Creepy - Day 27 - A Plastic, Halloween Skeleton & Knuckle Bones

Episode Date: October 27, 2024

A Plastic, Halloween Skeleton***Written by: MakRalston***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/A_PlasticHalloweenSkeleton***Content is available under CC BY-SA***Knuckle Bones***Written by: Kolpik and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Knuckle_Bones***Content is available under CC BY-SA***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 27 of the 31 days of horror. Time of cool winds, pumpkins, falling leaves, bubbling caldrons filled with... Filled with... You can't bring yourself to look, can you? Not because of... of what you think is in there, but because of what you're afraid could be in there. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep.

I hope by now that people have taken the time to put up all their decorations. After all, there aren't many days left in October. Maybe you're like me, and those decorations stay up a bit longer anyway. Or maybe you aren't a fan of putting up decorations at all. No problem. I don't blame you. Some people have particular aversions to such things. Too many hard memories.

Like the letter from this listener who wants to tell us about a plastic Halloween skeleton. It was just a plastic Halloween skeleton dangling from our large oak tree in the front yard. We put it there in the middle of September, despite our neighbor's wishes. They didn't quite understand. and our enthusiasm for the holiday.

And those same hypocritical folk were putting plastic Santas on their lawn come November 1st, and back to the skeleton. It was a cheap-o, run-of-the-mill Halloween decoration. You've probably seen your fair share at dollar stores, Halloween pop-ups, and big box retailers. Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm pretty sure it even glowed in the dark, which meant it just barely glowed at all. As a kid, however, it was always the coolest thing to me. It's truly amazing how the mundane bewilders children.

One of the reasons I cherish the skeleton so much was because all the memories I had of the thing. Every Halloween mom and dad would take me around the block as they ushered me to the front door as a complete strangers. Now people I know by name as I pleaded for a Reese's or Kit Kat. Halloween is such a strange time a year. But I remember those chilly autumn nights almost more than Christmas morning. As we'd walk home from the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, Dad would tease me about the spooky skeleton swaying in the breeze down the road. Mom would turn off her flashlight, and ever so faintly I could make out the glow of the swaying ghoul.

I would always scream, and my parents would laugh. Dad would bend down and pick me up by the sides of my dinosaur costume and point me down the road at the cheap prop. It's okay to be afraid, son, but never let it rule your life. I would confidently nod and my dad would hug me and set me down. I'd rush off towards a house and sit beneath the wind-dancing skeleton in the grassy yard, sorting through all the good candy for me and the rest for Dad. He never minded.

as he especially loved the coconut chocolates, the stuff I always loathed as a child. I'd get bitten up by aunts after a few minutes, but I suppose the excitement of eating candy kept me planted on the lawn. Dad didn't mind, but Mom did. That is, if I ate too much candy before bedtime. Before I drifted off in a dreamland, Dad would always promise a scary story before he tucked me in.

Usually it was one of his own. typically something about his time in the war, maybe emphasized by ghosts or zombies. But one Halloween, the most memorable of all, he read me a passage from the Bible. It was a Bible he had tucked away inside my dresser drawer, an heirloom from my great-grandfather when he too was in the service.

The passage he read was from Ezekiel, the story of the valley of dry bones, and how God would breathe into them and raise the corpses from the dead. As he said this, my dad would raise the pitch of his voice and point forebodingly to the skeleton hanging from the tree. You know, he would say, growing more serious in his tone. One day I'm not going to be here for you, bud. One day you're going to have to face your fears on your own.

But don't worry, I'll always be here with you. See you in the morning. I would smile and nod. I didn't entirely understand the concept of death. I thought skeletons were nothing more than spooky Halloween-themed monsters. The truth of the matter was that skeletons, as Halloween as they were, were hiding inside all of us, just waiting for death to set them free. Eventually, I'd learn.

