Creepy - Day 29 - Henry's House of Horrors & We Never See Each Other Anymore

Episode Date: October 29, 2024

Henry's House of Horrors***Written by: Jessie Johnson***We Never See Each Other Anymore***Written by: Deirdre Coles and Narrated by: Alicia Atkins***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 date 29 of the 31 days of horror. A time of... A time of... Of... Who am I talking to right now? I don't want to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I do have a message, but... Well, it's a little complicated if you're listening to this by mistake.

Some of you want to listen. Some of you need to listen. But my message isn't for everyone. No, I don't want you getting the wrong idea and spoiling the season. Tell you what? Let's put a rain check on the message, shall we? And instead remind you all that you're listening to KREP and I'm your host, The Creep. One of my favorite things about Halloween would have to be the haunted houses to pop up all over the place.

There's something so special about having a place where so many people of all ages and backgrounds can come together and enjoy a good scare before walking out into the night air and remembering it was just for fun. Usually. Like in the case of this next listener's story wants to let us know about the haunted house in her town. Henry's House of Horror I lived in a small town growing up the kind of town with one gas station that also served as the most accessible grocery store

you can imagine the quantity and variety of supplies there was less than appealing however it kept the people fed enough and for those who found it lacking they could take the 50-minute drive to the city over where a larger grocery store could be found New Hope was the kind of town where people just sort of never left once there.

The same people could be found at the grocery store every morning, some as early as 4 a.m. Everyone knew Bubbins that could be found at one of the two tables out front, sipping the coffee and talking about the coming day's weather. Wedged in between two dense chunks of woodland, New Hope didn't have a lot of things. Shit, New Hope really didn't have anything, if I'm being honest. But sure enough, every year once the leaves began to tinge orange and the air got that sharp, crisp feeling that only came with autumn, the town would come alive with the continuous rumble of traffic. New Hope had one thing, and that was Henry's House of Horrors. I don't know how it came to be called Henry's House of Horrors.

I'm not sure who the demented soul was that came to build it, or why. None of us really know the origin of that strange and haunting house. We only know that the house itself seems to sustain the town, and in turn, we, the people of New Hope, helped to ensure the house itself stays fed. New Hope was one of those towns sort of stuck in the past. Kids peddling on bikes all day. Parents busy somewhere else,

probably working their lives away to bring in whatever mediocre check they could manage. Some might even wish that such a place would be their home. There's nothing charming or whimsical about a town just on the edge of economic extinction. It only looked charming because there was no other option than for kids to just run around and fend for themselves or their parents worked whatever jobs they could. That all changed once October hit. Like clockwork, the tourists began to pour in. at first a slow trickle of cars just passing by on their way to one of the better cities. It would happen upon a very old, very faded sign of what they think might be a tourist attraction.

The sign was old, thick, blocky letters painted over heavy wood, the once red paint, now a dusty shade of pink. The sign itself battered and abused by decades of weather. No matter the damage or where, the sign still stood out. to every October like some strange insect light. The faded letters calling out to anyone who happened to look up at one of the many billboards posted along the busy highway. Henry's House of Horrors.

I remember a time when the sign was more well kept. The clinging vines and ivy cut back once the end of September would be near. It was even a time when an older couple would try to touch up the old paint, ensuring the name was still legible. I don't know when, but eventually the town quit doing that. Not that it mattered. We would see time and time again the sign would continue to bring in traffic. The place itself stands like a sleeping monster at the end of a dead end street.

It stays there all year, and for the most part, those of us who live here keep well away from that place. Monkley used to say that it's got bad juju, back when he was one of the two old men sitting out front of grocery store before he. He died and a new man took his place. Parents warned their children to stay away from it, and children begged their friends to go with them to it. Those people foolish enough to dare to go into that place never came out, and no one never went in after him. Eventually teenagers quit daring each other to go in,

wiser to what happens to those who did. The people in New Hope knew to stay away. knew that it was not just an ordinary place. Henry's House of Horrors was a three-story structure, a wide wraparound porch and tall windows that lined the front, with a window in the shape of a thin triangle staring out at the peak of the old place. Time had not been kind to it. The old wood black with rot and age,

the roof sturdy enough but questionable in some places. No matter how bad it looked, no matter how much one might think it could collapse at any moment. It never did. And no one seemed to question the derelict tourist attraction. October 1st also meant the arrival of who I call the Derby Man, a tall, gangly man. He had deep-set eyes that cleared out from shadowed sockets.

