Creepy - Day 3 - The Pig God & Halloween Story Walk

Episode Date: October 3, 2024

The Pig God***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Halloween Story Walk***Written by: Allie Harrison and Narrated by: Michelle Kane***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.

No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. It's midnight, it's October, and that means KREP is on the air and ready to guide you through this most magical time of year. It's day three of the 31 days of horror.

A time of cool winds, falling leaves, costumes, and pumpkins. When the veil between what we know and what we will never understand is the thinnest, and the darkness that creeps around the shadows is free to play. You're listening to KREP, and I'm your host, The Creep himself, and I'll be with you all night long, whether you know I'm there or not. The phone lines are already lit up and the emails are coming in. So it looks like the ghosts and goblins out there have been busy. Let's see what they have to say. Looks like this listener emails about something he calls, the pig god. I didn't know there were really people out there who ever inherited things from long-lost relatives.

So getting the letter in the mail from an estate lawyer felt more like a prank than anything. Like an analog version of the Nigerian print scam. I didn't even recognize the names in question at the time. But after a few minutes, some old memories bubbled to the surface. Second cousins on my mother's side. Farmers in the Midwest. Memories were sold and forgotten. It could have just as easily been a dream or from some throwaway chapter in a novel I'd read in high school.

It wasn't until I was sitting in a lawyer's office that I really made the connections. My great-aunt Jenny and her husband, Lowell. I think we'd gone out to their farm a few times before I was even in first grade for family gatherings. My family tree doesn't have a whole lot of branches. Trace things back and even my great-grandparents only had one child. For the most part, it's been a bit of a curse in my bloodline. The fertility just isn't in the cards for those who actually want to have kids. I'm not one of them, for the record.

When I was handed a photo album, almost like it was expected that I wouldn't remember them, the picture of the farm brought back one particular memory. The last time we went out there. See, Ginny and Lowell were the god-fearing time. The ones who seem just as afraid of their religion is strengthened by it. I have nothing against what people believe. Do whatever you want as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. Plenty of my friends are religious.

You just wouldn't know it. You know what I mean? Jenny and Lowell, however, didn't really like the mom and dad didn't go to church and used to make backhanded comments about raising an unbaptized baby. The final straw came when Jenny basically said that dad was evil because he worked for a big corporation. Never mind that he worked for a medical device company, or that their state representative regularly voted to cut farm subsidies.

They had strong feelings that were never wrong in their eyes. Mom got tired of it and basically cut ties with that side of the family. I hadn't thought about them in probably 20 years beyond an odd comment here or there about having farmers in the family. So the idea that upon their passing, from a drunk driving accident, they'd left their farm to me, made less than no sense. The lawyer didn't have an answer for that either. Of course, I figured out pretty quickly that it was probably their backhanded way getting back

to my parents. Maybe thinking I've become a farmer and see the errors in my ways. Didn't matter that Jenny and Lullet actually I'll live my parents by five years, Dad from a heart attack and mom from cancer. I'd made enough of a memory of them in my head that it was a sort of thing that spiteful people would do, which is why I decided the moment I signed the forms that I was going to sell the farm and donate the money to the charity

that I thought they'd hate the most. How was that for spite? I didn't want the farm or land. I knew I'd never really get rid of the memories of where the farm came from, and I didn't want to have to thank them for anything, dead or not. And I didn't need the money. I'm 40 and single, and I'm been able to put away a solid enough chunk of money

that I might be able to retire in the next 10 years. Besides, it'd be a hell of a tax write-off. Now I'm no stranger to real estate, part of the reason for my early retirement dreams. so I know well enough to not just hire some local agent to sell the property and fuck me out of money. Plus, since property was officially my legal responsibility, I didn't want someone breaking a leg or something and suing me. So I plan to trip out there the next week.

