Creepy - Day 30 - Small Town Traditions & My Friend Dug a Hole to Hell

Episode Date: October 30, 2023

Special thanks this month to Peter Lewis***Small Town Traditions***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Bonus episode: "My Friend Dug a Hole to Hell"***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Knock knock. Hey, Frederick. How are my favorite tenants? You have other tenants? No. Oh. How is everyone doing? The month has just flown by, hasn't it?

It's actually been a lot smoother than I expected. Really? John had mentioned some situations involving screaming, threats, and other potentially litigious goings on. Like I said. A lot smoother than any of us have come to expect from John. Speaking of which, where is John? He's in the walls. I'm sorry, I don't understand.

Is that something the kids are saying these days? Like, totally tubular and cronk? How old are you? No, John's actually in the walls. He pops out to do a story, then disappears right back in. Going on five days now. There he is now. None of us know Morse code, though, so we figure he'll just come out when he gets hungry. Actually, that's knock code, often used by prisoners in lieu of Morse code, as the dits and dots don't translate as well to knocking sounds.

Anyone else concerned that he knows that? Just me. Okay. Do you know what he's saying, Frederick? Ah, one moment. And how long has he been doing that? Pretty much ever since he disappeared into the walls. Well, as near as I can tell, he is sane. Almost done for the month, but let's not get lazy. Doesn't someone have a story to do? John, is that you?

Of course it's me. Stop messing around, Nate. John, where are you calling from? The dining room? Where I always call from? John, we're all in the dining room right now. Frederick, too. What's that mean? I get it.

The last couple of trips to camp weren't the most fun thing in the world, so you all thought it would be fun to mess with me before we left here. Good joke. We can laugh about it later. If that's John on the walkie-talkie, and who's making that knocking sound? More importantly, if that's John on the walkie-talkie, Where is he actually calling from?

That's not more important than my question. Yes, it is. No, it isn't. What the hell are you two yelling about? Why do you do that every time I enter a room? Hello, John. Ah, Jesus, man. Don't sneak up on me like that.

What are you all standing around for? We have to finish up this month. Nate, aren't you up? Uh, yeah. Wait, where's your walkie-talkie? I generally don't take it with me when I go to the bathroom. What about that time? That was a mistake.

Yeah, right. We'll let the courts decide that one. Until then, can someone please go do another story? Yeah, but first? No butts. 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. Creepy Presents The 31 Days of Horror Day 30 Small Town Traditions Written by Noon of Consequence

And narrated by Nate Dufort From the moment I was born I've lived in the same small town The longest I've been away Was a two-week vacation The summer before I started high school As soon as we got back My dad took me to the local used car lot

and he bought me a beat-up muscle car. It was a 1970 Transam, and he called it our project car. He told me, the rest of the summer, you're going to work with me and earn a paycheck. Three-quarters of your earnings are going into this car, and when you get your license, this will be your ride, assuming we've restored it by then. Do what you want with the rest of your money, but I recommend saving it. You want some spending money when you're old enough.

I didn't understand what he meant at the time, but Dad taught me a lot while we worked on the car. I learned about responsibilities, what it takes to be a real man and a good person, and of course, women. I even had my first beer with my dad while working on that car. More than half of our community is made up of farmers and ranchers. My family owns and operates the local tractor

farm equipment dealership and maintenance shop. We were pillars of the community and knew most of everyone. My family was well respected because we didn't gouge people like big dealerships do and we make house calls. Now granted, a lot of folks know how to maintain their own equipment and can make their own repairs. Most of the time, they'll come to us when it comes to ordering parts and instead of them coming to us when the parts come in, we'll deliver at no extra cost. Maintaining a good customer relationship is the key to a prosperous business. On the rare occasion someone needs to bring their equipment in, Dad will show them how to fix whatever's wrong if they want.

No other repair shop I've heard of will do this because it takes business away from them. I asked Dad why he'd do that, mainly because I was more interested in making more money to put in the car. He said, It's tradition, son. We small town folks need to watch out for each other. Dad runs this business like his father did and his father before him. Our roots in this town go back to before electricity and gas-powered engines. The summer before my senior year, the Trans Am was completely finished.