Dad was called back on tour. And, after only a few months of being away, Mom got the call. It was difficult for her, I'm sure, not only on her behalf, but on mine, trying to explain to a seven-year-old that dad wasn't coming back. Ever, that must have been rough on Mom. Maybe for Christmas? I said, hopefully. So we can see Santa together?

My mom would shake her head with a tear in her eye. No baby, she's sniffled. Not ever. It's just you and me now, okay? Okay, mommy. I realize now that my childlike optimism was painful for my mother to bear. Every few days, I'd ask if dad was coming home. I didn't entirely grasp the concept of death when they had the funeral service for dad.

They chose to have a closed casket, and his mom and Nana didn't want me to see Dad. Not like that. Will he come out of there? I'd say, pointing to the casket. No, sweetie, Nana said. Your daddy's got a rest, okay? I'd nod, still without a clue.

I suppose ignorance is bliss. Children always have it easy, even when they don't. Halloween would come and go. It was never the same without dad in his stories. Mom would take me around the block and hang the decorations. The same now-fated skeleton jangling from the oak tree. It wasn't scary anymore.

And as the years went by, it reminded me more and more a dad. Eventually, I'd lost interest in trick-or-treating, opting to stay inside and watch scary movies, which, for a 10-year-old, was about as intense as Casper. I wouldn't even bother going outside for candy, as my mom would buy a baggie from the grocery store and fill a small pail on the front porch. And every now and again I'd sneak a treat for myself.

Before going into a candy-induced coma, I managed to make my way to my bedroom, hobbling over to my window to close the blinds. I noticed something hanging from the oak tree, silhouetted by an orange hue from the neighbor's life. It was the skeleton, but it had grown longer, taller, and was now a far darker color. I tiptoed down the hallway past my sleeping mother's room and flipped down the front patio light. And that's when I saw it.

The skeleton was wrapped in muscle, tissue and tendons surrounding the plastic bones. And for a brief moment, I could see skin. slowly sliding up the corpse. I hid behind the front door for a moment, catching my breath, and on the verge of waking my sleeping mother with a shriek. I peered around the wooden facade and saw the skeleton, now anything but plastic,

hop up and down from the rope that was bound by. The corpse, now nearly a full-sized person, yanked one of the sheikovs from the tree, tying the white fabric across its naked, body. I flicked the light off, tucking down while still watching the figure in my front yard. It must have noticed because it turned its head to face me. And that's when I saw it. It was dad. He smiled at me through the glass and waved. I stood up, pressing my face to the cold glass. As I did, something flashed behind my dad's body at the end of the

street, causing him to turn and look toward it. It was a bright, glowing light, brighter than anything I've ever seen. He turned back to me and smiled, mouthing something as he did. He turned, facing the light, and gradually made his way toward it, eventually being engulfed in the shining radiance. After he met with the light, it disappeared, just as quickly as it had appeared, I felt A warm tear rolled on my cheek, now pulled away from the icy window as if finally I had realized that while my dad was gone, I'd somehow see him again. Only ascertained by the words I now believe were what my dad mouted to me. See you in the morning. Halloween is and always will be my favorite holiday.

It reminds me that, after each all-hollows Eve, there's a bright morning. And now a word from our sponsors. Welcome back. I just want to take a moment to... We're waiting here for you. We have so much waiting for you. Best not to ask what that's about. I would just ruin your night. And we're so close to celebrating the best day of the year.

Let's take a call Caller you're on with the creep Bababooie Okay, I think that's... No, no, no, wait, wait, wait, please don't hang up. I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. I've never called into a radio show before. You realize

almost no one is going to get that reference anymore, right? The right people will. So be a... What do you have to tell us about caller? It's about knuckle bones. Jack didn't bother to brush the dirt off his rotten suit. Some say cleanliness is next to godliness,

but he figured the big man upstairs or even the head honcho of hell didn't factor into his current situation. There was a spent bullet rattling around in his empty skull after all, and he couldn't recall ever seeing anything resembling a tunnel of light or even a sucking pit blacker than night.

