Creepy - Day 27 - Smashing Pumpkins & My Halloween Decorations Are Growing

Episode Date: October 27, 2025

Smashing Pumpkins***Written by: Arthur Jay and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Author note: "In memory of Thomas Hinds"***My Halloween Decorations Are Growing***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.

Good morning, everyone. We have some new patients this week I'd like to introduce. If you see them wandering aimlessly down a dark, poorly lit hallway, please say hello to. Nikki Preston. Pam Williams. Kaz Fleet. Cynthia Lowe. Myron Adams.

Jacob Mastro Giacomo. Adnan Sheik. Randy Brown. Candice Julian and Kiana Peterson These patients found their way to the institute through patreon.com slash creepypod where they are eligible for some extra perks during their stay.

To find out more, please visit patreon.com slash creepypod. Creepy Presents The 31 Days of Horror Day 27 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 most simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. State 27 of this show already. I don't even know what time are I'm so tired. Good morning, everyone. I'd like to start by thanking those of you who took the time to record your dreams for me to review. I understand the restlessness.

Weeks can feel like years when the mind is under close watch. But you must remember, you are not here as prisoners. You came here seeking help for your dreams, and in doing so, have become pioneers. The boundary between dream and waking life has never been mapped so carefully before. Pioneers don't usually feel locked in, do they? It's not like the doors open from our side. Security is not confinement. It's protection.

You provide us with treasures each night. These are fragile things. They must be preserved safely without the outside world shattering them and tossing them away without recognizing their value. Then why do I wake up exhausted every morning? You said the clinic would help me sleep better. I've never felt worse. That is because you are carrying more than yourself now. The fatigue you are feeling is not illness.

It is the weight of knowledge pressing on you. We will lighten that weight in time. How many times are you going to say in time? Time is all we've lost here. No windows, no clocks. We don't even know how long we've been asleep. Windows and clocks aren't sources of truth. They are interpretations.

Would you rather count the hours or measure the depths of your own mind? Heather, you look like you have something to say. My mind doesn't even feel like mine anymore. I swear I'm starting to hear voices when I'm awake. Voices that sound like the others hear. Sometimes they finish my sentences. That's not madness.

That is resonance. A choir tuning itself. Don't be afraid of harmony. Sometimes I think I hear John's voice. Really? That's your boss, right? You all haven't said much about him. It could simply be an old memory resurfacing. I'm sure that you used to be in touch with him more frequently,

and your stay here has gone on long enough that your mind could be trying to tell you that it feels like your routine is off. That's okay. That's healing. That's awareness. You all are doing so well. So I urge you not to ignore those voices you think you hear. A single voice can be pleasant, but a chorus can be a thing of true beauty. You aren't losing yourselves. You are expanding. Expanding or dissolving. I didn't even remember my last dream until you played the recording of me telling you about it back. Well, that's why we record all our sessions.

Memory is imperfect. The record holds truth. Trust the record, instead of struggling to fill in the gaps with incomplete information. You keep saying trust, but trust is earned. Why should we continue to trust someone who won't let us leave? Won't let you leave? Who won't let you leave?

Have you asked and someone on my staff didn't allow it? Well, no, but... You all are free to leave. Locked doors aren't sealed doors. Do I want you to leave? Of course not. Because leaving now would shatter the work you've built. You've come so far that abandoning your progress now would be devastating.

It would be devastating. feel like coming out of anesthesia halfway through surgery. Painful, pointless, dangerous. Hmm. Dangerous for whom? Now, I believe it's dangerous for who? No, it isn't. To answer your question, it's dangerous for all of us. The mind opened halfway is more perilous than the mind left untouched. Then maybe we should stop opening it. I understand. Any explorer faces peril, whether it's what they are searching for or not. The unknown can be fraught with danger.

Knowledge and the pursuit of knowledge does come with its own risks, but nothing compared to a life that willfully lives in ignorance. All I wanted was to sleep without nightmares. And how it feels like the nightmares are the only place I live. Nightmares are not prisons, Nate. They are messages written in fire. You are not their victims. You are their translators.

And until the language is clear, I implore you to remain. For your sake, for all of our sakes. Great. So that means I just get to keep having dreams like the one I had last night about. Smashing Pumpkins in memory of Thomas Hines. Do you know why we carve pumpkins on Halloween and call them jackalanons? It's an old story that has changed many times, but the one thing that stays the same is Jack. See, Jack was a clever man.

Now, one of the most difficult lessons to learn in life is this. Just because a person is smart. doesn't mean they're good. God had blessed Jack with a quick mind, and he knew from a young age that it gave him an advantage over others. Jack fell into the trap of thinking that just because he was good at something,

it meant he was better than other people. That got him thinking that perhaps he deserved more than what he was owed. So instead of using his gift to help others, Jack used his gift. to take. Being able to see things that other people couldn't, Jack would often get himself in over his head by taking advantage of others. And when they realized they'd been taken advantage of, folks were none too happy. As a child, this would lead to his being excluded from games and

called names by the other kids. Children can be cruel. He told himself that it didn't matter, that these kids were below him. But no matter how he was, how much we lie to ourselves. The truth shines in the darkness. Jack grew to resent his treatment by others, which made the chip on his shoulder grow even larger. Eventually, Jack burned all the bridges where he grew up, and he had to jump a train to keep from being strung up in a tree. And on that train, Jack sealed his fate. The hobo sat in the corner of the box car. In fact, Jack didn't see him until he struck a match and lit his pipe. The scratching sound was lost in the rush of the wind

and the clickety clack of the train moving on the tracks. But the match flame danced in the hobo's hand, throwing shadows across the car, giving Jack the impression that the stranger was bigger than he actually was. Just as quick as the match burst into flame, the light was snuffed out with a snort of smoke. Jack pushed back against the wall of the car until his night vision recovered. The hobo's face shone red as the devil with the light of the tobacco ember smoldering in the bowl of the clay pipe.

With a jolt, the train started to slow and came to a stop. For a moment, Jack considered jumping from the car and making his way on foot, but then he noticed the brace on the hobo's leg. He knew he could take a lame man in a fight. and his fear ebbed away. He introduced himself to the stranger, and they got to talking. Now, what they spoke about has been lost at time, but what we do know is that Jack agreed to something that night, and in one year's time, the hobo would come to collect.