I've been driving it since I was 16, but there was always something that needed tinkering. I remember driving down to the mailers and picking up Abigail in my 18th birthday. She came out of the house wearing this gorgeous yellow sundress and had my heart pounding in my chest. We've been going out for more than a year, but we knew each other our entire lives. Our families practically matched us up since we were 12, but it was only when we turned 17 that we were allowed to actually date. As the eldest children in both families, there were certain obligations. obligations and traditions pertaining to us that our younger siblings would never have to deal with. Damn near every family in the community had at least three children, some as many as six.

The firstborn were always matched up, and it was always to another firstborn. I thought this was extremely odd, and it was one of the few things my dad never explained. Sure, I asked a few times, but he'd only say, I'll explain when you're 19. Just pray I never have to sooner. Abby got the same response when she asked her folks. We even tried asking some of the adults in town, but they were tight-lipped about it too. Most wouldn't even acknowledge that there were such traditions, but those tended to be the adults that didn't have kids. They did give us some sad looks, though, and I couldn't figure out why.

We managed to score a six-pack that night and drove down by the river. Abby kicked her shoes off as we cuddled in the back seat, listened to some good tunes. Things got hot and heavy back there, but as much as we both wanted to, we didn't go all the way. It was another tradition that had been ground into our heads from an early age. No sex before your 19th birthday. I know in most places it's no sex before marriage, but not in our small town. Mid-October that year, Abby and I went out with our families to. the town's pumpkin patch. There's a farm owned by the town itself, and everyone pitches in

out there whenever they can. Surprisingly, there's never a shortage of volunteers. My parents have dragged me and my siblings out there many times, at least twice a month, but usually more. There's a few cornfields, a large root vegetable garden, cabbage patch, a pen with a few dozen goats, and two pumpkin patches. What I always found odd was the smaller of the two pumpkin patches. It's the only thing out there with a privacy fence and a lock at the gate. Every year, each family in the community takes one pumpkin from this patch. They can take as many from the regular patches they want, but from here, it's always just the one. It's easy to distinguish the pumpkins from this patch from the others, even though it's just as large and shapely

as the others, the coloring is off. Instead of the traditional orange, these ones are more of a Yellow with lots of green spots. You will never find these with a traditional jackalander face on residential doorsteps come Halloween. For some reason, these pumpkins are always carved with weird symbols and kept on the kitchen counter. The seeds are removed and placed in a glass jar that's stored inside the pumpkin. When I was younger, I never paid much attention to this. As a child, I was too focused on getting candy and what costume I was going to wear. That year, it occurred to me that I never saw those pumpkins on the front porch or moved at all.

Come November 1st, they'd simply be gone, never to be seen again. The Sunday before Halloween, every member of the family carved a pumpkin that was displayed on the front porch, but both my parents carved the odd one. That year, we were all in the kitchen working on our pumpkins, and Dad came in with a look on his face that I'll never forget. He looked like he wanted to cry and vomit at the same time. My younger siblings didn't pay attention because they were working with sharp instruments and that required all their concentration.

He whispered to my mother, but I was close enough to hear what he told her. Janice Calder and Bruce Waincroft died in a car accident on their way back into town. They're calling for the first alternatives. My mother said nothing as tears filled her eyes. but they didn't fall. Janice and Bruce weren't exactly friends of mine, but we were the same age and went to school together. They were a couple much the same as Abby and I.

Their families paired them together about a month before ours paired us. Come to think of it, their birthdays were exactly five days apart, just like us too. Dad took me to the garage, opened the hood of my car, then handed me a wrench and a beer.

He could only have a little have, uncomfortable conversations with me like this. Something about working on the car made it easier to deal with. We didn't have anything to do at that time, but he found something to fiddle with. He started the conversation in an unusual way, and I knew things were going to get bad. I guess neither of us prayed hard enough. I hadn't thought he'd been literal when he said it. I was finally going to get answers to questions he wouldn't answer.