Besides that, digging from the wrong end of a grave was tiring work, and he still had more to do that night. With empty eye sockets, he spotted the handle of a shovel partially hidden under dead and decaying leaves. He assumed whoever buried him there had accidentally left it behind, thus marking the spot where his remains had been hidden.

Not bothering to consider the irony of it all, he let out a breathless sigh of relief, simply glad he didn't have to dig anymore with his hands. The how and why of his resurrection, was a mystery to him, but somehow he knew what had to be done and where he had to go. He only hoped he could hold together long enough to complete his task. With limbs lacking connective tissue or ligaments to hold them together, he leaned down and picked up the rusty tool.

Despite the absence of muscle tissue, he gripped its handle tightly and rested its long wooden shaft upon his bony shoulder. Defying more than a few natural laws, he did all these things and then turned away, shambling through the woods toward his final destination. He had a long road to travel and another grave to dig that night. He clumsily shuffled his way through the overgrown thicket on the edge of the woods, past a dead end sign, and headed directly up the center of May Street. Children, dressed in all manner of colorful costumes, walked along the sidewalks.

Plenty of them gawked at the animated corpse of Jack Marlin, but no one saw his appearance as the coming of the zombie apocalypse. In fact, he fit in quite well with all the other ghoulish creatures roaming the streets that night. There really was no better night for his return topside. After all, pretty much anything goes on the 31st of October. One kid made up to look like a hamburger yelled out to him, super scary costume, Mr. Bickle. You've really outdone yourself this year. Jack didn't know who Mr. Bickle was,

but he took the misplaced compliment as a sign he'd see little resistance on his trek through town. If it weren't for his jawbone lying somewhere back in the thicket, he might have responded with a, right back at you, kid. Instead, he ignored the boy

and continued his slow, arduous walk down the street. He figured it was probably for the middle, best he didn't try to speak. None of the trick-or-treaters seemed daunted by the thing held together with nothing more than filthy rotten clothes and a will stronger than death itself. But even a single guttural grunt or growl might have inspired unwanted scrutiny. The last thing he needed was an angry mob intent on doing some zombie bashing. By the time he reached the opposite end of May Street, the sidewalks were vacant, and most doors were illuminated only by moonlight. Turning left, he took to the sidewalk to avoid attracting too much attention.

The next few hours crawled by at a pace matching his own sluggish stride. Other than a few blaring car horns and one inaudible slur, he walked along unnoticed and undeterred. Crossing the street toward the end of his journey, he tripped on the curb and did a faceplant on the sidewalk. As he rose to his feet, something the size of a fist slipped out of his ragged clothing and burst open on the cement.

Thinking another part of him had fallen off, he looked down to see if it could be salvaged. Lying there on the sidewalk was a rotten piece of cloth surrounded by charred bits of bone. He only had to compare them to his own hands to confirm they were broken finger bones. The knuckles, being the only bits not touched by fire, made him think of popcorn for some strange reason. A phantom pain where his stomach used to be stopped him short of reminiscences. missing about his past life. With a swing of his shovel, he scattered the bones. Not giving one second to consider the bones significance, he moved on toward his destination.

A shaggy dog with dirty, matted fur came upon him about a block from his destination. It followed along behind him, probably hoping there was still some marrow left in his bones. He shoot it away with the business end of his shovel when it got too close for his comfort. "'If anyone's burying anything tonight, Fido, it sure as hell ain't going to be you.' The thought made him chuckle inwardly as he came upon a railroad crossing. Walking over the tracks brought up memories of his wife. She always crossed her fingers when passing over train tracks. She insisted he'd do it too, but he never played along.