The year passed quickly for Jack. He had spent his time moving from town to town as a traveling salesman. His gift of wit served him well, as he was able to sweet talk even the most miserly curmudgeon into buying from his traveling bag or make orders from his catalog. Still, when times were hard, he didn't mind stretching the truth and selling snake oil to pay his way to the next town. On the one-year anniversary of his escape away from home, October 31st, he found himself in a bar at the edge of town.

Jack sat with his drink, scanning the room for potential marks. Alcohol has a funny way of making people do things they wouldn't normally do, and Jack loved to take advantage of its ability to numb the minds of his customers. Being careful not to drink too much, he moved from table to table, introducing himself to the men and flirting with the women. Like a shark, he swam through the school, of people looking for his next bite. Jack was about to seal a deal with an overweight man for a bottle of pills, guaranteed to have him losing weight like a rusted out gravel truck,

when the bartender started shouting at an old man making his way through the door. We don't serve bombs. Now get your dirty ass out of my bar before I call the cops. The bartender's words got the rapt attention of everyone sober enough to not be passed out on the tables, and they all turn their heads to glance at the hobo. When Jack caught sight of the man, his tongue froze in his mouth. The hobo stood in the doorframe, ignoring the jeers of the bartender, with his eyes locked directly upon Jack. He watched as the man scraped the soot from the inside of his clay pipe with a penknife

and thought back to the deal he had made sitting in the dark of that train car. The hobo said he would be back in one year to collect, but Jack figured there was no way this man would be able to keep up with him in a year's time, not with that bum leg. At first, Jack had been careful to keep his head on a swivel, looking for the hobo when he went into towns. But after two months of not seeing hide nor hair of the old man, Jack simply went about his life and had forgotten about the deal he had struck until the very moment he loved. locked eyes on the old devil. The bartender followed the old man's gaze and asked Jack if he knew the beggar. Jack nodded without thinking, and the bartender told him to get the vagabond out of the bar. Thinking fast, Jack asked him why the hobo had to leave.

The bartender scoffed and said he only served paying customers. A glint returned to Jack's eye as an idea grew in the space between his ears. I'll pay for him, Jack said, as he stood up from the big man's table. He walked over and placed a few bills on the bar. The bartender looked down at the cash and told Jack it would be a three-drink minimum. He just smiled and pulled out another wad of cash from his pocket as he waved the drifter over to the bar. Then Jack got to work. Drink after drink he talked with the hobo, using his silver tongue to cast a little bit.

his magic on the old man. He truly had the gift of gab and pressed his luck in conversation to win over his debt collector, for if any man on earth had a chance of talking the devil out of a soul, it was Jack. When the bartender gave the last call at 2 a.m., Jack and the hobo staggered out of the bar like a pair of lifelong friends. The two pranksters jaunted about town, making mischief like a couple of kids, teaping trees, soaping cars, and egging houses. Why, they even went down to the local Catholic church and drew pentagrams all over the stonework. Around the devil's hour, the pair stopped to

relieve themselves against a tree, but as the hobo finished his business, he noticed Jack standing off to the side with a flask. The old man made his way toward Jack, hoping to get a nightcap, but he froze as a searing pain raced up his leg. His foot burst into flame as it came down upon the perimeter of holy water Jack had used to encircle the tree. The demon leapt into the air and landed high up in the branches, its glamour broken by the blessed water. Jack wiped his brow and let out a sigh of relief. All night he'd been racking his brain, trying to get the upper hand on this creature. First he tried slipping a silver dollar into the demon's beer mug.

Silver was rumored to be caustic to all manner of evil creatures. But when the fiend spit the coin into its hand and gave Jack that awful look, he joked that it was the hobo's turn to buy the next round of drinks. Next, he challenged the hell spawn to a game of horseshoes, in the hope that the iron would have the same effect on it as it is said to have upon the fay. Or, failing that, he hoped to escape by beating it in a game. But not only was the hobo not affected by the iron, but Jack had to buy the bar a round of drinks after he lost.

When the incubus went to the bathroom, Jack carved a series of quick crosses into the legs and under the seat of a bar stool in hopes that it would entrap the beast, but the bartender caught Jack and threatened to beat him bloody for ruining the varnish on the stool. Panicked, Jack apologized, in order to tray of top-shelf. whiskey shots to appease the angry Saxon.

The rest of the night had followed in much the same manner. But no matter what the folklore, each and every attempt to banish or subdue the creature had been met with abject failure. Jack had even tried throwing salt over his shoulder before leaving the bar in hopes of hitting the devil in the eye. But all he managed to do was break the nose of the overweight man from earlier in the night with the salt container. Thankfully, there were plenty of distractions to be had outside on Halloween night.

But even Jack had to admit that suggesting they'd tag the church was a Hail Mary. Still, the fallen angel reveled in defacing the sanctuary so gleefully that Jack was able to fill his hip flask from the holy water basin outside the main doors. Now it looked down upon him, its tail wrapped around a branch to maintain balance, as it spewed curses in what Jack could only assume was a corruption of divine tongue. It didn't take a linguist to figure out that he was demanding to be set free, but Jack wasn't about to let that happen without renegotiating the terms of their previous agreement. Jack lived a long and fulfilling life, or at least as much as one could looking out only for oneself.

When his time came and they put his body in the ground, Jack's soul ventured its way to heaven, where he found the gates locked. St. Peter judged Jack to be a selfish and arrogant man, guilty of many sins, and sorry for none. Much like he'd been with the children in his youth, Jack pretended not to care as he made his way back down to earth. But it wasn't long before he was on the highway in search of a little. the gates of hell, because at the end of the day, Jack hated being alone. The massive black metal gates screeched incessantly in the stifling breeze within the depths of hell. Jack approached and was surprised to find the old hobo resting with his pipe lit.