Knowing what I do now, I wish I hadn't been so eager. Every Halloween, the parents of every family in town, gather at the community farmhouse at 11.30 p.m., bringing their odd pumpkins with their strange symbols. Once two young adult first-born virgins of the opposite sex are inside the house, they will light the pumpkins. The jars full of seeds inside act as candles. and the doors will only be unlocked once the flames go out. While inside, the two will perform a ritual of some kind,

but Dad couldn't tell me what. Only the couple inside are to know the details, and they cannot share what happened with anyone, not even those who have gone inside before them. Sometimes, the couple will come out covered in blood, but otherwise perfectly fine. Others have been found in a crumpled heap on the floor, writhing in agony. This would be the only time others can go inside the farmhouse to get them out into the hospital.

There are never any visible wounds, and doctors would be baffled, unable to find a cause for their pain. In decades past, this later outcome was rare, happening once or twice. In the last 30 or 40 years, it became a lot more common. Janice and Bruce had been the chosen couple that year. If the rumor mill could be believed, Janice and Bruce were far from virgins. As far as anyone knew, they'd been screwing like rabbits since they got together the year before.

In fact, every senior in our school was under the impression they died on their way back from Janice getting an abortion. If it was true and they hadn't died, they'd have more or less been run out of town. We may not have been in the Bible Belt, but our people have always thought of all life being sacred. There are more than a few childless couples in our community willing to adopt unwanted children. I didn't see how any of that information had anything to do with me, but then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. It had been staring me in the face the whole time.

Abby and I were the next couple in line. I couldn't get any more details from him after that. He claimed the couple going into the house couldn't know why, only that they must and be willing. It wouldn't work if the couple was thrown inside against their will. Since the town was founded, it said that this was attempted only once, and it nearly destroyed the town. For a year there was a terrible drought, and entire crops were swallowed by the earth. livestock were dying from starvation and disease and those that remained healthy were killed by wild beasts of the forest many people got sick and died or lived with starvation and grew mad this had been well over a hundred years ago

part of me wanted to grab abbey get in my car and get the hell out of town until november first i wanted this horrible responsibility to fall on someone else but i couldn't do that passing the buck unto someone else would have been cowardly, and my mother raised me better than that. Abby and I had been raised to believe our traditions were important and needed to be respected for the good of everyone. Dad shouldn't have told me as much as he did, but he couldn't not tell me. There was too much at stake. I highly doubt Janice and Bruce got a heads up about this. Honestly, if they had, it wouldn't have surprised me if they bolted. They'd always been. and the more selfish type and wouldn't have thought twice about throwing Abby and me to the wolves.

Our original plan had been to go to a friend's Halloween party in the woods, but thanks to the accident, that wasn't going to happen. We decided to dress up as characters from the 1986 sci-fi horror movie Aliens. Abby was Vasquez, and I was Drake, complete with camo pants and body armor. We tried to figure out something to do about the large guns they carried, but settled on some large Nerf guns. I had a giant knot in my stomach when I went to pick Abby up, but I needn't have worried. Her parents told her the same thing mine did. Looking back on it, we should have known they were preparing us for something since the day we were born. They always went on about traditions and doing what's expected, about obligations to not only our families,

but to the town. Anyone not born here would have thought it was like a cult, but we didn't get many people passing through. I guess that's by design. Abby and I made our way to the community farmhouse. It looked like it always did, just darker. I don't mean because it was night. The darkness seemed to have weight to it, an ominous shimmer.

Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me. After what my dad told me about this, How could I not get horror movie vibes off this place? Images of bloody hooks and chains kept flashing through my mind, of hockey-mask killers and guys with knives for fingers, all the stereotypical horror movie killers from before the turn of the century. I tried the door, but it was locked. Had our parents been wrong?

Were Janice and Bruce already locked inside? That's when the first one started showing up. Figures wearing black cloaks. carrying those oddly carved pumpkins came out of the shadows. There hadn't been any cars pulling up. They just came out of nowhere. No one showed their faces that they started lining up around the porch. Before long, the entire front yard was crowded with them.

This did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. Abby clung to my hand, and it was a combination of pride and stubbornness that kept our fake armor from rattling. against each other. It was minutes to midnight when a couple stepped up to the porch with us. I couldn't tell who they were,

but it was obvious by the way they stooped and moved that they were elderly. As they made their slow way to the door, the others began to move up to the porch. The elder couple unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside. With Abby's hand in mind, I walked into the dark house.