I could go out, document the area, assess any issue with resale, etc., then get in touch with some local offices about how to sell the place with as little hassle as possible. I didn't hold any sorts of illusions about finding some hidden family treasure or keepsake. I really didn't want to go into the house at all. The whole trip felt like a mistake from the word go. The one place to stay within 50 miles of the house was a shit-big motel that was evidently booked up because of some rodeo or something. Driving home was out of the question unless I really wanted to turn right around and drive another six hours. The only option left?

I spend the night at the farm. If it had been the middle of winter, the middle of summer, maybe out of the question. Utilities were all turned off and I wasn't going to spend the night in a freezer or oven. Just like real estate's all about location, life is all about timing. It was an unusually mild October day. I just didn't realize how much the timing would affect my life.

It was just after one by the time I got to the house. I'd left early in the morning, but all the crap with a motel and a couple of stops took way more time than I expected it to. I had to allow myself at least a couple hours to check out the property, depending on the state of the house and anything on the land. I still considered the option of driving home, if everything looked in good enough order.

Within five minutes driving up to the main house, I knew it wasn't going to be a quick trip. Even from just what I could see, the place was trashed. Siding was faded. There were large patches where you could see the wood siding, rotting, and flaking away. The barn looked like something from the dust bowl. Planks were missing from the walls, more wear and rot. I stood there for a long time just staring at it,

almost positive that I could see it swaying in the wind. I started with the house since that's where I'd end up having to sleep if it came to it. Evidently, at some point, Jenny and Lowell went the Learning Channel route. I'm not sure if they had to fit better on a show about hoarding, being filthy or starting new genre completely. But it was hard to believe anyone would or could live in the state of that house. I've seen cleaner frat houses after a homecoming kegger. Garbage was everywhere. Wrappers, soiled clothes,

stains on the carpet from where they seemed to stop bothering to even wipe the mud off their shoes. I'll save some time by saying, just picture a place from your childhood that you hated, then fill it with garbage and filth. There, that's what it looked like. And the smell. Five minutes was all I could handle. There was no way.

I could sleep there. I wasn't even going to try. I didn't care if a tornado was cutting right down my drive home. I wouldn't even use that place for a storm shelter. Probably would have fallen apart with a hard enough wind. I can tell a lost cause when I see one. The place wasn't worth saving by any standards. I was already thinking about contacting a demolition crew to tear the place down and just sell the land as I walked out of the barn.

Lowell was a farmer after all. I figured he probably had some farm equipment around I could at least sell for scrap. What I found wasn't worth the effort to even call a scrap yard. Tractor looked like something out of the 50s, which might have been an antique under better conditions. The thing looked completely rusted out. Had he been renting farm equipment? Or did they already sell off whatever he used before they passed?

It didn't make sense. No one could tend to crops with what I found in the barn. Interest rates what they are. I wasn't holding out too much hope for anything. The acreage was good, but there was so little care put into the upkeep that I was worried how long it would sit on the market while I had to keep paying the taxes. I think I was in the middle of emailing my accountant

when I walked out of the barn to see that I wasn't as alone as I thought I was. Evidently, my departed relatives weren't completely inept at farming. Pretty close, though. There was one animal on the farm. One single animal. A pig. By the size, I'd say it wasn't very old. Licked about the size of the one from that Adel Do Pig movie.

It was laying there. The middle of a three-sided pen that rested up against the side of the barn. The entire pen was just a mud pit And little pig just sort of rolled around in the mud Over and over and over And over I know it's because pigs don't sweat And they need to stay cool