The hobo welcomed Jack and offered him a seat. The two got on like old friends, but when everything was said and done, Jack prepared himself for the horrors. Jack prepared himself for the horrors that awaited him inside hell's pit. The hobo chuckled, and Jack winced at the sound of his ridicule. Heaven does not want you, and hell will not take you, the hobo said with gleeful malice. Jack realized in that awful moment what was being said. But where will I go? he asked in earnest. The hobo rose to his feet in sime.

simply walked through the gates without saying a word. Jack waited for the creature to vanish from sight before testing the gates. The ground rumbled as massive gourds erupted from the soil around the twisted structure, their vines weaving a net to bar Jack from entering. As he tore at the wall, the rind of the pumpkins split into terrible faces. Hell flames ignited from within them, and Jack was repelled by the Holocaust that spewed from their own. mouths. He stood, angered at his final loss. Jack turned around and made his way back up to

earth in hopes that he could find a way to escape his eternal torture. We put pumpkins out every year to keep Jack from coming into our homes. For all his time alone, it made him bitter and angry at the living. He wanders the world looking for a way to escape his punishment. That was the story my grandfather told us every year as we sat in the kitchen, spooning out slimy pumpkin guts. Before the start of every story, he would say, fairy tales start with once upon a time, but Navy's story start with,

This ain't no shit. He loved spending time with us while Mom and Dad took a much-needed break from the responsibilities of parenthood. Pappy, Doc, was short in stature and round in belly with shod. shoulders that hunched over as he walked using his wooden cane that had a carved eagle's head for a handle. He kept his gray hair shoulder length to account for the fact that his hair line had receded in his 40s. He had a long beard that stretched down to his chest that had turned snow white sometime before we were born. He wore reading glasses on the tip of his nose and

he was a bit hard of hearing, but his hands were steady as he sharpened his pumpkin carving knife on the wet stone. Nothing more dangerous in the kitchen than a dull knife, he would say as he wiped off the blade with a towel and tested the edge by catching it on his fingernail. Then he gave it a few passes through his leather strap just to polish the edge, all while keeping me and my little sister entertained with the story of Jack. Carving pumpkins wasn't just a one-night event in our house. No, first we had to pick out our designs, either from one of those cheap, carving books from the dollar store or by telling Pappy what we wanted and having them draw it. As we got older, Cassandra took to drawing her own designs. But I looked mine up on the internet

and printed them out at the school library. Mrs. Winstead wasn't supposed to print pictures for students, but she had a soft spot for Halloween and never turned me down when I asked. Two nights before Halloween, we would hollow out our pumpkins. Pappy always cut the pumpkins from the bottom, leaving the stem intact for carrying. Then, we'd use a carving spoon with serrations on the edges to scoop the seeds and scrape out the pulp. We saved the seeds and roasted them in the oven with some nutmeg and cinnamon and we threw the rest of the guts into the yard for the animals to eat. Pappy soaked the hollow pumpkins overnight and a solution of bleach to kill any bacteria and helped to keep them from rotting so quickly. Then the next day, we would sit down with

our patterns and cut out our designs. Pappy always cut a traditional jackalanner design with a triangle nose and wide jagged smile. Cassie and I chose all kinds of designs from ghosts to unicorns. One year, I carved a Batman symbol and she did a version of the Pokemon Haunter. Pappy really liked those. He said that the pumpkins were a talisman, an object of protection to ward off spirits that could harm us on Halloween. After we had carved our designs, we'd put a thin layer of petroleum jelly on the exposed flesh to seal it and keep it from drying out. His secret touch would be to sprinkle

more nutmeg and cinnamon inside the pumpkin before putting in the candles, which would diffuse them with the smell of pumpkin pie when the candles were lit. Lastly, we'd go outside and light the candles. Most families use those tiny tea light candles, but Grandpa would always use the same. He used tall ones and glass containers to keep the flame protected. He said he didn't want the candles to go out in the middle of the night and let Jack into the house. I miss those days with him. Grandpa passed away the winter of my eighth grade year. We knew things were bad during Christmas break.

He was very weak and spent most of his time sleeping in bed. His normally steady hands shook as he tried to sip hot chocolate in the evenings. and the way he looked at us sometimes. It was like he'd never seen us before. Mom and dad were doing their best to keep everything light-hearted, but even Cassie could tell they were worried. Nevertheless, he made it to Christmas. He got out of bed Christmas morning and sat in the living room,

his head adorned with a bright red Santa hat instead of his traditional Vietnam veteran cap. Every year, as far back as I could remember, Pappy would never go outside after Thanksgiving without a Santa hat and a set of bright red suspenders. Children would stare and whisper to their parents as he sat down at a restaurant or went out to shop for groceries because he looked so much like Santa Claus. I hugged him for the last time after opening up his gift to me, a shiny silver zippo lighter with my initials, Z-A-J engraved in it. Cry not to lose it, he spoke in. my ear. Being ADD, I had a really bad habit of putting things down and not remembering where I put

them. And don't burn the house down, Cassie said as she pulled a stuffed rainbow rhino out of her stocking. Thanks for the battle unicorn, Pappy, she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. I never had a reason to put any lighter fluid in my lighter. Instead, I used it as a fidget toy, flicking it, open and closed. Dad even showed me how to open it one-handed by snapping my fingers. But Mom gave him a serious look afterwards. After New Year's, Mom went to check on Pappy and came out in tears. A few hours later, the coroner drove away with the body, leaving Mom and Dad to start calling family and finalizing the funeral arrangements.

Grandpa was cremated after the wake, and we kept his ashes in an urn in his old room. The funeral caused me and Cassandra to go back to school later than everyone else. My special ed teacher made it a point to sit down and ask me how I was handling the situation. To tell the truth, I was okay. For a lot of people with ADD, grief is complicated. I loved my grandfather, and I was sad that he was gone, but as long as I wasn't thinking about him, I didn't feel all that bad. It's an out-of-sight-out-of-mind kind of thing.

I know that may sound horrible, but it's the truth. When I'm reminded of them, the grief washes over me like a wave, but once the tide recedes, I'm able to stay dry until the next wave. Before I knew it, eighth grade had ended when I was entering the halls for my freshman year. Cassie was going up to middle school at the same time, which meant we rode the bus together. I had time to show her to homeroom class before jumping on the transfer. bus to the high school. Overall, school wasn't too bad. Friends from middle school tried our best to stick together, but with different lunches and class schedules, we were forced to make new friends.