It hadn't a couple of the car, occurred to me to bring a flashlight or anything, and once we were inside, we turned to face the door. Matches were struck as the cloaked adults began lighting the seed jars and placing their pumpkins. The elder couple reached inside for the doorknob, gave us a brief head nod, and closed the doors, leaving us in total darkness. The click of the lock was oddly loud in the silence, and out of nowhere, a yellow light began to fill the room. It was gradual like someone was slowly turning a dimmer switch on. Looking around, I saw there were several candles, a few wall sconces fed by gas pipes,

and even the fireplace were lit. I'd seen this place in the light of day before and it looked nothing like this. There were modern features to the living room like a ceiling fan, light switches, a large flat screen TV, oh, and of course electricity. What I was looking at was a room snatched out of time from easily 100 years ago. The plush chairs and couches that were normally here have been replaced by a large dining room table,

a few rocking chairs by the fireplace, and what I could only describe as an altar in the center of the room. It was covered with a black cloth and had two thick black candles at the head of a large book. Like everything else in the room, the book looked old, but a lot older than anything else. Faded yellow leather cracked with age and smooth from the touches of a thousand reverent hands. We were both drawn to it, and our hands lightly drew down the cover with a feather's touch. As our fingers reached the bottom of the cover to rest on the altar, the book opened by itself.

The pages fluttered as if caught in a wind, but the candle flames didn't dance from the breeze. We watched as the pages turned and finally stopped somewhere in the middle. For the life of me, I couldn't understand what was written on those pages, but it didn't stop us from reading the words out loud. As if possessed by some knowing entity, Abby and I said about preparing the ritual. We gathered ingredients from the kitchen cupboards and sharpened the ceremonial knife. As she worked the blade on the stone, I went to a closed door in the kitchen. It was an old walk-in pantry with empty shelves covering the walls.

I got the impression that at one point, the shelves had been full of jars of preserved food and bags of rice and grain. The only thing in there was a goat. It sat there in the center of the room. calmly waiting for me. There was no lead rope or collar on the animal. Like us, it seemed to know what to do. It followed me to the main room and used a chair to climb up onto the large table. It sat there like it had in the pantry, calmly waiting for what was to come. I'd say it took about an hour for us to prepare everything, and during that time a word kept repeating in my mind, ball

ball it didn't make sense but as we finished we looked to the book again and I realized it wasn't B A L L I was saying over and over it was B A-A-A-L the name of whatever we were performing the ritual for standing on opposing sides of the altar Abby and I locked eyes as we began to take our fake Colonel Marine armor off

next with the Olive Dron grab undershirts, shoes, and socks, wearing only the camo cargo pants. We joined hands and began reciting words neither of us could have known. We moved about the room in a dance, and if I hadn't known I was possessed before, I sure knew it then. I couldn't dance to save my life, not with my two left feet. The only kind of dancing we'd done prior to that was the kind of bumping and grinding that doesn't really require you to move your feet. This was oddly more intimate than that It had little to do with her naked breasts

With the way our eyes were locked I couldn't look at them and I admit I tried As we made the circuit around the room I caught sight of the goat out of the corner of my eye a few times It watched as we moved Getting closer and closer to it Our dance ended at the table in front of the goat

And we began adding urge and ingredients to a large silver bowl. The concoction had a heady, earthy aroma, something like the woods after a good rain. As the last of the ingredients were placed in, I picked up the bowl, knelt down, and held it in both hands. Abby picked up the knife as the goat laid at the edge of the table,

its neck over where I held the bowl. In one swift practiced move, Abby slit the goat's throat and held its head as the blood poured into the bowl. Once the last drop fell in, she moved the goat to the center of the table. At the head,

I placed my fingertips into the bowl and stirred the contents. Abby joined me there, and I placed my bloody fingertips on her forehead. Slowly bringing them down, I left streaks of blood on her face where I touched her, and she did the same to me as we spoke more words.

Movement on the table caught our attention, and we looked to see the dead goat stir. It shifted and spasmed as if we hadn't just drained its lifeblood. The body shakily stood on unsteady legs, taking tentative steps back and forth. I'd spent many volunteer days on the community farm with the goats and witnessed a few births. Those newborn kids walked like this as they learned how to walk.

for the first time. The eyes that had been glass and dead were suddenly alive, glowing with unnatural life. Any arousal at seeing Abbey Topliss had left me, and I was afraid. After circling the table a few times, the goat became sure-footed, but I noticed something moving under the fur. The muscles inside were shifting and changing, taking on new shape that no goat ever had. It walked to the far edge of the table and turned to face us. Standing on its back legs, it looked at us before jumping backwards. It did an oddly graceful backflip and landed with a thud, but we couldn't see it anymore. Something slithered toward us underneath the table, sliding between us.