But that little bugger seemed to be having the time of his life Eyes closed Just rolling and rolling Kaked in mud And stink into high heaven I'm not really much of an animal guy I don't even own fish but I had to admit it was kind of cute in its own way

and there's something about it being there that's sort of shit I don't even know how to explain it maybe it wasn't something as over the top as a Grinch's heart growing three sizes but the fact that there was that little animal there made it hard to think about leveling the land and sending it off to slaughter I've eaten more than my affair's share of pork over the years but the idea of killing that little pig

just so I could sell the house with a clear conscience was a bit much even for me. Instead, for reasons I couldn't fully understand at the time, I decided to spend the night. I didn't have any camping gear, and it was getting late, so I didn't much feel like driving around trying to find a place to shop, especially since Walmart stopped being open 24 hours. So I figured crashing on Loll and Jenny's couch wouldn't be the worst thing. and it wasn't

the worst thing that is but it was still pretty terrible there was so much dust in that stale room that it felt like I was given myself asthma and when I did fall asleep I had the most messed up dreams the kind you can't remember but when you wake up you can't shake either I think that was a week a good hour before the sun rose

I just lay there on the couch, curled up in hand-knit blankets that reeked the mothballs, looking out the window, waiting for it to be light. The electricity had long since been turned off, so I couldn't charge my phone and didn't want to run the battery out. I did wonder, though, if pigs get cold. Once the sun was up, my plan was to find some diner and get some breakfast before seeing if I could find someone interested in taking on the piglet, so I could at least avoid having that on my conscience. Sleeping in the house overnight hadn't helped the weird ball of anxiety that had been growing in my chest.

I felt like I was being watched or something, and that my being there was a mistake. I pulled my shoes on and stepped out into the cold air, immediately seen my breath. I considered just going and getting a little piglet and putting in my back seat. Maybe I could just drop it off somewhere. But that thought left me once I circled around the barn. I stood there, confused for a while, trying to figure all what was wrong with what I was looking at. I racked my memory, trying to think back to just the day before when I first saw the pig. For some reason, I'd been under the impression that it was small, like the size of a house cat or Scotty dog or something,

small enough to carry under my arm. But what I was looking, I was bigger. At least twice as big. More like a yellow lab. Why did I think it was smaller? Was I harboring some kind of guilt at the vendetta sort of agenda I'd created to get back at whatever I'd hated about Jenny on Lowell?

And my mind told me the pig was smaller to make me feel more guilt, or delay what I was trying to do? none of that really matter beyond the oddity of it all. I still had a job to do. So I left a pig where it was, rolling over and over in the mud, with his content look on its face, or what I perceived as content when it came to swine, and had it out for breakfast.

Finding breakfast was easy enough. I ordered buttered toast with some coffee, which was kind of weird too. Normally, my default at any breakfast place is two eggs over medium, crispy bacon, and hash browns with plenty of hot sauce. It just didn't sound good. Maybe there was a sense that they weren't passing their health inspections by much and didn't want to risk whatever bacteria was grown in the kitchen. From there, I stayed on track, going right to a farm and supply store and buying a large bag of pig feed. The guy at the caller kind of looked at me weird, but I assumed he just thought it was strange that someone he'd never seen.

seen before I'd stopped to buy pig food. I went back to the farm, hefted the bag under my shoulder, and marched right back to the pen. I think I was even whistling in a little tune. I stopped whistling as soon as I walked up to the pen. I dropped the feed to the ground and cursed myself out. How could I have been so stupid? What the hell was I even thinking? Why did I buy such a small bag of pig feed for such a large hog? I'd only gotten a 25-pound. I'd only gotten a 25-pound bag for a hog that must wait at least 300 pounds. This only lasts a few days at the very best. Seriously, how could anyone be so stupid?

I grabbed the bag to tear it open, only they see that I dropped it at the edge of the sty and it was covered in mud, which meant my clothes were now covered in mud. Listen, I know even the best of us make mistakes. as if my head was someplace else completely. I tore open the bag and dumped a grain into the trough before going back to the house and changing into a pair of Loll's overalls. They fit pretty well, all things considered. And it just felt right being on a farm and all.

I grabbed a pair of his boots and was surprised to see we had the same size feet. At least that was going right for me. I got right to the next piece of business. fixing up the barn. I went back to the feed store, grabbed a couple of the largest bags of feed I could find, the end of the lumber yard to get some planks to mend the fence and gaps in the barn.