Red was an older kid in our freshman class. I met him in biology and we talked about the lore of my favorite horror video game, Five Nights at Freddy's. He and I would sit outside the cafeteria discussing the legitimacy of Matt Pat's game theory videos and comparing notes on how to beat fan-made challenges of the game. Then, when the books came out, Red and I would check them out from the library and go over them with a fine-tooth comb looking for clues. Technically, the books were below my reading level,

but Mrs. Winstead said that reading something was better than reading nothing. It wasn't long before we found the alternate reality game community, ARGs, and we started meeting up after school with our computers, looking through website code and making Google Docs with community members. Needless to say, I missed my bus a few times while hanging out with Red. The week of Halloween, Mom and Dad drove us to the store to pick out our pumpkins. Seeing the pumpkins brought my grief for Grandpa back to the forefront of my brain. Cassie and I walked around the bins looking through the selection with Melancho,

melancholy hearts. Pappy always took forever to pick out a pumpkin. He'd pick them up and turn them over, squinting through his reading glasses as he evaluated the surface like a jeweler looking for the perfect cut of stone. It wasn't just the skin of the gourd, but the size and shape that he evaluated. Pumpkins that grew on their side had a flat face, and that was great for carving symbols, whereas the rounder ones could be used to give the carved image more dimension, along the eyes to look like they were following you as you walked by. Twenty minutes later, in eternity for a time-blind and bored child, he'd make his pick and set it gingerly in the shopping cart before shuffling his way to the checkout.

This year, we made our picks within five minutes, both of us getting a regular-sized carving pumpkin. As we passed the stencil books, Mom asked if we needed to pick one up. I gave a half-hearted shrug, and Cassie said she said she'd be a little bit. she was going to draw her own design that year. Dad put his arm on my shoulder and gave me a light sidehug. He said he missed our pappy too. Cassie wrapped her arms around mom's waist as she stroked her curly hair.

Not knowing what to do or say, I just stood there listening to her sniffle into mom's shirt as I thumbed the lighter in my pocket. That Thursday after school, Red came over with his computer to go over the Crow 64 or ARG notes we've been working on all week in study hall, when Cassandra came into my room with a bloody carving knife clutched in her hand. Her face was drained of color,

and she lurched unsteadily as she dropped the knife and leaned against the door frame. I screamed for my parents, and Dad came running from the living room as she fell to the floor. The bottom of her shirt was spotted with blood, and I followed the blood stain across her abdomen, to the top of her jeans. On her left hand was a gash that dripped blood under the carpet. Dad picked her up and carried her to the living room while Mom got out the first aid kit.

Red picked up the knife and followed me into her bedroom, where we found her pumpkin, split open on the ground, bloody handprints smudged across the orange flesh. The cut looked far worse than it was, thanks to all the blood. After the dull knife sliced into her hand, Cassie had tried to hide what she did by wiping the blood on her jeans and wrapping her hand in the bottom of her shirt. She brought the knife to my room in hopes that I would hide it, but the sight of the blood made her feel light-headed, and she fainted in the doorway. She woke up in Dad's arms and started to cry, more from fear than pain. Once they got her hand under water, they saw the cut wasn't too deep.

Cassie whimpered as mom dampened a rag with rubbing alcohol and applied pressure to the cut, both cleaning the wound and stopping the bleeding. Red put the knife on the counter, and I grabbed our bottle of liquid bandage for Dad to seal up the cut. Thankfully, he said it didn't require stitches. Soon enough the day will come that she won't faint at the sight of the side of the of blood, Mom said cryptically as she began to wash the knife in the sink. Later that night, after Redd had gone home, Cassie lamented ruining her pumpkin. Dad offered to go to the store and get her another one, but she said they wouldn't have

time to soak it like Pappy always did. I said she could have mine. Mom asked if I was sure, but I told her that I didn't really feel much like carving anyway. So mom sharpened the carving knife And helped Cassie gut the pumpkin While Dad did his best to tell the story of Jack I chimed in a couple of times when he got the story wrong But overall, he did a pretty good job The next morning we got on the bus for school

And Cassie did her best to hide the rap on her hand Riddled with anxiety that plagues preteen girls I tried to comfort her But she wasn't in the mood to have her concerns downplayed by an older sibling. So, I sat with the other high schoolers in the back of the bus till we got to the middle school and immediately got on the shuttle bus to the high school. Red caught up with me during lunch, and we made plans for Halloween night. Mom and Dad were going to a costume party that our town hosted every year at the town hall,

which left me to take out Cassie for trick-or-treating. Red was glad to tag along with us for the chance to collect some junk food, so we agreed to meet up at the local local. library Saturday night. That night, mom and dad helped Cassie carve her pumpkin while I assembled my costume. I decided to dress up as the purple man from the five nights at Freddy Games, and Cassie was going as the puppet. It took me a while to find my dad's purple suit pants and dress shirt in the back of his closet. Then, I tested out the purple grease paint we had bought

at the store. Out of the tube, it was a little dark, but I was able to get it to the right shade by mixing it with some white. As it turned out, I used up too much paint trying to get the shading right, and I didn't have enough for both my face and hands. Thankfully, Dad went out to the garage and came back with a pair of nitral gloves that were the perfect color. Even better, I could use them to apply the paint to my face and then switch them out for a clean pair instead of dealing with the greasy sensation every time I touch something. Cassie came out of her room in black leggings with black and white striped knee-high socks. She wore a black and white striped long-sleeve shirt underneath a black t-shirt and her curly hair was pulled back into a tight bun.

Mom had applied her makeup, a white foundation with a red circle on each cheek and red lipstick. She did this trick where she drew a set of lines over Cassie's upper and lower lips and filled it in with lipstick. The effect made her mouth look smaller and fuller than it normally did. giving her face an unsettling appearance. Lastly, Mom used the leftover purple paint to draw a stream of tears from her eyes to her mouth. I grabbed her candy bag and flashlight as she picked up her pumpkin

and took it out to the stone steps in front of our house. I filled my zippo with lighter fluid for the first time, and soon the wick ignited and the soft orange flame danced in the wind. I used my hand as a windshield and, and lit a tea candle. The smell of nutmeg and cinnamon filled our noses as the jagged smile

and triangular nose stared back at us with mischievous mirth. Red was easy to pick out at the library. First, he was a foot taller than most of the other kids running around the lawn playing carnival games, but also he was dressed as a big red fox, complete with a tail and hook for a hand.