Before I could blink what had once been the goat stood on two legs, putting us between it and the table. The body was much thicker now And had the stature of a well-muscled man with broad shoulders It spoke to us in that strange language But even though I still didn't know the words I understood Ball asked if we were pure And willing to sacrifice for the sake of our people

For the first time since the light came up We were free to respond of our own accord Somehow, we managed to say yes at the same time. I picked up on Abby's tone. It matched mine. We were frozen stiff with fear, praying we did not anger this thing before us. Ball reached out hands to us that weren't hoofed, but held long furry digits. If it weren't for the fur, I'd say it had the fingers of a pianist. Abby and I both gasped as we felt something move inside us,

touching us in places nothing was meant to touch. It was a feeling inside our bodies, slithering around and moving downward. The sensation lingered on our reproductive organs, testing our purity, our virginity. We played it pretty close to the line a few times in the backseat of my car, but we managed not to cross that threshold. It was the first and only time I was thrilled about being a virgin.

I was so scared that I think my balls tried to go back inside. I knew ball could feel my emotions as easily as he was touching my insides. He then proceeded to tell us exactly what would have happened had our virginity not been intact. He would have shredded our insides, tearing apart the very parts of us that allow us to produce. children. It would have been extremely painful, crippling us with agony. Though the pain would only be temporary, we would feel how broken inside we were for the rest of our lives. Not only would we be incapable of having children, but sex of any kind would be complete agony for us. This knowledge only made my fear stronger. Those invisible fingers wiggling around,

around inside me, started moving higher. I could feel them slithering up my organs, touching every single part of my body. Bile began creeping up my throat and I thought I was going to throw up. As those phantom fingers made their way to my throat, the bile began to recede. He used this invasive power to calm my stomach and slow my pounding heart. The sensation crawled into my head and started to massage my brain. My fear was slipping away at a surprising rate, and before long, I was calm. Once we were put at ease,

and the invasive force was removed, Ball allowed us to have control of our bodies again. He began speaking, and I realized he was giving us a choice about what was going to happen. One way or another, tonight would be the night we lost our virginity, and it would be under his watchful eyes.

The choice he gave us was to allow us to do it ourselves, to have our first time be our own doing. The alternative was that he'd possess us like he had with the opening rights, and he would force us to mate for his pleasure. Ball had stripped us of our fear and gave us the ability to think with a clear mind. I knew in my heart what my answer was. I've loved Abby for as long as I can remember, and had dreamed about being intimate with her for years. I wanted to be in the driver's seat in my body for this intimate act, not some old God I'd never heard of before. Having ball control our bodies would be too much like rape, and I could never do that to Abby. She deserved a lot better.

Abby was quicker to respond than I. Her words mirrored what my internal monologue stated. She wanted to be in control of her own body, to experience this with her faculties intact. I voiced my agreement, feeling more connected to her in that moment than ever before. Neither of us had envisioned having sex for the first time with an audience, but like Ball said,

this was going to happen one way or another. At least we were going to do it by firelight. that's romantic right i was about to move into abbey for a kiss but ball spoke again there was more to this than just sex and he went into a disturbing amount of detail with this next part he claimed that we had to be fully aware of what was going to transpire otherwise the ritual wouldn't work while in this room with him to witness our coupling each time we climax together it would spark life inside Abbey. This life was to be the sacrifice for Ball, and he would take it.

He claimed the process would be instantaneous and wouldn't cause pain or even be noticeable. All we would experience in that moment was pure bliss, a wave of euphoria that we would remember for the rest of our lives. Ball would use that spark of life to not only fuel his existence, but ensure the people of our town would remain fruitful in their families as well as their farms and various businesses for one more year. This is how we flourished, while others have withered and died, faded into nothing, and lost a time. Picking up the bowl, Ball turned to us and said one final thing before anointing us.

