Creepy - Day 28 - Charlie's Place

Episode Date: October 28, 2019

Halloween over the years...***Written by Michael Whitehouse and narrated by Joe Stofko***Check out Campfire Radio Theater at https://campfireradiotheater.podbean.com/***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***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.

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Day 28. Charlie's Place written by Michael Whitehouse and narrated by Joe Stoffco. It was the coldest Halloween the town had seen in living memory. Winter was not due for at least a month, and yet the air was now frozen to the core as if it were the bleakest December.

The icy blast from the Arctic brought a lifeless dry freeze with it, one which engulfed the citizens of Wyndham with each wheezing breath. There was no flake of snow, no icy sheet of sleet or rain to add company to the air. The town was unseasonably dry, and in that biting weather, there was a sense that something malevolent was on the horizon just out of sight. It was nothing like the Halloweens of my childhood before the war, before the relentless drive of the communication revolution, before the world stopped talking to itself face to face.

The town had shape-shifted into something else since those days. People locked their doors for fear that they might rob each other in the night. They did not talk the way they had done in the past. Community was shriveling up like a salted slug. Even the kids had changed. There was no respect given, at least that I could. see. Sure, there were nice ones, the ones who would smile at me as I passed with my walking stick in hand. But then there were those like the Brugger boys, three brothers who did not

respect anyone or anything. The oldest of them, Darrell, he was the leader. He would push everyone to the limit. Bricks through windows, cars vandalized. People frightened to walk. on the same pavement as them. The Brueger boys were smart, too, so there was nothing the local police could do about their behavior. No proof found of their misdeed, so no punishment meant it out.

But when bad things happened, everyone knew they were to blame. I did my best to avoid them, but I had felt their stairs just the day before and sensed they were plotting something. It was the afternoon, and a thick blanket of clouds darkened the world beneath. The streets of Wyndham were gray, darker than they should have been.

People in their homes turned lights on indoors, their windows blinking in a yellow hue, little bubbles of warmth populating otherwise empty streets. Pumpkins were still being presented vainly, the occasional bowl of sweets left on a porch door. I was sure that the town's turnout that year would be a, affected by the weather, just a few minutes in the air and the freeze would bite at even-hearted features. My neighbor, Sandra, had told me to go back inside that it was far too cold for me to be doing any errands.

At 84 years of age, I should have waited for the cold air to pass, but I could not. I had an appointment to keep. A yearly trip, which I had made on the 31st of October, for the last 73 years. The cold air snapped at my nose and tried its best to push down the back of my neck to freeze my spine. I pulled my scarf and collar closer as the wind howled and pushed on.

I was slower than I used to be, my cane taking more and more of my weight as the arthritis in my hips caused me to wince. The cold was so severe that I considered going back several times, but I could not let them down, not now, not ever. I had to keep my appointment, for the graveyard beckoned. Having lived in the town my entire life, I knew the place like the back of my hand. I took a shortcut down Serling Street, that quiet road, which had once been a prominent Wyndham

location when I was a kid, the now boarded up houses which had decades earlier been home, for factory workers and their families were now empty shells consumed by change. Changes which had hurt everyone. The mines closed, the textile factory ceased production. The quarry? Perhaps I was not sad to have seen the quarry close, for it was the scene of a bitter pain which had haunted me each and every Halloween. Finally, Windham Cemetery faced me.

The old metal gates squeaked in the wind. You and me both, I thought, my hip continuing to give me pain. I had been to three funerals that year. When you reach your 80s, such events become commonplace. In April, old Hank had passed away, ten years older than me, but Gladys, who died in September, and she was just a year younger. I remember being a boy of five helping her at age four pull her sledge up to the top of a nearby field

and telling her not to be afraid on the way back down. In some ways, Gladys remained that four-year-old girl with blonde curls and red wellingtons in my mind. Even when she died at the age of 83, even when the stroke had wiped any trace of youth from her face. The gravestones passed. The gravestones' slowly, like floating icebergs hiding their secrets beneath the surface. Many of the names on the stones were familiar to me. In recent years, there were far too many I had known in town. Too many deaths. Too many familiar faces now gone. The herd was thinning, one minute grazing, the next pushing up the daisies.