I figured there were some hammers around so I didn't bother going to the hardware store. And if I was going to stay there, at a lease had looked presentable. I didn't waste any time when I got back and did a pretty solid job if I do say so myself by the time the sun was going down. It was only then that my stomach started to turn

and I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I figured the hog was hungry too. So I went and dumped all the rest of the feedback into the trough, which he scooped up in just a few mouthfuls of its massive jaws. I've heard those gangster stories about pig farms and disposing of bodies, but never really made sense to me. I mean, pigs are so huge that they don't have natural predators. So why would it act like some kind of shock that a pig could eat a person?

The one in the pen was almost my height when it was standing on all four legs. Of course people should be scared of them. They're giants. We all should feel so fortunate that they're happy just to roll around in the mud, eat a few hundred pounds a feet a day, and gently remind us of what we need to do for them. Can you imagine if they got mad? No, thank you.

When I crawled out of bed the next day, I had to shake my head at how stupid Loll and Jenny had been. Why had they forced a pig that size to wedge itself into a 10 by 10 foot pen when the barn was right there? I went back to the hardware store and got a power saw and got to work cutting a hole in the side of the barn big and not for the hog to slough its way inside. Of course, then my issue was feeding it. The guy at the feed store already seemed to be judging me on how much I had to buy, as if he'd never known a pig farmer before. I'd have to get creative.

I won't go into too much detail, but I managed to get a guy to come out to the barn to take a look at a hog I was planning to sell. Of course, I didn't tell him the truth, that I wasn't selling the hog. I'd never sell the hog. It wouldn't let me even if I tried. But who would try? Would you try to try to see? sell a god? Makes me laugh just thinking about it. When I opened the door to the barn,

the guy barely had a chance to let out a scream of joy over the amazing sight before he ran into the darkness of the barn to be with it. Or maybe he was pulled. It was hard to tell. I was thinking about all the work I still needed to do around the farm. I left him there to revel in its glory while I ran some errands. By the time I got home, the only thing left of the guy was a wallet. I figured I'd bury it somewhere. But when I grabbed it from the mud, the fold opened and a picture of a smiling family fell out. I picked up the picture and couldn't help but feel bad. I mean, it's all the circle of life.

Man was raised to be food for pigs. But still, it was a hard thing to have to confront. Clearly I wasn't meant to be a farmer. They're made a heartier stock than I am. But still, I'd taken on the job, so I'd have to find a way to deal. Fortunately, I found a bottle of gin in my kitchen under the sink. I didn't remember putting it there. Then again, I didn't remember who the two old people and all the pictures around the house were either.

Some things are just a mystery. It's only after I was a quarter of the way through the bottle that my head started to clear. It was like remembering a dream, but I knew I'd been awake for it all. Everything I'd done. Fixing the farm, feeding that pig. No. That monstrosity. What did I...

Why had I done it? Had he made me? It didn't matter. All I knew was that the alcohol numbed whatever it was inside me that made me want to serve that thing. and it was enough to make a break for it. As I spun my car around, I looked in the rearview mirror at the impossibly large eye that took up the entire frame of the barn door that stared at me as I drove away.

And I kept looking back at it until, black, I woke up in the hospital with two broken legs and a concussion. The doctor said I'd been drunk driving and drove straight into the side of a combine that was parked in a ditch opposite the farm. Cops came to talk to me, tell me how lucky I was that I hadn't killed anyone, that there was a good chance I'd be in jail

if the farm whose equipment I wrecked hadn't agreed to let it all slide. I signed the land over to the county. I want nothing to do with it. And I suggest you leave it there to grow over and disappear. But if you do go there, if you think this is a joke, You can handle whatever it is that's out there.

Please listen to my warning. Whatever you do, don't believe the pig gods lies. And now a quick break for our sponsors. Welcome back. You're on the air with K-R-E-P caller. You're on with the creep. Hello?