He had no eyebrows, a fleshy section of his forehead taut against his skull, a sickly shade of white that put me in the mind of hard-boiled eggs. He wore what might have once been a suit, the color lost between gray and brown, tattered and worn. The brass buttons that held those weathered strips of fabric seemed off compared to the rest of him, gleaming and shining bright like new pennies. As a boy, I feared the Derby Man more than anything in the world, convinced he would emerge from my closet or out for my closet,

or out from under my bed, dragging me back with him to that horrible house. Even as a child, I knew he wasn't a man, not an ordinary one at least. There was something in his eyes, his face, and how he walked that sent my heart hammering in my chest. The last night in September I always brought a strange pulse through the town, as if you could feel the ground of new hope shut or awake. Like a stale hiss of breath, it swept through the town, filling our noses with a sour smell, making our houses stink with it.

Then came the noises, clanking and clambering, heavy thuds and pounding, like someone had decided to take up drumming on old rusty pipes and planks of wood. He was going for hours, sometimes until the first bits of dawn had started to turn the sky from inky black to purple. The house never changed, even with all the noise and racket. From our point of view, nothing was different as far as the surface went. What was different, though, was the arrival of the Derby Man. As if he had never left at all,

the Derby Man could be seen October 1st just resting on the broken steps of Henry's House of Horrors. Black eyes twinkling as if he had some dark, hideous joke no one else knew. People don't leave New Hope. And so everyone has a sort of logbook of stories and recollections from generations past. Old-timers muttering about the same old man emerging in the fall, the same man impossibly every time. Not a man in a similar suit, or another strange, gangly man in a similar hat.

The same man. For generations, this thurby man has been whispered about. I don't like to think about it too hard. to try and understand the impossibility of what that means, or just how old the derby man truly was. For decades, centuries even, the same man would emerge from nowhere, and on that first October morning he would take up his usual place on the steps. The derby man would sit and wait. He didn't have to wait long.

Like a patient man fishing, the bites came soon enough. It's always the passers-by who come first, drawn in by that curious sign peppered in moss and vines and oldest shit-writing. They want to know what it is. It is October, after all. And for many, that means allowing themselves to indulge in the macabre. What's more macabre than an old sign in an old town advertising a house of horrors? So they come. Their nice, shiny cars, caked, and gulfs.

gravel dust, pulling up to the one grocery store slash gas station to ask one of the two old men out front, say, what's this Henry's House of Horrors all about? Rinse and repeat. Bubba or Sid would give them some half-assed grumble about how to get to it, then tell them to try some Mennelie-mase boiled peanuts while they're there. It's funny how people lean into what they think is a small nostalgic town. Most get out, shop around the little store. They always buy a bag of oil peanuts. Talk with the cashier on duty that day, before asking if there's a place to stop and eat at before they check out the house of horrors. The cashier then says happily, as they bag up those peanuts, that's the best place to eat is Earl's fine dining. They then wink and say,

get the catfish. It's what they're known for. They failed to mention the part about Earls being the only place to eat. Rinse and repeat. At Earls, the tourist being mentioned, would be surprised with how good the catfish is. I don't normally like catfish, but this is great, they would say with full cheeks. The waitress, either Betty or Lulu, depending on the day, would smile and say, well, if you think that's good, you should get the pie. Earl's wife used to win all the trophies when we had a fair. The tourist would smile and nod, always picking apple, and Betty or Lulu would then go off and get them a slice. No one asks why we don't have a fair anymore. No one ever wants to look further than the delicious catfish or fresh slice of pie. After they had their fill of fish,

pie, and pleasantries, they smile and venture off to the reason they even pulled into our little town. They usually keep their car parked on the side of Main Street. After all, they say it's such a nice day to walk. They walk down Main Street and coo and awe over the little window shops and antique stores. They never go in. No one ever does. If they did, they'd be met with locked doors. Every door on every building and shop is locked here. But no one ever tries to go in. in and so they never know. Maybe if they did try, they'd see this place for what it really was. Maybe they'd have a chance to turn back, to see past the pie and peanuts and smiling waitresses.

They never do. When they get to Cherry Lane, they all sort of stop, standing at the center of the pothole, riddled street, staring down at the looming shadow that is Henry's House of Horrors. Some just start walking, pushed on by the prospect of a good scare, or at the very least great story to tell later once they make it to wherever they're going. Some stand there and stare, as if some small part of them knows that something just ain't right. Like whatever little voice they have is whispering at them to leave. It doesn't matter, though, because they all stop and see him.