In older parts of the graveyard, some of the names went back two hundred, years at least. I remembered being fascinated by them when I had played in the cemetery with my friends. While my rag-tag gang focused on hide and seek, I would find a comfy place of grass and read the names covered in moss and age. Who had they been? Were they loved? Were they children once, too, only to find themselves old and fragile like I did? Winding my way up a swim, small incline, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, I made my first appointment. I stood in front of a grave. On it, the name Terrence stared up at me silently. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the five pine cones sitting there, gifts waiting to be bestowed. Pulling the first from my pocket,

the pine cone sat in my hand, its brown projections hiding countless shadows within. "'There you go, Terrence,' I said, bending down with a painful groan and placing it on the frozen grass covering the grave. I stood there and thought. I thought about the first time I had met Terrence. We were both the same age, and at nine years old we had become fast friends when Terence moved into town. We both had an interest in collecting coins and playing soldiers in the long grass which populated the fields on the north. north side of Wyndham. Now he was gone. Terrence had died five years earlier, and our friendship had never wavered once in all the decades that we had known each other. See you, pal, I said, moving off into the cold. It was not long before I stood at the second grave. The name read

Cheryl. How she used to make me laugh. Cheryl was the funniest of our group, no doubt. When we were in school together, she would always have something to say, and could easily run circles around the teachers. They had to give her the belt to show they could dominate her, if not intellectually, physically. The biggest irony was that in the end, she became a teacher herself, but a damn good one. It had only been two years since she had passed, but I still missed that infectious laugh of hers and her keen mind. More than that, when she finally lost her battle, there were only two of our group left standing.

I could feel myself welling up inside, but I decided to keep my appointments. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out another pine cone and sat it down on Cheryl's grave. I miss our laugh, Cheryl, I said, walking away. The third grave belonged to Max. If we had had a leader, it was him. Max was full of life.

A thick head of red hair and a slingshot in his back pocket, he was always the one to lead the gang off on some adventure. That troop of nine-year-olds which could never be thwarted. Max was the first boy I'd ever noticed in that way. And while those feelings would never be thwarted, be returned, such a strong and brave friend was a good first love to have. We maintained that friendship until Max was 56. One day, he was out cleaning his yard, his heart just stopped, and he was gone. I placed the third pine cone on Max's grave slowly. Here's another pine cone,

Max. Take it with you, I said. Now I had to walk to the other side of the other side of the the graveyard. The cold air filtered through the gravestones as if seeking me out, and my body shivered at its touch. But ten minutes later, I was standing once more at another friend's grave. This time it was Peterson. He was a heavy kid that many picked on. Cheryl had felt sorry for him and asked him to come to lunch with us one day. We sat with him eating our food under an old oak tree. We must have been eight years old at the time. Peterson was a focal point for the other kids. They would round on him all the time. He would stay quiet and just take it. That day, eating lunch beneath the oak tree for the first time, we discovered something special about Peterson. That quiet kid was an amazing mimic.

He started doing impressions of our teachers, and soon we were all rolling around laughing. Once Peterson was with the group, no one picked on him again. When you were part of the pine cones, you were never alone. I placed the fourth pine cone next to Peterson's headstone, remembering how sad I was when he left town to go to college at 18. We drifted apart after that, and it was just a few years previous when I had heard that he had died. How exactly I did not know.

but he was berate in Wyndhamtown Cemetery, and those of his friends who were still around mourned his passing. I miss your impressions, Peterson, I said. This was going to be the most painful part. I had known that for some time, but I had to make the trip. My yearly appointment had to be kept, especially with the second last member of the pine cones, having been laid to rest there.

