I do my yearly physicals, get my cholesterol check, the usual, nothing above and beyond, but I figure if something's wrong, I want to know what it is so I can work to fix it.

Some things can't be fixed, though. When I limped in for the MRI, my leg having gotten worse in the day since my check-up with the orthopedist, I wasn't feeling great. My other knee was starting to hurt from favoring it and taking the pressure off my left leg. My neck was sore from sleeping in an awkward position that made my leg feel better. Kind of a perfect shit storm at discomfort. I just wanted to get the scan so they could tell me what I could do. I filled out all the waivers, telling them I'm not claustrophobic, telling them I have no metal implants or previous surgery, all the usual stuff.

When they finally slipped me into the MRI, all the way up to my chest, which I wasn't expecting, and put headphones on me because of the machine noise. I felt a weird sense of relief. Yeah, it was probably going to cost a good chunk of money, but there's some kind of comfort in that too, like it automatically meant I get answers. After just a couple minutes into the scan, a text voice came over the headphones. You don't have any implants in your legs or anything, right? I told him no, and there was a pause. No surgery or anything? I told him no again and asked what was wrong.

He sort of brushed it off, but not well, and kept doing the scans. They told me to take about 20 minutes, but 40 minutes later the machine was still clanging away. I couldn't imagine having my head in the machine that loud. Not even being claustrophobic, I think I'd have trouble with it. When it's finally over, the tech came into the room and helped me off the table. He had a weird look on his face. I asked him if everything was okay. He looked me in the eyes and mumbled that he'd send the scans over to my doctor for review

and they'd call about a follow-up. Add that to the list of things you never want to hear. My follow-up was a couple days later, and as much as I was hoping to feel better, I felt like shit. Not sick. I didn't have a fever or anything, but my body just ached. My knee was even worse, so I barely moved it anymore. I did the rice thing and all that with no effect.

By the time I hobbled in and up to the exam table, all I wanted to do is lay down and not move. I caught the doctor by surprise when you entered the room. I'm guessing most people don't get up on the table before the doctor asked him to. The guy carried all the joy of an undertaker. Mr. Um, Jeffreys, I have the results of your scan and... He just sort of stopped talking.

Like he didn't have any words left in his brain. What's wrong? Fuck, is it cancer? Just tell me if it's cancer, okay? He shook his head. It's not cancer. I don't think. It's just...

He walked over the table and showed me to scans on his tablet. I'm no doctor, but I knew that what I was looking at didn't make sense. It was the imaging of my knee, but there are all kinds of bright spots on the scan. What are those? I asked. They appear to be surgical screws from a knee surgery. I told him I've never had knee surgery, and he told me he knew that. He pulled up my x-rays from earlier in the week, and there was nothing on them.

Before I could tell him, it was clearly a mistake with the MRI scan. He cut me off and told me that he'd check with the clinic three times to verify the scans. He even talked with the tech who did them who confirmed what they saw. They also saw massive wear to the point that there was no cartilage in the knee itself, and signs of osteoporosis. he compared it to being a can to what you'd expect to see in the knees of an 80-year-old. The doctor started to talk. It's almost as if, but refused to finish his thought.

So I filled in the blanks. It's almost as if the bones in my legs either aged rapidly or been outright replaced with someone else's. He scheduled an emergency MRI to double-check the scan. This time a full body scan. By the time the scan was done, I needed help out of the machine. My back was on fire and I could barely turn my neck. The scan revealed that whatever's happened in my legs also present, my back and neck and even arms.

There were signs of extensive wear and even degeneration of muscle tissue. Externally, there were no scars or other markings that would have suggested anything wrong. but inside my body something was changing parts of me are being replaced one at a time with someone broken down someone old the doctors don't have the slightest idea what to do

or even what to say all they're currently doing is keeping me for observation as my insides change they call it that rapid aging disease but how does that explain the knee replaced and the screws inside my leg.

I know deep down that my skeleton is being replaced with someone else's as insane as that sounds. And I can't help but wonder if I'm getting someone else's skeleton, who's getting mine? For even more from creepy,

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