His foxy costume looked great. but I mentioned that the tail didn't quite match. He told me he couldn't find any tails at the store, but he lucked out and found one in his parents' closet. It had some kind of a metal ball attached to the end that looked like it was supposed to go into a large buttonhole, but he just took the tail off and safety pinned it to his pants. We tried our hands at a few of the carnival games

to win some candy before hitting the street to knock on doors. At each house, a chorus of high-pitched Trick or treats, sounded, and kids mobbed the bull, quickly assessing each piece and taking their most prized one. More than once, Cassie got compliments for her wonderful makeup from adults on porches, and I caught a few middle school boys acting sheepishly as they checked her out from the sidewalk. I pointed this out to Red, and he made his way over to a line of bushes, quietly positioning himself out of their sight. Then, when Cassie bent over to pick up some candy, Red jumped from the bushes sounding a deep guttural,

R. The boys whipped around and faced with a literal jump scare, booked it down the sidewalk. In true foxy fashion, Red gave chase for two blocks before turning around, cackling the entire jog back to us. Eventually, Cassie found a group of friends from school and we let her walk around with them, snagged just far enough away to keep an eye on her without being intrusive. Red and I were snacking on single pieces of candy, as we complained about an algebra test when we noticed something odd. The light from the street lamps revealed a massacre.

Guts littered the sidewalk, faces split open with broken teeth, flesh decayed in the cool grass, and dark dead eyes stared up at us from the ground. Every single jack-a-lantern on the street had been smashed. I could only assume a group of high-schoolers were making mischief, terrorizing kids and vandalizing yards. Sure enough, in the faint orange glow of the sodium lamp,

I could see the white willowy streams of toilet paper swaying in Mrs. Winstead's yard. I told Cassie to state put as Redd and I walked to her house at the end of the block. Egg shells littered the porch and soap covered the windows of the house. The porch light was off suggesting that no one was home. I felt sorry for the windsteads as I took in the scene. Their pecan tree was covered in rolls of toilet paper so thick we couldn't see through the under canopy to the other side, giving it the appearance of a dark portal to the netherworld.

Red agreed to help me pick up the eggshells, and soon we had them all collected in our hands, We made our way down to the end of the driveway to put them in the open garbage can when a flicker of movement in my peripheral caught my attention. I casually turned my head and saw a figure standing underneath the pecan tree. At first, I thought it might have been Mr. Winstead, but the outline was far too tall to be him. I elbowed red and pointed in the direction of the tree. He pulled the eye patch off his right eye to get a better look in the dark. We agreed someone was definitely standing there, but we had no clue who it was.

Anger got the best of me as I considered the idea that this was the person who had egged the house. I shouted at the person, accusing them of vandalism. The figure didn't say a word, only shook its head while standing perfectly still. Well, he's not deaf. Maybe he's just dumb, Red whispered into my ear. Suddenly two orbs of light ignited from the face of the figure, leaving little doubt that what we were seeing wasn't human. I dropped the eggshells and grabbed my flashlight shooting the LED beam at the tree.

The dark entity swallowed all the light around it, creating a distortion shadow we had not noticed in the dark. We saw it take a step toward us and only hesitated long enough for the fight-or-flight response to make it from our brain to our legs. Not knowing what to do, I clicked on the strobe function of the light in hopes of disorienting it before sprinting down the road. When we reached the end of the block, my sister was nowhere in sight. Red and I shouted her name and she came running out of a nearby street.

She asked what was wrong, first out of fear of being in trouble, then out of fear of seeing me afraid. I told her we had to go, but she was no longer looking at me. Her expression looked exactly like the puppets in the video game, right before the game over screen. I turned around to see the figure of a man walking up the street with glowing eyes. Library! I shouted, as I turned Cassie around and pushed her into a run. We gasped for air as we entered the stone fence of the library. It must have been after 9 p.m. as the yard was deserted, games left out to be put away the next morning. Our minds raced as our lungs struggled to keep us alive. What was that? Red weezed. I said I didn't know, but Cassie called it Jack. Red looked at her in confusion, but I looked

at her in recognition. Thinking back to Grandpa's story, I said, we need something silver or iron. To his credit, Red didn't argue and started looking around for anything metal. We quickly went around to each of the games looking for metal pieces, but they were all made from aluminum. My heart jumped into my throat when Cassie shouted, but I was able to swallow it back down when I realized she had found a small cast-iron skillet. Red was able to pry a rusted bar from the wrought iron railing on the library steps and gave it a few test swings.

I wasn't able to get another one out, even with Red's help. We need holy water, I said. Cassie told me there was a Catholic church three blocks away. I picked up an orange pumpkin candy bucket and peered inside. Sure enough, it had a hole in the bottom to keep kids from suffocating. I asked Cassie if she had any gum, and she searched through her candy bag, pulling out a shiny long rectangle wrapped in blue foil.

I shoved it in my mouth with a slight grimace at the strong. mint flavoring. I counted 30 chews and spit it into the candy bucket, hoping that gum would harden and provide a seal in the time it took to get to the church. Then I realized it had been a while since I had seen or heard Red. I turned around and saw he was suspended in the air, body-riched, frozen in the grasp of Jack's hands around his neck. Red's eyes were rolled to the back of his head, and urine soaked the legs of his pants as he gasped. desperately for air. Without thinking I ran towards him and Jack, careful to keep my eyes fixed on the iron fencing at their feet and dropped into a baseball slide. I felt the skin scrape away from my knee

as the rocky soil tore through the purple suit pants, but I popped back up with an iron bar in hand. I swung hard and spun off balance as the bar swept through Jack without resistance. Red coughed hard as Jack's hold weakened. I regained my balance and made an overhead swing that passed up through the spirit of Jack before I brought the bar back down like a swing of an axe. Red collapsed to the ground, and Cassie joined in waving her tiny pan up and down like a paper fan.