If we choose to, we could attempt to ignite that spark more than once. If we try and succeed, he will be fueled for another year for every success. He was giving us an opportunity that I hadn't expected. We could prevent the next couple from having to go through this. Abby and I emerged from the farmhouse, covered head to toe in blood, but fully clothed and exhausted. We said only one thing to the elder couple next to the door. Three years. The jars of seeds blew out all at once, and the night was over.

Abby and I got married two years later. We have spoken of that night to no one but each other. From that night on, Abby and I were quietly praised by the adults of our community. We flourished in prosperity for three wonderful years. Abby and I were given one of those oddly colored pumpkins to carve together. We donned dark robes with our parents. and walked to the community farmhouse the next year, but no one went inside. The seed jars were lit, and we placed the pumpkins on the porch.

After the last was placed, we stood watch, but only a moment went by before all the flames died. Together, we gathered the pumpkins, walked to the fence pumpkin patch, and left them inside the locked gate. After the three years were up, the elderly couple that had unlocked the door for us passed the keys onto us. We became the new gatekeepers, which many thought was an honor. Only those who had ever been inside knew it was anything but in honor. I considered asking Abby to move away with me, but this would always be our home. After what we did, we were tied to the land as much as the people. and our families.

We could never leave. It wasn't until years later that I became aware of the full impact of our sacrifice. When our eldest child was born, it dawned on me that she was not our first child, but our fourth. Holding that tiny bundle in my arms, my tears of joy were mixed with tears of sadness.

Abby and I may have saved two more couples from having to perform for the old God, but we had sacrificed three unborn children to do it. I sometimes catch myself, wondering what would have become of those children had they not been consumed by ball, but I never voiced the words. As far as I know, Abby hasn't given it any thought. She's been too happy with our life together, and if she hasn't considered it, why would I want to put that on her. It's a burden I carry alone.

A plague in my mind as I carve the symbols into the oddly colored pumpkins every year. John, what's going on here? You're going to have to be more specific. We can start with whatever's going on with the knocking and what happened in the dining room. Why are you still trying to make sense of this, Jimmy? It's just a dream. Let it go. A what?

Jimmy, you're dreaming. How has it taken you this long to figure it out? The casual weirdness you're all just okay with. The random appearances from other narrators without being mentioned again. The fact that anything of note only seems to happen on Sundays. It's a dream. But it feels so real. Because it is real.

What? Come on. I'm messing with you. Of course you aren't dreaming. There's actual audio of all this. Besides that, do you have any idea how insulting it will be to our listeners if I suddenly pulled the It was all a dream gimmick on them? But what about all the stuff you just said?

The other narrators. Sundays. The other narrators went home, just like you're all free to do. We talked about this last Thursday, and you all said you wanted to stay until the end. But I guess that conversation never happened because I didn't record it, right? It only sounds like important stuff happens on Sundays because I'm too busy with everything else to actually plan out and deal with audio from every other day of the week. I just want to listeners to have a little something extra besides usual 31 days of stories. Why don't you go lay down?

I think you're worn out. Yeah, yeah. I think that's a good idea. You know, you could have told him the truth. about what's slowly happening to them, what's already happened to you. What could would that do? They'll be leaving tomorrow and won't know any different. And what about you?

We both already know the answer to that, don't we? I suppose we do. What are you going to do with the place when this month is over? Close it up. Are you kidding? I'm listing this on all the sights. I'll make a second fortune in renaming. Inter's alone, let alone any marketing rights.

People will flock here by the bus load. I think you might need more rooms. I think we both know that won't be an issue. No. I suppose not. The more, the merrier. Maybe merrier isn't the right word. So you're not mad at me.

Oh, I'm pretty fucking furious. This whole time we've been standing. in here, I've been thinking about cutting your head off. And, uh, where are we landing on that debate? Fortunately, you remind me as someone who means a lot to me. Hmm, another dulcet-toned Lothario. Something like that. Would you like me to stop by tomorrow to see you all off?

No, thanks. I got it. I'll leave the key on the table. There it goes again. There goes what? Wherever you are. Can you hear me? Come out, come out wherever you are.