And with that, it's already too late. He stands from his place on the step, waving one long, bony arm and smiling a smile that should have been terrifying to everyone. But it isn't, because of course the man running the house of horrors is scary. Don't be frightened. Come on down to the scariest place in town. The only place in the world where you will experience true scares. The derby man has one of those old-timey accents. Transatlantic, I think is what it's called. His words re-sparking that curiosity that brought these people here in the first place.

No one ever wonders why the road is so broken down. Why the houses on either side of the street are clearly vacant, some even falling down entirely. No one questions why, despite it seeming like such a quaint town, they haven't seen a single soul besides the two old men, the cashier at the grocery store, or the waitress at Earls. I always wish someone would turn around, but they'd realize something just wasn't right. It doesn't matter. They were already a fish on the hook the second they pulled into this town.

The Derby Man smiles, revealing teeth that are quite skinny. It's jarring to most to see those brown-hued things when he grins, framed by pale gray gums that only make those long skinny teeth look even more horrifying. But because they're standing at the entrance to a horror attraction, they disregard those little whispers of instinct telling them to run. And after all, they're here to be scared. And this man is doing his job well because he is quite scary. His tongue is a thin black thing, wriggling and always darting out of his mouth like a writhing worm.

He flicks his lips with it, running it along those brown. and thin teeth as he talks, securing the final knot in the slow game of cat and mouse, slowly ensuring the fish has indeed taken the bait. They all go, ushered in by a long, thin arm gently draped over their shoulders. He's decayed grin, a terrifying delight to them as they walk into a house that looks impossibly dark from the point of view we all watch from. None of us, not a single one of us, have gone in, have dared to even walk down the deserted street that stands like a one-way tunnel to hell.

Not a single one of us have ever tried to stop them or warn them. We all just watch and wait. Once they're a-in and gone, the derby man always looks back, always grins at those of us brave enough. No, ghoulish. Enough to watch. What happens next? I hear you asking.

I can't tell you what happens inside Henry's House of Horrors. I can tell you about the screams. How they start out light and filled with giggles. Frogs too stupid to know the water they're floating and is getting hotter and hotter. The screams start to change about ten minutes in. Yes, I've timed it. There's always this. long pause, where you can tell the people inside are starting to realize something is wrong.

If you've ever heard the way a pig screams, then you know what their screams sound like. Imagine a Keening scream that makes your blood turn to ice. It makes some long-forgotten primal part of your brain scream at you to run. I don't know what happens to the people who go into Henry's house of horrors. I don't know what happens to them to make them scream in a way that gives you no choice but to understand the thing they are facing must be brutal, cruel, evil. I can tell you that about this time is when Bubba and Sid leave their post at the grocery store. They make their way down to Main Street where, of course, the tourists left their car.

And of course, the keys are still in it. If you go back down the one gravel road that leads you into New Hope and pay real close attention, you can see a hidden road wedge between two dead trees. You'd miss it if you weren't looking for it. No one ever looks for it. But if you take that hidden drive all the way down, it takes it Earl's junkyard. Yes, he owns the diner and the junkyard. The sign is obnoxiously old.

At one point, I think it even lit up. The busted bulbs and hanging bits don't hide the name, though the overgrown trees and moss do their best to swallow it whole. It's there that one might see Bubbin said drive those nice, shiny cars deep into the junkyard, winding them through rows and rows of cars and trucks and even a few RVs. There's a make and model of every kind, there at Earls, a treasure trove of vehicles that could almost act as its own time capsule. After they've parked it, don't ask me where, they'll usually borrow Earl's old Ford and drive it back into town where they'll park it at the back of the grocery store. Don't worry, Earl will drive it back when he closes up shop because, yes, Earl owns the grocery store slash gas station too. Now during all this, something else is happening.

Don't ask me what's happening inside. I don't know. But I can tell you while Bubba and said are gone and the screams finally stop, the front door that damned house opens just enough for two thin, red-slicked hands to drag out two heavy, rusty old buckets. Now, I can't be sure what's in them. I've never gone to fetch him myself. But I can tell you that I've been close enough to know that whatever's in there is lumpy and filled with thick, stringy things and chunks that look an awful lot like bits of bone.