The essence of Jack dissipated as it came in contact with the iron, but it never faded. Red got to his feet, and I shouted for ever. everyone to run. Three blocks later, we arrived at the church. I dunked the pail into the basin and threw the water on the two of them. Cassie spit out a mouthful of water and cursed at me in anger. I explained that wet clothes should keep Jack from being able to touch us,

but it wouldn't last forever as we would eventually dry out. It was just a biased time until we could make it home to the protection of our talisman, her pumpkin. in. Red was too weak to argue, but the cold water helped put a little spring back in a step. I splashed them both one more time and filled the plastic pail with the water that remained. The gum was slowing the leaking of the water, but it was still dripping at a steady rate. As we ran back to our house, Jack appeared, emerging from dark shadows under trees and under porches. The holy water did stop him from getting a grip on us, but the more we ran,

the faster the water evaporated. I was able to re-wet Cassie and Red, but I threw the last of the water at Jack when he was able to grab a hold of my pant leg from underneath a car as we tried to catch our breath. Finally, the house was in sight, and I could tell from the absence of a car in the driveway that Mom and Dad were not home.

But what disturbed me more than that was realizing the candle had gone out in our pumpkin. Red and Cassie made it to the point. porch before me, panting hard and doubling over from the stitch in their sides. Just as I crossed into our yard, I felt the world pull out from under me. Jack stood in the shadow of our tree, his arms elongated to grab me by the legs. I could hear Cassie screaming, but I told Red to keep her on the porch. Jack's hands crawled up my body, and he lifted me off the ground.

He held me to his face, and I could see the outline of a cruel smile under his eyes. Those strange eyes flicked down to my waist as the sound of a soft click cut through the silence. I'd opened my lighter with a snap of my fingers and pulled it up along my leg, showering the sparks from the flint onto the oil-soaked wick. The flame burned bright in my hand, tiny at first, but growing quickly. Then it leapt from the cage of the lighter, a burning orb suspended in the air. Jack released me and stared blankly into the light. The wisp of flame shot through the air, disappearing into the pumpkin.

Suddenly the jackalantron ignited, flames licking the jagged lips and pouring out from the angry eyes. The flame cascaded and took the form of a soldier, short but stout. Tendrils of plasma emitted from the perimeter of the soldier's eyes as he lifted a cylinder of flame and engulfed the entity of joltz. Jack with a torrent of napolem. Dumbfounded, we watched as the soldier marched toward Jack, never relenting with his flamethrower.

Soon, there was nothing left for the flames to burn, and the soldier peered out into the darkness satisfied. Redden Cassie helped me to my feet as the soldier performed an about-face. The soldier's expression softened as he lowered his weapon. The flames twisted as the barrel elongated, and the gunstock took the form of an eagle's head. His shoulders began to haunch as he supported his weightless form upon the cane. Finally, ribbons of flame extended around his head to his shoulders and from his face down to his chest. I wiped away the tears that clouded my vision as Pappy smiled.

He raised his left hand slightly, and he raised his left hand slightly, and he raised his face. and waved to us before evaporating into smoke. Our parents came home an hour later, but we never told them what happened. Red convinced himself it was all a sugar-induced fever dream, and I was nearly inclined to believe him. But before I went to bed, Cassandra came into my room to tell me a secret.

Earlier that night, when she'd mixed up the nutmeg and cinnamon for her jack-a-lantern, she had snuck into Grandpa's room and taken a pinch of his ashes out to mix in his well. Years have passed, and Cassandra and I have children of our own. Every Halloween, we sit down at our kitchen tables to sharpen a carving knife and tell the story of the time Jack tried to outsmart great-grandpa Pappy. Thank you for sharing that, Nate. I know that didn't feel very pleasant to share and relive.

It is a clear case of ritual persistence. The dream integrates mortality into an inherited seasonal framework. This establishes continuity across generations. What you perceive as horror is clinically a successful transmission of symbolic material. Then why does it feel, I don't know, malignant? Like it wasn't just a story, but something? something waiting to continue? Because it is continuing.

Once a dream embeds itself in ritual behavior, it acquires permanence. It will recur whether you permit it or not. So it's like it isn't even really mine anymore? No, it really isn't. It has moved from private psyche to collective domain. In effect, you are no longer the dream. you are the custodian. Wait, you're saying that the dreams...

Jesus, I don't even know what you're saying. You're talking like our dreams are objects that actually exist? Do your dreams feel any less real than, say, the chair you are sitting up? These dreams you all are experiencing have gone well beyond what you would define as typical or normal, right? That's what we are trying to. to understand here. And yes, I do believe that these dreams you all have transcend our traditional definitions. Are we supposed to be like lab rats or something? Is that why we've been here for so long? We are monitoring you all very closely to try and understand what has been happening to you.

And you are correct, if you are thinking that I haven't been completely transparent, But that isn't because I am trying to keep information from you as much as I don't want to do anything that could jeopardize your mental health. However... However... However, I think there's something very special happening to you all. These things that you see and feel are more than just dreams. I don't know what they are. Exactly, but I think we are close to understanding.

Please, just give me till the end of the month to continue working on this. After that, if I still can't give you the answers you want, you are free to go. With absolutely no resistance from myself or anyone on my staff, no one will try to talk you out of it. But given that many of your dreams and reactions to said dreams have gotten more aggressive as the month has gone by, I'm concerned that the line that divides your waking and sleeping mind will continue to blur until you don't know if you're awake or asleep. In an estate like that, anything could have. happened to you?

Pardon my language, but what? And don't even... On top of that... Holy crap. That was like a story in itself. So you want us to stay here a little long, just a few more days? Just a few more days. We can do that, right?

Yeah. Yeah. Yes. A couple more days won't kill us, although I'm not sure that's true anymore. Thank you. Now I do need to go and confer with some of my colleagues about our current progress. I would like to meet as a group again tomorrow to talk a little bit more about your work and your boss. You want to talk about John?

Why? Jackass isn't even here. He hasn't even called to check in on us. He is the common link, though. He and his work are in some way connected to what is going on, even if just tangentially. And I would like to see if we can get a better understanding to that connection. Now, I really must be going.