After a few minutes of walking head on into the icy air, which now blew stronger than before, as if trying to persuade me to turn back, I came to a gravestone. It was gray, shiny, and on it was the name of my friend Sammy. He had died just two months earlier, leaving me alone. I was the last of the old gang.

Sammy loved drawing and had made a name for himself as a local artist. I still had several of his sketches hanging up on the walls of my house. Sammy was a dreamer, and he always saw good times up ahead. It seemed to make sense that he would be the last to go, other than me. Sammy always looked to the future, and now there was no future at all, except my own plot, which sat somewhere on the eastern slope of the cemetery, waiting for me, just like the other plots had waited for my friends waiting to gobble me up. I still have your drawing, Sammy. Take care, I said, placing the pine cone on the ground,

my hand shaking from the cold and grief. Then in a forgotten part of the cemetery, which was rarely tended to, I came to the last gravestone, overgrown and all but abandoned from care. It was no surprise to me, as those buried there had been. died many decades ago, and most of their relatives were probably gone too, or too frail to make the trip up the hill. I stared at the stone, looking at the moss which had climbed up its sides like green spindly fingers trying to pull it into the ground. Though I was the last of the pine cones, the body buried in that grave was the first. His name was Kent, but due to his mess of hair we all called him

Curly. Curly was the same age as the rest of us, but he never got to see what adult life was like, nor the wounds which it could inflict, grinding away at those of us left behind through the years. Hey, Curley, I said, you should have at least had the chance to see the better side of life. It wasn't all that bad. When the pine cones were 10 years old, we headed off on one of our adventures on Halloween of all nights. This time we were to explore the local quarry, a huge man-made crater of rock which had filled with water. We had it all planned. We would head to the quarry in the evening and attempt to find any sign of the infamous Wyndham snatcher. Within living memory of that time, the town had been victim to a serial killer decades earlier, who had snatched

young women and disposed of their bodies. Where those bodies were hidden, no one really knew. But, as with most things truly horrific, a mythology had sprung up around them. A school friend had told me that he had seen the ghosts of the dead women hovering on the water of the quarry one night when walking to his grandparents on the outskirts of town. That was too much for the pine cones to resist. So that Halloween night, all those years ago, we walked along Main Street out of town to the quarry. As I stared at the headstone in front of me, I remembered the blackness of the water in the quarry. It had felt like a bottomless abyss, reflecting only the darkness of the night.

But for me, it held a greater darkness than any absence of light. I remembered Curley losing his footing and falling in. I remembered being too scared to jump in after him and watched as Curley resurfaced for a moment. His taste chalk white from the frozen water before being dragged underneath by something, a tangle of reeds, a deadly invisible current. Perhaps it was as innocent as that, if death can ever be considered innocent. In my dreams, Curley was pulled down by the withered hand and arm of the snatcher. himself, though none of the other pine cones ever spoke of such a thing.

After an extensive search, Curly's body was found a few weeks later, bloated as it decomposed, floating on the water after rising up from the blackness beneath. Leaning down to the gravestone, I placed the final pine cone on Curley's grave. I'm sorry, Curly, I should have at least tried. The sound of something moving in the cemetery then caught my attention. Turning, I thought I saw someone crouching behind one of the stones. Looking around at the great silence of death before me, the gravestones remained quiet, but I was unnerved at the presence of creeping shadows scuttling around the hillside, and so I made my way out of the cemetery. As the sound of my cane on the gravel path fought

to be heard against the icy wind, I was certain that I heard the scampering of feet nearby. Then a chill ran through me which was worse than any cold. Breathing a sigh of relief as I reached the gates, I turned back to look once more at the place which held so many of my friends. I was certain that I saw an indistinct figure still crouching, moving between the headstones towards where I stood. That was enough for me. I walked home into freezing cold faster than I had done for many years, but never once felt that I was alone. That night, after warming myself by a radiator at home, I took part in my second Halloween tradition. I loved leaving out sweets for the local kids.