I can also tell you it smells real foul, and I mean I'd prefer the smell of month-old roadkill to whatever pungenturemits from those old buckets. The man or woman who collects those buckets happens to also be the very individual who catches all that delicious catfish Earl fries up at the diner. Now, I'm no fisherman. But I can imagine whatever is in those buckets must be real delicious to those catfish. Though I still don't know where they find these fish, seeing his New Hope doesn't have a lake or a river or even a pond to my knowledge.

Bubbin's head usually ease back into their seat sometime near dark, right when the skies turn a toasted orange color and the air gets a bit colder. About this time, the Derby Man will remit. materialized on the front step. I've never seen him exit the house. I even tried to catch him once, when I was much younger and a bit braver, of course. I can tell you with absolute certainty

that the Derby man never came out of the house, but sure enough, right, as soon as the town went into darkness, he was just there. He wasn't covered in blood. His clothes weren't torn or ripped any more than they had been. He was fine. He was the same.

Come morning, sit and Bubbar back in their seats at one of the two tables. The town wakes up and quietly, routinely, people go about their day. Sure enough, the sound of tires crunching down the gravel road can be heard. Those of us who are always watching, always waiting, know that it's about to go again. Rinse. repeat. I've been in New Hope all my life. I've watched Henry's House of Horrors as a young boy and as a young man.

And now, as my skin is worn, peppered in bruises and blood spots. Bubba died ten years ago. Sid followed after by a few months. I sit here in the same chair at the same table every morning. drinking the coffee Earl Jr. always seems to burn. Lou sits at my right, sipping his own cup of awful coffee. He doesn't talk much. That's fine by me. I tend to not have much to say these days.

I hear Denise had a large batch catfish already frying. Earl Jr. even had Benny and Macy clock in today. Which means he must be looking like a busier day for our little town. as if on cue my ears perk up did sound gravel crunching, loud engines purring as they make their way down our little gravel road. Lou. My voice is gruff and crinkled now, my foot nudging his dusty boot. Wake up.

He shakes himself awake, blinking, bleary-eyed at the road. It doesn't take long for three trucks to come rolling up. One has a Florida license plate. The others must hail from jade. Georgia by the looks of their own plates. A young man with a mop of brown hair leans out of his window saying hello to me. I can hear the giddy chatter of children in the back. A young woman peers at me from her side of the cab. He asked me if I know if that Henry's House of Horrors is still open. He thought the sign looked pretty old, but he thought he'd give it a whirl.

He flashes me an easy smile, white teeth gleaming at me. I shifted my seat. nodding my head slowly. Sure is. It's right at the end of Cherry Lane. You all traveling, I take it. A loud squeal erupts from the back, followed by more small giggles. I feel the pinch in my chest first,

the corner of my jaw tightening as I listen to what I think might be two younger children and one baby chattering and cooing behind him. He nods, pointing a thumb at the two trucks behind him. He says that this is kind of a family road trip, and figured they'd see some fun sites and do all the exploring they can. I nod, movement catching my eyes, the back window rolled down. A slightly dirty little face, just barely able to see over the window. A little girl gave me a wave, which I returned.

My stomach twisting as I saw an even smaller hand waving around what looked like a rattle, and then another child popped up higher. as if trying their best to get as good a look at me as I was them. The young man warned someone named Lucy to keep her window up. The young man rolled her window up, but not before she could stick her tongue out at me and burst into more giggles.

I felt my eyes burn. The mouth go dry. You all got little ones with you? The man smiled and nodded. He explained that they do. and wondered if that's going to be okay. They were hoping it was kid-friendly. A naked pain started my right eye.

My foot shaking as I looked at him. Then the woman looking out at me with curious but friendly enough eyes. I, uh, my words felt like what's sand on my tongue. My throat too tight as I tried to make these words leave my mouth. I, uh, I glanced. the street. At the little diner I could just barely see, and then at Cherry Lane, which I could not see from here, but knew he was waiting all the same. I don't think you, Lou reached out, a hammy fist thumping me on the back as he stood, shifting his gut around as he walked to him.