Am I on? You sure are, caller. Holy shit. I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to swear. Don't worry. We aren't that kind of radio station. The powers of B over here aren't worried about some colorful language.

Wow. I can't believe I actually made it through. I've been listening to what feels like forever. That very well might be the case depending on where you're calling from. So, what's going on in your dark little corner of the world? Actually, it's that. I wanted to tell you about our library's Halloween Storywalk. Our library puts on this really cool thing around the walking path in our park.

It's called a story walk. The walking path is great all by itself, don't get me wrong. The two-mile paved path, which is smooth enough for roller skating, by the way, loops around a pretty lake, several baseball diamonds, five pavilions that anyone in town can use for free, tennis courts and a really fun playground. Even before the Storywalk, I walked there with my daughter often while we talked about our day. Watch the pickleball players, watch someone pull a fish out of the lake,

watched someone make a great hit during a ball game, or just climbed the climbing wall in the playground. Our park is a nice park. The Storywalk is an added bonus, and it was made possible by our local library. In case you aren't familiar with a story walk, this is how it works. There are displays about every 15 or 20 feet along the walking path. Every month, the library picks a different children's book and places the pages in the displays, so we can walk along and read the book. By the time we walk the entire two-mile loop, we've reached the end of the book

and enjoyed what is usually a fun story that includes interaction, such as the clapping of hands, stomping, marching, or searching for nearby objects. My six-year-old loves it, and I love that we spend time together, walking and reading the story. I knew for October the library would pick a special Halloween book. Next to Christmas, Halloween is a favorite holiday at our house. We always decorate a lot for it by carving a number of pumpkins, and Estelle is acquainted with fictional Halloween monsters. such as vampires, ghosts, and zombies. I never wanted her to be that scared little girl

who was spooked by anyone in a costume. We had already purchased our first pumpkin, just haven't had time to carve it yet. I ended up having to work later than usual on the day we had planned to spend the evening at the park, making our way around the storywalk, and I almost put off going until the next night when we wouldn't have to struggle to read the last pages in the dark.

But my sweet Estelle offered to take her new black and white spotted Dalmatian-looking flashlight to help us see. And I knew it didn't really matter. If it got too dark, we could just finish the walk around the loop and take up where we left off reading the next time. So we drove to the park and parked near the number one display for the first page of the book. The playground was nearby, but it was empty. I thought nothing of the fact that one of the swings swung back and forth. Apparently, someone had just been there. The sun hung low in the sky, but we weren't worried.

Estelle carried her spotted flashlight, and I carried a small backpack with a couple of water bottles, a few snacks, and, of course, an extra flashlight. I knew we couldn't count on the batteries lasting in the Dalmatian light. The story was indeed a Halloween story. There was even one of those fake carved pumpkins next to the display number one. The story was called Don't Look Bollinger. behind you. I thought it was a rather spooky title for kids, but Estelle giggled and

shined her flashlight behind her and said, come out, monsters, I'm not afraid of you. The illustration showed what appeared to be a scarecrow stick figure with overly large eyes, yellow straw for arms, and a yellow head covered in a black hat. The figure lured over two other stick people, as if creeping up behind them. The two stick people who weren't the scarecrow wore dresses, displaying they were girls. Although it was a bit disturbing, there was nothing remotely frightening about the illustration given it was drawn in crayon. I thought Estella could have done a better job of drawing, honestly. I chuckled at her brave remark, and we walked on to the next display to read the story. The next page also simply read, don't look behind you. Although the

crayon illustration was different. The alluring, ghoulish scarecrow was bigger and appeared to have red, like blood maybe, dripping from its mouth. At the third page, there was another fake pumpkin on the ground. This page also read nothing more than Don't Look Behind You. The fourth, fifth, and sixth page displays also had Halloween decorations. A plastic skeleton, a broomstick, and gnomes that like witches, yet the pages of the book within the displays all held the same words. Only the illustrations on the pages were different. They still showed the same three stick figures, the two girls and the scarecrow. They were just in different locations on the page. At the seventh page, we had made our way to the other side of the lake, not quite halfway around the loop,

with nothing but woods on the other side of the walking path. Crickets were loud here, and I heard the skittering of small animals in the woods. The page read, I mean it, don't look behind you. At the display for the eighth page, the Halloween decor was a scarecrow. It looked almost identical to the scarecrow Estelle and I placed on our front porch each year with our array of pumpkins and other Halloween decorations. But it was as big as amazing.