I knew how special that night was to the young, for it had been that way for me once. There were terrible times ahead for all those kids, in my eyes at least. Life could be wonderful, but it would be tough. People and things they loved would wither and disappear, peace. by peace. But while the children were young, was it not good to have that feeling of magic? A feeling of wonder? Forgetting the nightmares which lurked in the shadows? I thought so. And that was why I had always tried to make Halloween special for anyone who came to the door of my house.

The frozen weather was an omen of something. I could feel it. Like the world was prepared to quash that wonder and to rid the town of its hands. happier times. And so I carved more pumpkins than I had ever done in defiance. Bright glowing faces, cartoon characters, moonlit scenes, all shining out from my large porch where treats were to be had. I hung up a sign which read, Welcome All, and I meant it. Streams of youngsters and their parents visited Old Charlie, as they like to call me, and I was happy to see so many, surprised in fact, that they had turned up despite the cold. The families, who knew me most,

warmed themselves in my kitchen with some hot chocolate to fight the cold. Others simply helped themselves to the large bowls of sweets and treats laid out at my door. One group in particular made me think of my own troop of friends. They had the same gleam in their eyes, the same perfect mix of excitement and adventure-seeking. When they left, I felt exhausted, and by 10 p.m.,

It seemed that the last of the children had been and gone, and so I fixed myself a large dram of whiskey and sat at my kitchen table. To another Halloween, I said to nobody in particular, not sure if I would see the next one, or indeed if I even wanted to. Life was weary for me, and with each passing day a long eternal sleep seemed increasingly tempting. It was time then to extinguble. the pumpkins outside. As I approached the front door, I could feel the cold coming from the frosted glass. I opened the door to the pitched night and felt it again. That presence I had

experienced at the cemetery as if being watched followed. The same feeling I had while walking back through town. In my mind, a curious thought took hold. Something followed me home. Stepping out onto the porch, I listened. A breeze slowly moved over everything, and in it I felt I could almost hear a whisper. Bending down, I blew out the first pumpkin. As something, a piece of wood perhaps, crashed across the back of my head, I saw a flash of light. Warm blood trickled from the wound on my scalp, and then another strike knocked me unconscious.

It would have been better for me to have remained that way. If I had, then those robbing me would have taken what they had come for and left. But instead, I woke to the cold just a few minutes later. Dazed and disoriented, I pushed myself up onto my feet, my hip searing with pain. In the confusion, I left my stick on the ground and used the wall of my house to guide myself back through the open doorway and inside. The world appeared a dream, and at that moment, I could not be sure. sure if I had been hit or had just fallen. As I wandered down the hallway and into the light of

my kitchen, that question was soon answered. I could hear voices. Where is it? An angry voice said, sharp and thin. He didn't have it on him. He must keep it somewhere in here. Another voice replied. Tear the place apart, came an older, deeper voice. And yet, while older than the trick or treaters who had visited me that night, all three voices were clearly those of teenagers, slowly but surely heading for their twenties. As I entered the kitchen, the light from the overhead lamp hurt my eyes. Then came a momentary silence. Three figures wearing Halloween masks stared at me as my eyes adjusted. I could not be sure what the masks represented, but, at first glance, they appeared to be grinning at me with grotesque, empty eyes,

as though what lay underneath was just as ugly. "'Shit!' one of the masks said. "'He's awake.' "'Grab him,' the older voice ordered, and the two younger stooges gladly assisted. They lunged at me. I could not fend them off, weakened by their first attack. They grabbed me by the arms, their fingers pushing down deep into the skin, and sat me on one of six feet.

kitchen chairs, which always lay empty. Right, Charlie, where's that old gold watch you're always hanging off your waistcoat? The older voice said, muffled by plastic and a cheap rubber smile. I knew the watch he was referring to, but I would be damned if I was going to give it to them. That was a present for my nephew, and I would have rather died than part with it. Get out, get out of my house, I shouted, though my voice was still weak. A fist then struck me on the chin, and for a moment I almost lost consciousness. The taste of blood kept me lucid.