He apologized for me, telling them that I'm older than dirt and fumble on my words sometimes. he thinks that I may have dementia. At this the woman made a small sound, some sort of sigh as sympathy as she shot me a look before returning her eyes to Lou. He grinned, not ashamed at all, the toothless mouth he now sported, telling the family that Henry's house of horrors

is for family, friends, singles, and mingles, and that they better grab themselves some of Nellie's boiled peanuts, though, as they were the best in the state. The young man nodded, his eyes bright with excitement while he thanked him. Lou nodded, waving them to where they could park. He told them if they were hungry to take themselves down to Earl's diner. He even recommended the catfish, as it's what Earls is known for.

I sit there feeling dumb and cold as I watch Lou and the strangers toss a conversation around before they eventually park. Between the three trucks, there are six kids total. I watch him through burning eyes as they walk into Earl Juniors, listening as they chat and laugh, holding my breath as I watch Lou deflate back into his seat. It ain't right. I whispered my heart thudding too heavily in my chest. Lou spid into his little can, his eyes sliced at me with annoyance and then contempt, reminding me that we all had our part to play.

He followed with it looking like it. It was a busy day and best make sure I play my part well. They got kids, Lou. I hiss, being sure to keep my voice slow. We can't. Lou muttered, shifting down into his seat, his chin tucking into his chest, reminded me that they ain't the first kids or the last to go inside that place. He thinks that Derby Man likes the kids the best if you ask him.

It ain't right He shoots me a look Well barking at me That maybe not But it is what it is Then he told me to shut the fuck up And tell them to have a good time I nod

Keeping my thoughts to myself And my eyes on the ground As I listen to the families Pile back into their trucks I give a small wave As they drive off No one full well They are stopping at earls

For the catfish and pie Everyone always does Now I wait I wait for the screams to come I wait for the sign to take those nice new trucks and drive them down to Earl's junkyard Already I think I might hear more cars coming Rinse

Repeat And now a word from our sponsors Welcome back I just wanted to take a moment to They don't know yet Let's take a call Caller you're on with the creep Hey

I've been listening all month What's the deal with that kid Who keeps calling in? Oh, just kids being kids Don't you think you should be screening for those? We do our best here But sometimes Things happen that are beyond our control

But they're just kids Did you have a story for us caller. Well, maybe not so much a story as much as a message. We never see each other anymore. To understand everything that happened with the goblin glass, there are two things you need to know about my wife. The second, most important thing is that she is very, very pretty. The first is that she's been convinced that she has to be profoundly apologetic about it. Catherine is so softening. natured and socially awkward that she's never really figured out how to respond when people make almost accusatory comments about the way she looks. She just ducks her head, abashed, and tries to

change the subject. It's always been an issue for her. But at the job she started this summer, where she's the youngest and newest employee, it's escalated into outright bullying. Her co-workers summoned us both to Happy Hour her first week. The place was crazy. busy, so they told Catherine to go get the first round of drinks. Because, a hard-faced woman named Joanne said, Catherine would have no trouble getting the bartender's attention. When Catherine came back with the drinks, nobody offered to pay. She murmured to me that probably everybody would settle up at the end of the night,

but they sent Catherine up for another couple of rounds. When I finally asked how we were going to settle the bill, Joanne Braid that Catherine probably got everybody's drinks for free. And when Catherine said she didn't, they all ignored her. They invited her again the next week. And when she didn't go, we literally couldn't afford it. It turned into a whole thing about how Catherine was a snob, thought she was too good for them,

pointed silences every time she stepped into a room. That's one reason why Catherine, was so much looking forward to spending time with our group of friends from college this fall. We were a pack that formed freshman year, when a series of construction delays meant we were totally cut off from the other dorms. Our dorm was called Flanagan, and Craig started referring to it as Fort Flanagan because we were surrounded by what was practically a moat of cranes and bulldozers.

We all hated it at first, but the in-force closeness quickly turned into real friendships and lasting bonds. We knew each other's coffee and drink orders, which family members to ask after, and which definitely not to ask after, what we all hoped for and feared. But we never see each other anymore. That's not that unusual. Those of us with real careers were trying to prove ourselves with stupid long hours and overwork. And others are working influencer side hustles or second jobs, and we're all just exhausted.

But we decided we were all going to get together from our work. Halloween, and it would be just like the old days. Halloween has always been our favorite holiday. Group costumes and epic parties and legendary antics. Back in July, Catherine heard about a huge warehouse party called the Goolyard Games. It was all the things. A haunted house and a dance party and costume contests and spooky foods, and drinks and horror movies showing in some of the side rooms while gaming happened and others.