Thank you all so much for your understanding and cooperation. Have a good day. Where is John? He could have at least sent a care package. Yeah, why? Why hasn't he checked in with us? DEMmed me on Tumblr or anything. Like, where the fuck has he been, actually?

Where is he? And how are you feeling today? What do you want now? Now? What do you mean? What do you think I mean? I mean the light show that happened the last time you were in here. No one's talking to me about the fuck is going on and you just peace out for...

I have no idea how long because there are any fucking clocks in here. You remember that? Of course I remember that, you fucking asshole. How am I ever supposed to forget that? Hey, where do you think? I want a status report now. What's wrong, doctor? What's wrong?

What do you think is wrong? He remembers what happened yesterday. Why does he remember what happened yesterday? I don't know, doctor. We've been following your instructions exactly as you ordered. Well, something happened, and I want to know what? This situation is far too volatile for this. The more he remembers, the more he'll resist.

He will shut down. We need him to share of his own free will. You know what happened to the subjects we used force with. Yes, of course, Doctor, but... No buts. We have no choice. Give me the emergency injections. Yes, Dr. But...

But we don't know what the effect will be when you combine it with his current drip. What choice do we have? We have tangible proof of what he is capable of. We know he is... exactly what we've been looking for. We can't just let it slip away. He could die. Better dead than outside of these walls.

Who the fuck do you think you are? I'm a middle-aged white guy. This is going to be all over the news. Yes, yes, I'm sure that the Today Show has been tracking your life very closely. That was cold. I'm already a prisoner. You don't really need to twist the knife, do you? You are a strange one, aren't you?

Only according to everyone who's ever met me in real life. Well, as much as I've enjoyed talking to you over the last week. Week? I've been here for a week? A bit longer, actually. I'm sure there's some measure of what is appropriate and just and right at this moment. However, I don't have the time or inclination toward any of that. Instead, I'm going to give you this injection.

It's going to affect your memory and make you more amenable. Okay? Here we go. Get in here. Clear. Again, clear. Doctor, the lights. Never mind that.

Again, clear. No, wake up. I'm not done with you yet. Tell me what you see. Tell me what you see. I... I see... I see...

I see... My Halloween decorations are growing. Started with a styrofoam tombstone. I found it half buried in a box of Halloween junk in the attic. Leftovers from years ago, when Julia was still around, and I gave a damn about things like candy corn and themed playlists. Okay, I never gave a shit about theme.

playlists, but just kind of came with the territory. The grave marker was cracked straight down the middle, right through the words RIP. But when I picked it up, I felt that old itch again. The one I used to get in October when the air got sharp and the shadows came quicker. At the time of year, when you can be a kid and just have fun in the spirit of the holiday before the Christmas carol's start. I decided to build a graveyard in my backyard. Nothing fancy, just for the kids in the neighborhood.

A little path through fake tombstones, fog machine or two, maybe a plastic skeleton that popped out of a coffin when someone stepped on the trigger mat, or wherever inspiration took me at the local spirit Halloween shop. I figured I could use the opportunity to take my mind off things. Julia had moved out in May, and the silence in this house had started to feel confining. So I leaned into it. decorations, lighting, motion sensors, timers. I wanted to see how far I could take it.

Maybe it would even become a tradition I could find I look forward to. I should have stopped when I found the second tombstone. It was in the backyard one morning. It took me a while to notice in the mess of things. I stood on my deck, coffee in hand, looking over my work, and eventually I started to notice something was off. I was positive that I had six gravestones. the night before.

Now there was a seventh. I hadn't put it there. Made a stone, not foam, weathered, covered in moss. I first thought that it was some neighborhood kid or maybe a bored parent that planted it as a prank. But it was old, too old.

Worn smooth by time and way too damn heavy. It had to weigh at least 100 pounds. the kind of thing you'd see leaning sideways in a cemetery too poor to fix its dead. I couldn't imagine the motivation would have taken someone to haul that into my yard. Also, there was no name, just a hollowed out space where one should have been. I touched it. Cold, damp. They were around it smelled like wet soil, even though the grass was dry.

We hadn't had rain in over a month. I left it where it was. I figured it had to be a neighbor, and if they wanted to help the cause anonymously, who was I to argue? That, and part of me, didn't want to touch it again. That night, I dreamed of digging, just shovelful after shovelful of dirt, deeper and deeper until the soil turned black and wet and slick with clay that coated my hands. I couldn't stop. My fingers bled, my arms burned, and in the dark, under all that earth.

Something opened its eyes. I woke up with mud under my fingernails and wondered how I hadn't noticed it before going to bed. Building a cemetery was dirty work. I kept building. The dream stuck with me, burrowing in with a strange anxiety that I couldn't name. I told myself I was overworked, not sleeping enough, drinking too much, grieving things I didn't want to name. but the graveyard, it became consuming. I quickly grew to love the details,

to think about placement, how things would look at night. All the while, the dreams continued, sometimes digging, sometimes just walking through graveyards, always with a purpose, directed to specific graves. I started carving names into the tombstones, the names that I saw in the dream grave markers. The scene grew. The hours and days blending together.

I didn't even remember buying half the props that started showing up on my lawn. Rusted gates, broken statues, a child-sized coffin. No, not a child. Small, yes, but too long. Something wrong about its shape. I didn't remember ordering it, but it was there all the same. Resting in the far corner of the yard where the light didn't reach underst. some trees and overgrowth.

Something about it felt weird, or at least morbid. I was making something for the neighborhood kids. I didn't think I really needed to smack them in the face with their own mortality. I thought about burning it. But I didn't. It could stay over there and away from everything else. I didn't want to touch it. Starting that night and every night after, the fog machine kicked on by itself.

even when I unplugged it, even when I knew it was empty. And there were shapes in the smoke. Shapes I thought were just optical illusions, a trick of the mist and the moonlight and the wind. But I was wrong. Every night I'd stand in the kitchen, staring out the window at the graveyard, watching the shapes move through the mist

that only got more and more dense with each day. More pranks, I reasoned, though they didn't look like. kids. Once I saw a hand reach up from the far side one of the gravestones, fingers too long, too thin, curling over a piece of granite that hadn't been there the day before. Its fingers traced up to stone gently, almost lovingly, like a mother's hand on a sleeping child. I named that one the sleeper, carved it into the stone myself. The next morning it had sunk halfway into the ground. Finally, it was time.