But a fear now quivered through my body. A flick of metal caught the kitchen light gleaming, sharp, and deadly. Hovering a knife above my face, the grinning mass continued, I'll cut you, old man. Your face first, then your stomach, then your throat. Just do as he asks, Charlie. Give him the watch, and we'll leave. Nothing will happen to you.

One of the two younger masks was clearly shocked that I had woken and that their plan was not going as intended. The knife hovered still, and then the masked figure prodded the end slowly into my cheek, about a quarter of an inch deep, enough to draw blood and touch the muscle underneath. I let out a cry of pain shaking nervously. Then the game changed.

I let something slip, something which put my life in mortal danger. The second I had seen the three masked figures in my kitchen I had known, it was obvious. Damned Brugger boys, I said under my breath. What did you just say? The older voice shouted, clearly angered. Oh shit, he knows. One of the younger masks said, stepping back, his voice betraying his shock. What the fuck do we do now? The third mask ass standing in the doorway behind the other two. It's okay, it's okay. He's not seen our face, the youngest mask said.

At that, the oldest of the three and the wielder of the knife pulled the mask from his face, revealing his identity, grinning as widely as the mask which had covered his face. Darrell, why did you do that, you idiot? Now Charlie can point us out to the police! One of the younger masks yelled. Darrell smiled. He was the oldest by two years and the most twisted.

He knows already. You're going in the ground, old man, unless you tell us where the watch is and hand over any money you have stashed around here as well. You're getting nothing, little boy, I said in defiance. Daryl did not waste any time. He took the tip of his knife and slashed it across my thigh. I gasped. Then Daryl leaned in so close to me I could feel his breath.

You know about trick-or-treat, Charlie? They have that in your day? I was in tears of pain. as the blood trickled from my leg. I used to, but we never heard anyone like you, brats. Daryl pushed his sweaty nose against my cheek. Never mind that shit. I'm the trick or the treat.

You give me what I want. You get the treat of living. You don't? Well, then I'll play a little trick of my own. Taking a deep, staggered breath, I turned my head and stared Daryl Brugger straight in the eyes. You do what you have to, son. I'm half dead anyway.

One of the younger brothers then got involved. He placed his hand on Daryl's shoulder and pleaded with him to leave me alone, pointing out that they would end up in prison now no matter what happened. We should just split. Skip Town. This place has nothing for us anyway. Daryl turned to his brother, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. When to miss my home, I'm not going anywhere.

especially not because this old coffin dodger is too stubborn to just give us what we want. It was then that I started to laugh through tears of pain. This only enraged Darrell further. What's so funny, you old bastard? I was just thinking, I said, my voice growing a bit stronger. We have more in common than you think, Darrow. This is my home, too, and I'm not giving it up either. One of us needs to go.

Daryl straightened up. He was tall, and at over six foot in height, he made me feel every bit a weakened old man in comparison. calmly, Daryl turned to his left and opened some of the cupboard doors on the kitchen units. When he reached under the sink, he giggled to himself at what he had found. Turning, he held a bottle of bleach in his hand. I used it for cleaning, but Daryl.

Brugger had a different purpose in mind for it. Fancy a drink, Charlie? Daryl pushed down on the top and unscrewed the lid. With a growling stare, he ordered his two brothers. Hold his mouth open. The younger Brugger brothers clearly wanted to run, but I knew their history. Daryl had practically raised them himself

because their alcoholic father was too drunk half the time and too violent the rest. They obeyed the authority of their older sibling, placing their fingers around my mouth as I struggled in the chair. Holding my head back, so my mouth faced upward, I could feel my 84-year-old heart pounding in my chest. Then a sharp muscle spathom at the rear of my neck came as they forced my head even further back, far more than it was ever meant to go. After that, Daryl stepped forward and hovered the bottle of bleach over my gaping mouth.