We talked about it in a group. group chat and everybody was on board. We knew it would sell out immediately. So Catherine set an alarm, and exactly at midnight bought a whole block of non-refundable, non-transferable tickets for the group. And then everybody dropped out. The excuses were different. My boss hates Halloween and I can't ask to leave early because he'll think it's childish.

My stepmom can't take my little brother trick-or-treating and is making me go with him. but the one thing they had in common was they weren't all that nice about it. Jody and Dave just ghosted. Amy told Catherine that she should understand that people have obligations and she shouldn't try and make them feel guilty about it. Craig said she shouldn't have bought the tickets in the first place

because although he'd said yes, she should have known he wasn't really that enthusiastic about the whole idea. There was an undercurrent of meanness that you sometimes see when someone knows they've done something wrong, like the woman in my neighborhood walking a dog and glaring at me with pure hatred. And when I came around the bend, yes, she had left a fresh, steaming dog turd right in the middle of the walking path. Nobody offered to pay Catherine back. The worst response, though,

came from Nina, who Catherine would have probably said was one of her closest friends. Nina decided she was going to spend the night watching movies with the guy she had gone on exactly three dates with so far. When Catherine softly objected, Nina blew up at her, unloading a torrent. It was all so easy for Catherine, already married, and what was wrong with her that she wanted to ruin Nina's chance at finding love? And why did Catherine think she was so superior, and maybe everybody was dropping out because people just really didn't like her that much. I cringed, overhearing a bit of that, pretending not to hear when Catherine was pretending not to cry afterward.

I understood Nina's reaction. She was trying to be an influencer, and had scrapped together a decent number of followers. In one of her recent videos, Nina was polished, perfect, talking about to put an intentional look together. A few of her friends were in the background, including Catherine in an old band t-shirt and jeans.

Some of Nina's followers tagged Catherine and asked who she was. It sort of started as a joke, but then snowballed. And Nina was furious. She felt like her hard-won spotlight had been stolen again, and that Catherine was, on some level, doing it on purpose. And then Catherine really screwed up. There's a forum we both read called, is it me?

It's a place where people lay out stories of conflicts and then ask who is most at fault. Catherine posted for the first time ever about the group bailing on Halloween, and an unfiltered stream of consciousness move. And the internet did what the internet does. Catherine got death threats, torture threats, wannabe edge lords describing how they would take a vegetable peeler

to her pretty face, and then use the hedge clippers and piano wire. honestly, the kind of thing any digital citizen should know to expect. But again, it was Catherine's first time posting, so she was deeply shaken. The responses weren't all threats, though. Some of them were worse. There's an expression you hear a lot. You can't control what other people do.

You can only control your response to it. One of the replies to Catherine's post started off like that, but then the commenter, Pisho Pathway 9, said that it's not true you can't control what other people do. It just depends on how far you're willing to go. There's this belief instilled in us by a thousand Hallmark movies, that when the pushover finally stands up for themselves, they'll react in the perfect way.

An eloquent, perfectly proportional response that teaches the bullies a lesson, but doesn't go too far and ends up with everybody understanding and siding with our protagonist. But any true crime show or news broadcasts about the latest school shooting will tell you, real life isn't like that. Some people, many people, when they're pushed too far, they just snap. Catherine started private messaging with P-show Pathway 9, and a few days later, she told me she had something to show me. She switched off the lights and unwrapped the goblin glass. It was a strange patchwork thing, pieced together out of scraps of dark magical relics.

But there was no doubting its power. As it sat there on our kitchen table, it throbbed and vibrated like a desecrated church bell. This bit of twisted root with the hedge witch's hex that would curse you with boils rooted down into your bones. This charred quarter of an amulet survived its bearers burning. but carried all her bitterness and rage. While a wicked priestess might draw down the moon, the glass drew on a tiny, distant, poisonous star, heaving with corrupted energies.

So this is maybe where I should have tried to stop her. But I didn't. You can call me an enabler. But after so many years of wishing Catherine would just stand up for herself, feeling so much discomfort and pain on her behalf. I found myself kind of frozen, kind of dazzled, waiting to see what she would do next. Catherine took out a photo of Nina and placed it carefully into the center of the glass.

The printed picture tumbled into a kaleidoscope, reflecting Nina dozens of times, each time uglier and more distorted. She did the same with pictures of each of our former friends, who'd replied in a cruel, dismissive way. She even included Jody and Dave, who just hadn't bothered to reply at all. Then she pulled out a thing like a broken wand

and gave the goblin glass a careful tap. I felt a wave pulsing outward, through my body, the souls of my feet, something gritty like sandpaper and salt, surging and scrapping through me and out into the world. things started to go bad for Nina right away. The influencer post she put up that night offended some people. Her response offended more.