I opened it a week before Halloween. Didn't mean to. Just sort of happened. I was outside checking the wires on the motion sensor under the Weeping Angel statue. Its face half eaten by weather. Mouth sewn shut with rusted wire. When I noticed people standing at the gate. No announcement, no invitations.

There they were. Neighbors I barely knew. Kids I'd never seen before. silent and wide-eyed in the mist that had begun to roll unnaturally thick across the grass. No one said a word. They just entered one by one, like they already knew the way. I didn't speak either. Not because I was being theatrical, but because the moment the first kid stepped past the gate, I felt it.

Something heavy and wet rising up through the soil. Not physically, not yet. just presence, like a presence behind my eyes or a weight in my shoulders. The kind of feeling that makes you want to kneel, but no one else reacted. They walked the path in silence, pausing in front of the tombstones. Some even bent down to touch the names I'd carved, names I don't remember inventing, but that filled my dreams every night with digging. Always digging.

One man stopped at the child-sized coffin in the back and simply stared. I think he cried. Most people avoided it completely. The fog thickened as the sky darkened. My lights flickered red, then green, then a sickly amber I never programmed. The angel statue turned its head, just slightly, just once. No one screamed. The next morning I found a hole, with a coffin.

it had been gone now it was just earth loose black disturbed not dug by shovel not torn by hand burrowed and something else footprints dozens of them small narrow pressed deep into the soil not human not animal or any animal i knew of Some with toes that ended in claws Some without toes at all I started sleeping on the couch with the curtains open I didn't bother locking the doors That was the point This thing, whatever it was inside already

Inside me It didn't care about locks I fed off something else Attention Every night more people came They didn't knock, they just wandered into the yard, drifting between the graves like they were drawn there by strings. Some came in costume, some came in nightgowns. One man came barefoot, his eyes rolled back into his head.

I didn't stop them. Part of me wanted to know what would happen next. The rest of me already knew. I woke up once, around 3.15 a.m., to a sound like teeth grinding in the wall. I thought it was just me, but when I looked out the window, the entire backyard was moving, breathing maybe, like something was shifting underneath it, rearranging its limbs, testing the weight of its skin. The tombstones weren't where I left them.

Some had sunk deeper, others had cracked open, open, not broken. like something inside had pushed its way out. Finally, Halloween arrived. I didn't decorate any further. I didn't need to. By then, the graveyard had started to build itself. I'd wake up to find new paths carved through the grass, lined with rotting candles I didn't place.

New statues, new graves. One had my name on it. I didn't carve it. I didn't place it. There it stood. No date, just my name. Beneath that dirt bulge like something had already filled the space. I stood there beside that grave for hours, waiting.

Nothing happened. Not until the sun went down. Then I heard it. He's ready. Not a voice in the yard, not in my head, but from below. Muffled, smiling. Like something wearing lips it wasn't born with. Just wearing them.

I didn't leave the house on Halloween night. I watched from the window. Lights off, coffee in my hand, gone stone cold. They came in droves. Not just neighbors now. Not even people I recognized. They emerged from the dark like they've been waiting underground, rising with the fog.

Some crawled. Some dragged themselves. Some had the pale bloated look of something long dead. They moved strangely, twitching and twisting. They were remembering how to wear skin. They filled the yard, moved silently between the graves. Some held candles. Some whispered to the stones.

Their faces pressed against the dirt. I saw one of them kneel at the foot of my grave and laugh, mouth open like its jaw was dislocated. The way my grandfather looked at the end in the hospice bed, when the dementia had stolen everything from him. I pressed my hand to the window. The glass was breathing. I didn't move for hours. The house felt smaller, tighter, like adding layer after layer of paint to a room,

the walls closing in, but it wasn't paint. It was being wrapped in muscle and bone. I kept hearing things. not outside but inside the walls knocking wet sounds humming and the digging always the digging it wasn't shovels it was hands scraping up finding purchase i started to hear it in the floorboards under the couch in the crawl space beneath the stairs there are some sounds that no human should ever hear fingernails through wood, teeth on tile. Something giggling beneath your floor. By midnight the yard was empty. Every candle had gone out. Every figure disappeared. Only the fog remained, hanging thick and heavy, swirling over the graves like breath from something sleeping just beneath. I should have felt relief. I didn't. Because my grave, the one with my grave, the one with my

name on the tombstone was open. Split clean down the middle. The dirt pulled aside like curtain folds. And beside it, footprints. Not going in. Coming out. I don't sleep anymore. Not really. I close my eyes and pretend. Sometimes I wake up with my mouth full of dirt. Sometimes with scratches down my legs as if I've been trying to climb into the grave and the earth won't take me. The house is wrong now. I keep seeing flashes of my backyard and mirrors, even when I'm inside. The tombstones are closer to the house than they were yesterday. I measured.

I know. And the angel? It watches now. Its head turns to follow me, inch by inch. It's stitched mouth twitching like it wants to open. It's not a decoration anymore. In midnight I found some of the night. something on the kitchen table, a paper I don't remember writing.

It's a permit. City approved and everything. It read The Hollow Grave Seasonal Attraction, Ongoing Exhibit. Signed by someone with my name, but not my handwriting. It's in the house now. The grave. I mean that, literally. I woke up to find moss growing up the hallway.

My floor has gone soft. There's fog drifting from under the bedroom door. I swear I hear something whispering in the vents. They all have names now. I only carved a few. Five, maybe ten. But there are dozens of graves now. Hundreds.

They weren't waiting for me to finish. It'll never be finished. Permit told me so. They were waiting for me. to complete delivering their message. The neighbors got it. Their children got it. But there's one more person.

One more thing. I look out the window just a moment ago. There's a new grave in the yard. It's not mine. Not anymore. It says, Yours. The date?

Today. No more. No. But Dr. Hall, look at these brain scans. I don't think he's going to wake up again. Continue to monitor him. But, doctor, how can he... I said, monitor him.

Yes, doctor, of course. Now that's going to matter to monitor a vegetable. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Share-A-Like licensing or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed

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