Please. Someone. It can't end like this. For your bonus episode, creepy presents. My friend dug a hole to hell. Billy was my best friend growing up, from the ages of six to eight at least. After that, we still went to school together through high school.

but we ran in different circles. He became a star athlete, I was lucky to be considered second string at anything I played. Before all that, though, we were really close. We played together as much as possible, splitting time between biking to each other's houses. One day we were outside next to his house. He was in the days when parents sent you outside

and didn't really worry as much as they do now. Not for better or worse, just different, and you know it. Anyway, the side of his house was near the road with a row of small trees dividing the two. One day we saw a small sinkhole between two of the trees and for whatever reason kids have for making up random stories, one of us, and I can't remember who, decided to proclaim that it was a hole that went all the way to hell. Probably because at the time even the mention of the devil or saying the word hell was just so taboo.

I see the same sorts of reactions in my kids now. I have to shake my head at how some things never change. At some point, one of us got the great idea grabbing a couple of shovels to see if we could actually dig deeper. Probably something along the lines of digging a hole all the way to China. Does anyone even say that sort of thing anymore? I think we got a couple shovelfuls of dirt, realized it was hard and gave up.

Or we scared ourselves that it really was a hole to hell. Either way, we abandoned it pretty quickly. The memory faded away as so many memories do. Like most people I went to school with, I lost track of Billy after high school. I moved away to college upstate and started a new life. After college, I ended up moving back not too far from where I grew up, maybe 20 miles or so. Just far enough so that in the odd chance I drove past my high school, it would hit as a strange bit of anxious nostalgia. And life went on.

I got married, had a family, built a life. And one day I got a text that simply read, I had to go back. As I'm wont to do with texts from unknown numbers or texts I don't really want to respond to, I responded with, New phone, who dis? Took me a minute when the response came.

It was, as I'm sure you guessed, Billy. I hadn't spoken to him since high school, and honestly, I probably didn't say more than a dozen words to him in those four years. We'd never texted. The last time I saw him text messages didn't even exist. Yes, I'm old. I have no idea how he got my number. It took a few more texts for me to figure out what Billy was talking about, and he asked me if I would meet him as soon as possible. It was 10 at night, so I told him I might be able to get together on the weekend.

if my wife didn't have family plans for us. But he was insistent on not waiting. It had to happen immediately. I said no. It was late. I didn't know Billy anymore. I didn't feel any sort of connection or need. I didn't know him anything.

Honestly, the whole text thread read more like someone's drunk ramblings than anything important. Could have just as easily involved an accidental dickpick for all the almost incoherent stream of thought. But the text didn't stop. Please. Now, you need to come. Please.

Under different circumstances, I would have just turned off my phone, but I hate turning off my phone at night just in case there's some emergency. So it just got buzzing away on my nightstand until my wife's growing annoyance turned into the tipping point for me to go meet Billy. When I finally buckled and asked where, the answer took a minute to sink in. The hole.

Thirty-plus years of life is enough for that not to have meant anything to me. My mind searched for what that could have meant. Was that the name of a bar? Did Billy work construction? Then he texted, by my old house. And it hit me. I verified the address with him and went to my basement to my basement, went to my gun safe.

I have a concealed carry permit, but honestly never use it. I almost never even think about owning guns, sort of going to the range a few times a year. If I didn't own a gun, I probably wouldn't have met him that night. I wish I didn't own a gun. I texted my wife the address where I was going, kissed her good night, and told her I'd be home soon.

I just wanted to check in on an old friend. I didn't tell her I took the gun, and if she'd stop me. I should have told her I took the gun. It was about a 30-minute drive to Billy's old house. I hadn't been in the neighborhood for over 30 years, but as soon as I made the first turn down the road, all the memories hit me that hard, confusing sort of way that buried memories do.

I parked and walked up the hill. It wasn't hard to find Billy. It's not like we were in the middle of the woods, just a grove of trees a lot taller than I'd remembered, looking mostly dead too with no leaves despite the time of year, and holes eaten in the bark. Plus he had a flashlight on. I walked up slowly, immediately scared it was going to be some kind of trap

or the worst prank video of all time. But I heard the sounds of digging and saw the top of Billy's head, beat it with sweat as he threw shovel full after shovel full of dirt over his shoulder out of the hole. I called out his name and the digging stopped. He looked toward my phone light and slowly climbed out of the hole. It was Billy all right. Like those phone apps where you age someone up? Pretty much exactly that.