In fact, he always chided her for being so superstitious. Suddenly overwhelmed with regret. He did it for her then and lost a finger for his efforts. Not bothering to pick it up, he continued on. For the second time that night, he felt a strange tingling in his bones. Shrugging off the doubt welling up inside, he quickened his pace, certain that whatever was holding him together had an expiration date. He stopped for a moment when he came to the edge of the cemetery

and gazed out over the landscape. He wasn't present when he was interred there, well, only in the way that counts, but somehow he knew on the other side of the property was an empty coffin and a headstone with his name on it, and right beside it was where his wife rested. She was alive the last time he saw her, but in the same mysterious way he knew where his grave was,

he also knew she was dead as well. Walking amongst the grave markers and headstones gave him a little taste of the tranquility no unmarked grave could ever give him. To finally be at rest beside the woman he loved was all he wanted. He didn't know who had dug him up and buried him in the woods at the end of May Street, nor did he understand why anyone would do such a thing. He decided it didn't matter because he'd taken matters into his own hands

and would finally be at peace very soon. With the shovel gripped tightly in his dead, cold hands, he stepped up to his headstone. Etched into the stone was his name, the timeline of his life, and a simple message. Beloved son, father, and husband. Beside that was his wife's stone. He brushed a red and the leaf off the top of it and turned back to his plot. Time to get back to being dead and buried, he thought, as he sunk the head of the shovel into the ground. He pressed it deeper with his foot and heaved out the first shovel full of dirt.

As he tossed it to the side, a voice broke the silence surrounding the graveyard. How exactly do you intend to put all that dirt back when you're done? Jack spun around to discover a tall man in a plain black t-shirt and blue jeans. Not seeming the least bit shocked by the animated corpse of Jack Marlin standing before him, he exclaimed, Ah, there's my shovel, before snatching it from Jack's hands. Without a second of hesitation, he swung the shovel around and slammed Jack in the side of the head. The dead man bellowed inhumanly as he stumbled to the side.

Just as he regained his footing, the stranger swung the shovel upward, catching him square on the chin and dropping him hard onto his back. Seconds later, a boot pressed heavily on his chest. He could hear his ribs cracking as he desperately clawed at the man's leg. The stranger stabbed a shovel into the ground beside the dead man's head and grabbed him by the arms. With the great heave, he tore them out of their sockets and tossed them aside. The writhing corpse of Jack Marlin led out a ghastly screech that echoed through the cemetery. The stranger grabbed the shovel and, without a second thought, drove it straight through the dead man's neck.

Jack's head rolled free and settled into the divot he dug just moments before. Crouching down, the man picked up the severed head and spat in its eye socket. You don't remember me, but I wish you did. The next time you see me, it'll be like we've never met before. Sadly, hexas can only do so much. You're probably wondering who I am, but my name's not important. Just know I'm the great-grandson of Hilda Swanson. You at least remember her, right?

She's one of the many people you swindled. Yeah, well, she has a message for you. With all that said, he set Jack's skull on the grass and pulled a little pouch and a pack of matches from his pocket. Within the pouch was a fine red powder he poured in a circle around the skull. Jack, being the unwilling witness he was, could do nothing but watch as the man took a little sack from another pocket. He guessed what it contained, seconds before the man opened it, and dumped its contents onto the grass.

Lying there before him were bits of yellowed finger bones. The man placed the bones around the skull, with the knuckle end of each sticking outside of the red circle. Mumbling a few inaudible words, he struck a match across the top of Jack's head and dropped it onto the circle. A green flame burst to life and quickly encircled the circle. skull of Jack Marlin. The flames rose up around him and flickered threateningly. Jack awoke as if from a dream. He was sitting at the desk in his office with a loaded revolver gripped tightly in his hand. A loud voice came from the other side of his office door. I repeat, this is the police. We have a warrant for your... The voice cut out just as an elderly

woman in a long yellow dress appeared before him. Her dress flowed around her as if she were underwater, but her graying black hair didn't move an inch as she strode up to his desk. Don't worry about them, sugar. They ain't coming in unless you give them the go-ahead. Jack blurted out. Who are you? What's going on?