It rested on the ground and leaned up against the leg of the book display, and I could have sworn in the shadows. The dark spots on its face that were its eyes shifted to look up at me from its seated position. The words on the page of the story at this display read, Don't look behind you, or you'll die. Estelle remarked that she didn't like this book. I didn't either. I didn't like the man like Scarecrow that recall. near my feet. I also didn't like that the sun was pretty well gone, and on this side of the

park, there were no lights. There were no baseball games being played, so the area ahead of us was dark, too. I looked around. The park was virtually empty, except for us, and the scarecrow. Trees blew in the evening breeze, and dry, crisp fall leaves crackled. The sounds of them harmonized with the crickets, shadows from then danced on the grass and the path around us, an owl hooted from some nearby tree, and the sound of it startled me more than I care to admit. It was as if the sound alerted me to the idea that despite the park appearing empty, we weren't alone. As an avid reader, I had often read a passage dating something like, I felt his gaze burn into my back.

I suddenly understood that exact feeling. Someone was watching us. I was certain of it. I suggested to Estelle that we cut across the grass and head back to the car. It wasn't something I'd budgeted for and don't generally let her eat too much junk food, but I promised her a child's meal for supper in lieu of remaining in the park and finishing the distance of the walking path. If Estelle was feeling the same sensation of her, of being watched that I was, she didn't comment. She did, however, shine her little dog flashlight

around in all directions, and she did not argue about leaving. Was that scarecrow's right hand previously on its thigh as it was now? Had it moved? I wasn't sure, but I was sure we needed to leave right now. I slid the backpack I carried through both arms and onto my back, so both of my hands were free. As I turned away, I grabbed Estelle's hand, swung her around harder than I intended, and said, come on, we need to go right now. If I had been alone, I would have sprinted, but I had a six-year-old with much shorter legs than mine. Truth be told, I wasn't sure if picking her up and trying to run was easier or put us both at a slower pace than that which we were moving right now, but I wasn't going to waste the seconds trying to find out.

I felt whatever watched us was right behind us. I thought I felt a rush of air at the back of my neck as if it breathed on me. The air was warm, but it caused cold goosebumps to cover the rest of me. I dropped my flashlight. Estelle pulled against my hand, attempting to go back and get it. I yelled at her to leave it, and I'd get her a new one. I looked back and thought my heart was going to stop. The scarecrow was now standing.

and it was right behind us. I told you not to look behind you. It said in a raspy voice. I screamed. Estelle screamed too, but I'm not sure she recognized exactly what was happening. Or if she understood the need to be terrified. She probably screamed because I did.

I had the feeling that in her quizzical child's mind she was simply asking questions about the scarecrow. Can scarecrows really walk and talk? Are scarecrows real? Estelle was a bright girl, but she was also a child, a concrete thinker who knew that scarecrows shouldn't be able to talk. But this one was walking, well, really running enough to keep up with us and talking, and threatening.

Was this some Halloween prank put on by the library? Were they planning to make this a haunted trail? for Halloween? To go along with the spooky storywalk? Were we the guinea pigs? Straw brushed against my back. I think it reached for me. I skittered sideways as I ran, dragging Estelle with me. I heard Estelle sob through questions of, it's strange how everything becomes clear and precise when you feel you're running for your life and you have a child to protect. I heard the way she called me Mommy when I'd been mom for a while now. I felt cold, wet dew of grass brush against my ankles.