Same height as when I last saw him, but about 30 or 40 pounds heavier. Thinner hair. You looked tired, but not just from digging. I kept one thumb hooked into my pocket near my holster. I'm not some quick-drawing nut, but... I'd never pulled my gun from my holster in defense anymore. I didn't even know if I could do it. And honestly, it made me more scared to think about having to do it.

I kept it simple and asked what he was doing. Billy just looked back at the hole, then to me, with this weird, accomplished smile and said that he did it. And by it, he explained that he'd finally dug a hole all the way to hell. We'd been so close to it as kids. He'd been thinking a lot about it lately. I'd later learned that he'd just gotten divorced and was indeed an alcoholic.

Everyone else had dismissed his weird behavior. I asked why he called me, and he looked sad. He said he needed to talk to someone who knew, someone who understood. But I didn't understand. It was just something stupid we did as kids. "'Can't you hear it?' he asked. The car drove down the nearby road. "'That's all I heard.'

Billy shook his head and walked over to the hole. He'd done a lot of work. What had originally been a hole about two feet across and a foot deep was now ten feet across and five feet deep. He sat on the edge of the hole, his feet dangling over the sides and told me to sit and just listen. I'd hear it if I'd just listened. No one else would wait, but he knew I would.

Or maybe he just hoped. I'll never know. I was just thinking about calling 911 and getting the guy to a psych ward, but maybe he really did just need someone to listen. Sometimes that's all people need. So I sat and listened, and I heard not a goddamn thing. But Billy just sat there. Looking down, occasionally his feet would bounce against the dirt walls like a little kid dangling his feet off the edge of a dock.

Then, I heard it. A low moan. And it was coming from the bottom of the hole. I looked up with Billy, who was staring at me with an I-to-you-so sort of face that looked like pure relief. His shoulders dropped as of tension. It finally left his body. And I knew what it was. Someone else finally heard it too. I said what anyone would say. What the fuck was that? Billy said he really didn't know. He'd been hearing it for a while. The longer he heard it, the more his mind came up with images for what it could be.

He said sometimes it sounded like one person moaning, other times like a baby crying or a dog barking. Sometimes, the worst times, it was a lot of people. people, like a stadium full of people crying out in pain. He said he didn't know what it was. He knew we weren't actually sitting over a hole that went all the way down to hell, more like we were at a thin spot, and that hell wasn't as far away as people thought. Sometimes he heard the same sounds coming out of sewer grates, too, that there were spots

in the world where it was just less keeping it from us. Then why was he digging? because he heard the sounds all the time now and he probably didn't have enough in his life to think about anything else as he put it is it better to have to live wondering when hell will break through or to just let it happen and let the chips fall what could I even say to that I wasn't prepared for any of it he's clearly having some kind of mental breakdown

I told him that we should get together for lunch when we both got in some sleep. And he stared at me with these sad, tired, blank eyes. I thought in the light of the flashlight that I saw something shift in him, like resignation. Maybe a part of him realized that there was something wrong with what he was doing. Slowly he nodded, and I turned to leave, telling him good night. I hadn't even taken two steps when I heard a muffled yell,

Sort of like the sound of stepping on a dog's tail. I spun around to see what Billy had done, but he wasn't there. Just the shovel, driven into the ground. Billy was never seen again. No one really knows what happened to him. When I told my story to the police to help me for questioning, while they got a back hole and started to dig at the whole Billy started, probably thinking I was some psycho-serial killer playing some weird game.

Know what they found? Nothing. No Billy. No gates to hell. Just dirt. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared for what they might find. That Billy would be just below the surface and I'd be in jail. Or that they actually would break through something.

I don't know what. I remember that moaning I heard coming from the hole. And maybe I would have been able to dismiss it. except I keep hearing it. I hear it when I walk by sewer drains, when I walk by anything where the ground is exposed, where whatever is beneath the surface is just that much closer to all of us. I don't like staying in one place for too long.

I keep moving. There were headphones a lot outside. I just can't stand all the moaning. to all a good night. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com. You can also follow us at creepypod on social media and YouTube. All stories told on this podcast are done so through Creative Commons Sherylite licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the

express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.