She leaned over the desk and looked him right in the eyes. The name's Hilda Swanson. You and me need to talk. In a flash, everything came back to him. He was reliving the last moments of his life. The woman was new, but everything else was just as it had happened before. He'd just gotten off the phone with the head of security who called to tell him the police were heading up in the elevator

to deliver a warrant for his arrest. The realization was almost too much for Jack to take in, but he eventually came to his senses. I shot myself. That's right, Sugar, but don't you've read over that just yet. Ain't nothing carved in stone that can't be undone with the right ritual. But how? This can't be real.

I mean, sure, sugar, it's simpler than baking a pie. You just got to stand up and open that door. Jack sat there, staring at the ethereal figure standing before him. But what would that do? Hilda shook her head in frustration. Seems I gotta spell it out for you. You go ahead and let that man in here so things can move along as they should are in the first place.

Things should sort themselves out from there. But I don't want to go to jail. Hilda slammed her hands down on the expensive mahogany desk. Oh, you damn coward! You'd rather leave this mess for your family to clean up? Yep, I guess you would. It's what you'd done before. So what you're waiting for?

Go ahead. Put that gun in your mouth. Pull that trigger. Jack looked at the revolver in his hand. He wondered how things had gone so wrong. Convinced he'd never get caught, he dug himself deeper and deeper until he inevitably ended up where he was,

deciding between whether to eat a bullet or faced the shame and humiliation awaiting him on the other side of that door. Discovering a courage he didn't know he had in himself. He stood up and walked around his desk. He dropped the revolver at his feet and stepped up to the door. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the doorknob. Hilda began to cackle wildly as he swung the door open. There were no police standing there,

or even his secretary typing away at her desk. Instead, all he saw was the graveyard he'd walked all night to reach. You damn fool? Ain't nothing. Ain't nothing going to do what you done? Hilda exclaimed between bouts of insane laughter. He spun around to confront her. I don't understand.

You said... The old woman's laughter died as a twisted grin replaced to the laugh lines on her face. Yeah, I said what I said, But only so I could watch you blow your brains out again This the first time you ever chose option two Took you long enough But it don't change nothing You dead

And so am I But but nothing, sugar I waiting for those in charge to figure out while you hit all your stolen gains, and so did plenty of other people you cheated. No doubt you locked it all the way in some Swiss bank ain't nobody ever going to get at. So all that leaves little old me with is the chance once a year to shit in your corn flakes, and believe you me, that's just what I aim to do for as long as I can keep pumping out babies and teaching them all about you. As long as they keep the tradition alive on Halloween,

you ain't never going to rest easy beneath that fancy headstone. Utterly dumbfounded, Jack could do nothing but sputter and gasp in shock. She said he'd never rest in peace, and he believed her. He wondered in that moment how long this whole sort of affair had been playing itself out. But he didn't bother asking. He doubted she'd tell him, and he didn't think he really wanted to know. Lost in a mire of self-pity, he failed to notice Hilda step up behind him. Rising up on the balls of her feet, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear,

All that's left is to get you back in the ground. See you next year, Jack, with his name barely out of her mouth. She leaned into him hard and shoved him through the door. About an hour later, Jack was once again, dead to the world and settled back in his unmarked grave in the woods. Hilda's great-grandson tossed a small bag bound with a leather cord onto the corpse. Its contents crackled and hummed with the promise of dark and impossible feats. He then filled the hole.

When his task was done, he laid the shovel beside the mound and covered it all with leaves and branches. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, he uttered the fire. words he ended every Halloween with. See you next. Yeah, Jack. That's our time for tonight, everyone. I wouldn't worry too much about the questions you might have going through your head right now. And if you don't have any questions, all the better for you. But if you do have a question rattling around the back of your mind,

when you can't quite put your finger on, well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. This is the creep, and you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow, and we're over. 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 creation. of Commons share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors.

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