I saw my car in the shadows. I felt the softness of Estelle's hand in mine. I felt the scratchiness of straw, as the thing chasing us grabbed my arm. But it wasn't exactly a hand that grabbed me. It was like the straw at the end of the arm just wrapped around me. I pulled away. I glanced down to see some straw stayed wrapped around my arm, but I had escaped.

I knew even if we made it to my car, the scarecrow was right behind us. We would not be allowed the time to open the doors, climb in without it getting us. Despite the warning to not turn around, I paused in running and turned to face it. I kicked it where I thought its knee would be if it were a real person. My kick did not deter it. In fact, my kick did nothing at all, or so it appeared as the scarecrow grabbed me this time with both of its straw hands. Straw slithered around me like snakes wrapping around my upper arms. This was no man dressed as a scarecrow trying to scare us.

This was something so much worse, something impossible. I knew if it got the chance to wrap around me in other places, I could quickly become incapacitated. I also knew kicking and shoving would get me nowhere. I was going to have to do something more drastic if Estelle and I were going to reach my car. I looked down and saw straw growing out from the scarecrow's feet, slithering to wrap around my ankles. I hated letting go of Estelle's hand, but I couldn't do what I planned when handed. Before any more straw could wrap around me, I reached out and grasped the scarecrow by the straw on either side of what would be its face under the ragged hat it wore. I gave its head a swift twist.

I'm not sure if my actions surprised it, but I was sure surprised by how easily the straw head came apart from the neck. I tossed the glob of straw and hat aside, took Estelle's hand again, and the two of us sprinted to the car as fast as her little girl legs could carry her. I didn't turn around to look at the scarecrow again. We reached my car. Because I had the fob in my pocket, all I had to do was touch the button on the door handle to unlock it. I pulled it open and practically tossed Estelle across the front seat before I jumped in behind the wheel, slam the door, and hit the lock button behind me to lock all the doors. I started the car. My headlights shined on it enough for me to see it was twisting its own head back into place. I put the car in reverse.

Mommy? I'm not in my seat. It's okay. Sit up on the seat like a big girl. Do you think you can put on your belt? I was amazed at how calm my voice sounded because my heart pounded painfully in my throat, threatening to choke me. I sucked in a breath to calm it. The breath helped, but only a little. She did as I asked before she asked me if the scarecrow was alive. I admitted I had no idea, but that I was glad to be away from it. I got her child's meal at the drive-thru, not wanting again to venture out of the car in the dark without being in our own garage where it would be safe behind the locked doors of home. Her nighttime routine was normal, the bath, and several stories before bed. The only thing she said about the evening was that she liked the storybooks I read to her before bed much better than the Storywalk story. At that moment, I was glad for the resilience of children. They pounce back to normal so fast. She slept through the night without any nightmares or apparent negative effects.

How do I know that? I didn't sleep at all. When I wasn't stalking through my house on patrol, checking windows and doors and peeking out between closed curtains, I was sitting beside her, watching her sleep. The next morning, our routine was as usual also, but I felt as far from normal as it. I could be. I made Estelle her favorite breakfast, crunchy French toast. After I dropped her off at school, I came home, called in sick to work, and took a nap. Then I went to the library to complain about the Halloween book and the storywalk displays. Imagine my surprise when I was told they hadn't yet

placed the book for October into the storywalk. I drove to the park and didn't get out of my car. From where I sat parked, I could see all the fake carved pumpkins and Halloween decorations were gone from the book displays. Estelle and I haven't been back to the park. She hasn't asked to go and I haven't offered. Estelle has requested we both dress as superheroes for the annual trunk-or-treat festivities. We decorated our porch with our usual Halloween fun stuff, except for the scarecrow. I burned that scarecrow in our backyard fire pit. Thank you all for tuning in. This is the creep, and you're listening to KREP, today, tomorrow, and forever.

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