Don't do it, Darrell, whispered one of the brothers, unconvincingly. Stans right, said the other brother, his voice hesitant. You're not really going to do it, are you, Darrell? But Darrell Brugger's destiny had led to that point. Each time he bullied, each time he stole, each time he had stomped on someone's face in the neighborhood because he did not like the way they looked. It was a pattern of escalation, and now Darry's. Daryl Brugger was about to cross the line from petty criminal to murderer.

And he clearly enjoyed the spectacle of it all. Daryl knew fine well what bleach would do to a person's insides. After all, the town had heard the rumors that he had boasted about killing his pet cat with bleach because it scratched him once. Only once. But that was enough of a trespass for the oldest Brugger boy. The rumor was that Daryl had...

had dazed the thing with a kick, and then held it down by the neck with his foot as he poured bleach into its eyes and mouth. The chemical burned the animal, eating away at its eyes and insides. It was a painful death. Just the type of death I deserve for keeping my gold watch hidden, in Daryl's morally twisted world, at least. Daryl poured a couple of drops into my mouth laughing as I squirmed. It seemed more enjoyable to him that way. to start off slow. The liquid burned my tongue on contact. And I tried to writhe in pain, but the two younger Brueger brothers held me down tightly.

I refused to swallow the drops of bleach, and so Daryl grabbed my throat to make me. He wrapped his hands tightly around my neck and began to squeeze. Swallow it, you old fuck! As Daryl then squeezed my nose with his other hand to try to force me to inhale the droplets of bleach, He was so consumed by his murderous efforts that he had not noticed that his younger brother, Stan, had stepped back and was staring through the open doorway of the kitchen into the darkened hallway. "'There's someone else in the house,' Stan said, sounding frightened.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and as I prepared to swallow the burning bleach in order to take a breath, Daryl's grip suddenly relinquished. A horrid gasping sound then came, and as I was a little bit of a sudden. I opened my eyes. All I saw in front of me was an empty kitchen. The broker boys were no longer standing there, nor were they holding me down. I spat out the bleach as my mouth burned and moved over to the kitchen sink, rinsing out my mouth with water. As I did so, I heard a muffled sound from nearby, like a voice smothered by an unseen hand. I turned to look into the darkened hallway, and what I saw chilled me to the bone. Six pinpoints of light. They were the eyes of the Brugger boys, reflecting the light from the kitchen. But a dark shadow had descended upon them, and I could

not make out the outline of their bodies. They were one pitch black mass, as though the night had been made real and had blackened them, binding them together. It was then that the two younger Brugger boys were released from the night's grasp and collapsed on the floor before running for dear life, first opening the front door and then escaping out into the nocturnal shadows of Halloween, screaming for help. But Daryl Brugger had a different fate in store for him, for the darkness would not relent. It held him within its whispering grasp, and from Daryl's mouth I heard a whimper of, Help me, Charlie, please. Something then rushed through the house and down the hallway.

It sounded to me like the scamper of children's feet. The noise increased in ferocity until the footsteps combined into a monstrous torrent. I watched as the two pinpoints of Daryl Buggers' eyes moved off through the door, accompanied by cries and screams as they move, before being pulled outside, dragged off by a sea of shadowed hands into the frozen Halloween night. I pulled myself to the front door where I found a solitary pine cone left for me on my doorstep. I held it carefully in my shaking hands and then embraced it as I looked out to the night. Wyndham lay silent.

The place I had spent all my days, and would spend a good few more, but as the silence of my life felt deafening, I strained to a new noise. What sounded like the voice of children running through the streets, indistinct and distant, familiar and comforting, like a welcome, recurring dream of childhood. And they said my name. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us.

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