The response to her response went viral in the worst possible way. Within a couple of days, she was cancelled and unfollowed on every platform with the same username. That was exactly the point, Catherine told me. The goblin glass warps and taints the way you were in. seen. It wasn't just Nina, and it wasn't just online, according to Catherine. Craig made an innocuous comment to his boss that was taken the wrong way and almost got him fired. Harrison's girlfriend was so upset by a picture he posted of the two of them on Facebook that she dumped him on the spot.

Dave, who made a point of having no social media presence at all, reached out to me, although he must have known I was pissed about the whole bailing on Halloween thing, saying, easily that something weird was going on, and was it happening to me too? Over the next few days, the countdown to Halloween, Catherine seemed feverish, restless, glittering-eyed. She kept telling me stories of small disasters befalling the members of the group. Things it seemed she couldn't possibly have known, unless the goblin glass was telling her somehow. The day of Halloween itself, she told me to put on my costume. We were still going to Gouliard Games, she said.

All of our friends would be there. I didn't ask any questions. The whole time, really, it seemed important that I didn't ask any questions. But I kept thinking about Halloween and about the very specific way people want to be seen on the holiday. They are trying out sexier or scarier or cooler versions of themselves. Even those who go for funny costumes are pretending to be seen. be more good-natured and self-deprecating than they really are.

Nobody's authentic, but everybody is in on the act. Catherine's costume was very simple. A plain black dress, and a circlet on her forehead with a green pendant the same color as her eyes. When we arrived at the Gouliard Games, we could hear the music and big groups of people laughing and shrieking and having fun. People who might have been us and our friends if things had gone a little different. But Catherine kept walking, far back into the labyrinth of abandoned warehouses, up several flights of cracked and rickety stairs that I couldn't believe actually held us, into a top floor space with huge half-cracked skylights.

The space was flooded with brilliant moonlight, although the moon was a crescent as slender as a knife. Catherine placed the goblin glass down gently, reverently, in the center of the room, where it squatted, a black shableness. a black shadow in the darkness of many. We'd only been there for a few minutes when I heard footsteps coming up the splintering stairs. Nina stumbled into the room, looking bewildered, followed by Craig just a few moments later. They looked at each other, baffled. Neither could explain why they'd come here, just that they felt they had to. Something had drawn them, like a harpoon in the guts, Craig said.

One by one, the others trickled into the room, questioning each other, starting to freak out a little, unconsciously forming a loose circle. Catherine stepped out from the shadows. She didn't speak a word. The third eye pendant on her forehead flowered open and caught the light of a crescent moon. And then the goblin glass started to hum and glow. It shattered mirrors plucking strands of moonlight. sending reflections like rippling water across the room, across our friend's faces as they stared at each other.

There's a very old love poem I used to read to Catherine, back when we were first dating. Our eye beams twisted and did thread. Our eyes upon one double string. Those words rang through my head as their gazes seemed to twist around each other again and again, wrenching and tangling like their eyeballs were being pulled out by the root. They all started to scream. Their screams tangling around each other, too, raw and horrible.

And then the shapes of their bodies were transforming and collapsing. With each glance, their forms crumpled inward, becoming smaller, more compact, colors super-saturated, until each of them were crushed into shapes as small and dense as diamonds. And then the goblin glass gobbled them up. Catherine turned to me, glowing and resonating herself. For a moment, I thought I would be devoured too, and I wasn't even sorry. It was worth it to see my beloved coming into her own as a beautiful, terrible beast. But then she reached out and took my hand, and I felt the three of us locking into place together,

Catherine and me and the goblin glass. The glass was much stronger now. It wouldn't need to be spoon-fed anymore. It could bite with its own crocodile jaws. And if we could feed it our dearest friends, we could surely find so many others more deserving of their fate. Catherine's new co-workers, maybe. Or some among the hundreds of people at the party next door.

We walked out into the night, hook-eyed and hungry. Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. That's our time for tonight, everyone. I don't have too many more times to say that now, do I? But that's okay, because the show never really ends. This is the creep and you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow, and forever. For more information on this podcast, including how to see how to submit your own story for consideration.

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