Creepy - Day 31 - I Keep Finding My Family Photos & I'll See You One of These Nights

Episode Date: October 31, 2024

I Keep Finding My Family Photos***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***I'll See You One of These Years***Written and Narrated by: Owen McCuen***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 day of the year. It's day 31 of the 31 days of horror.

We made it. I knew we would. We always do. Sometimes it feels like it's never going to happen. But it always does. You just have to remember. I hope that all the listeners out there who might have stumbled upon this show have enjoyed themselves this month. I've really grown to love my job over the years, sometimes forgetting that I actually have a job to do.

It feels like playtime, and I just want to let you all know how much I appreciate you. And for those of you who listen to this for reasons, a little beyond your understanding. Just know. Things are about to wrap up. I know sometimes it gets a little confusing. You might be wondering what it was at Dree here day after day. What motivated you to send in your stories? What urged you to pick up the phone to call in?

Takes solace in knowing that it's all supposed to happen just this way. Relax. It's okay. And do you know how I know it's okay? Because you are listening to K.R. E.P. And I'm your host, The Creep. Sometimes I have to remind myself that not everyone feels the same about this time of year as I do. I assume if you're listening to me now, or at least of somewhat like minds, but I know it's different for everyone. Kids, no kids, die-hard horror fans, or

October casuals. Family, no family, friends, no friends, hopes, dreams, aspirations. or not. Life is what it is. And sometimes that's an incredibly difficult thing to come to terms with. Other people look at their lives and decide it isn't what they wanted. And I'll change everything because they feel like it. Like this listener who sent in his story about how I keep finding my family photos. I was 35 when I left behind a long-term girlfriend and two kids. I didn't want to be there anymore. I convinced myself that staying wouldn't help anyone. They'd be better off without me.

I'd be better off without them too. One day, I just didn't go home after work. I sent my girlfriend at Tech saying that I was done and not to bother looking for me. She could have the house and everything in it. Second car, kids, they were hers. I wouldn't fight her for any of it. No marriage meant no divorce. Only thing I really had to worry about was her trying to track me down for child support,

or if she wrapped her car, wanted my name, or on a tree. Then that was that. First few weeks were sketchy. I stayed with a friend a few states away. Another guy sympathetic to my position. He knew what it was like. the idea of the same shit day after day after day no thanks no appreciation for giving up my own life and dreams to take care of people

who'd only grown to resent me more and more as years went by got a new job which wasn't hard since I worked demolition and there's always some company that needs workers who don't care to be on the books sure they get a little leery about the guy who speaks English good like me, figuring we got extra issues, usually meth-related. But I'm a hard worker. I always have been. I stay till the job is done. Plus, I'm clean outside of booze and some nose candy from time to time. It really ain't that hard to get a job as a white guy. Place to live ain't too tough either. Sometimes I crash with a co-worker. Sometimes I took up with some gal from the bar or whatever.

I'd been tied down before, so living without restrictions and limits, it's like a dream. Some people might hate that sort of thing, wanting stability and all that. But folks like that are chumps, you ask me. Yeah, after a couple years, I figured my life had done a full reset,

hadn't heard so much as a peep from the ex. I used to check in with some friendlies back home every month or so to see if she was still pissed at me, or trying to lawyer up or something. But it seemed like after not too long she got on with her life too. Good for her.

Sort of respected her for that. She was grit for a female to step up like that. Not enough for me to have any interest in going back, but you know. Probably why the first picture hit me so hard. And my reaction to it hit even

harder. Three broken bones in my hand. We were cleaning up an old flop house digging through some pile of bricks when I saw the edge of one of those Polaroid pictures. You find all kinds of stuff in my line of work, and Polaroids usually meant some sort of nudie pick from a 40-something housewife from the days before cell phones. Or maybe the ones you just didn't want to end up on the internet. So you can imagine my reaction when I wiped the dust off the picture. only to see the faces of my ex and two kids staring back at me, standing in front of our old house, dig old smiles on their faces.

I figured it was a joke. Punched one of the other guys, real joker of the crew, always telling shitty stories and laughing at them. I assumed he found out about me, maybe got a picture of my old life off my ex's Facebook account or something. She was always over sharing shit on there. I punched him a little harder and maybe I should have broke his cheekbone along with my hand in the process.

Didn't need no one to tell me it was time to move on. I packed up, jumped on a bus, and stayed on until I was far enough away that it felt safe to start over again. About six months later, I was on a job, working indirectly for some deep wallets and tent-down clearing out some woodlands and putting up a bunch of condos for rich assholes. We were out a few hundred yards ahead of the clear-cutting crew. There's no cabin out there we were checking to make sure it didn't have any gas lines or propane tanks to worry about. I was looking under the sink when I saw it. Sitting there, face down, covered in dust, all by itself under the pipes was another Polaroid.

I'd be lying if I said I paused, worried about what I'd see, but why would I? It'd been six months. I figured the last one was a prank anyway. I flipped it over, not thinking much anything, and there they were, staring up at me. Three faces that I never had much interest, desire, thought about seeing ever again. Just about right away, I felt the anger building up in me. Ready to let it out on the first person I came across had even looked at me twice. But something about the picture made me pause.

It was the same picture as the one I'd found in the rubble six months earlier. But it wasn't. They were different. They were different. Something about their faces. I could have swore in the last picture they'd been smiling. But in that picture, they weren't smiling so much. More like a grin.

I didn't take too much time to think about it. I was busy thinking something else. Like my old man used to say, the gears started grinding. One picture could be a gag, but two? That's a setup if I ever heard one. In that moment I knew, I just knew the old lady was behind it all. She was coming after me one way or another. Figuring she must have hired a private dick to track me down.

I knew it was time to move on. This time I wasn't playing around. Just in case she was behind the first picture, too. It was time to head to the border. The North one. I don't speak Mexican. I don't even know what a white dude's supposed to do to get work down there. Yeah.

Canada was just fine by me. Didn't have to worry about health care. Cole never much bothered me anyway. She was going to have someone following me up there. It was going to cost her extra. Fuck her anyway. move on with your goddamn life and get it when someone doesn't want anything to do with you anymore. You'd probably guess by now that I didn't stop finding the pictures wherever I went eventually.

I found one in an abandoned warehouse in a Nimo. I found one in a junkyard near a yellow knife. I found one in an old school outside a moose jaw. And each one was the same picture, but a little different each time, a little darker. Their face is a little more sinister Until they were all sneering at me Fucking border jumping wasn't good enough I started figuring that my ex must have shacked up

With some rich dude who could afford to send some private dicks over the border Maybe the cop calling in favors All the way I decided to see exactly how hard she wanted to try and twist the knife in me See if she was willing to chase me over a fucking ocean Jump forward about 18 months. Some of that time isn't worth mentioning. Some of it I don't want to mention. Not speaking in a Euro language didn't make things all that easy.

But lots of them speak English anyway. They get way too excited to try and share their ass-had version of talking. Cut to me working for a company's name, I don't know, couldn't pronounce even if I spoke the fucking language. at a place that, let's just say a place they needed some cleanup, and has needed a clean-up for about the last 40 years. I'll say it again.

If you don't much care what you're doing when it comes to the work being hard or varying levels illegal, you can get work. Sometimes at work is wearing a big-ass suit so your skin doesn't melt. What exactly we were doing there? I couldn't tell you.

I just move the stuff that want to, have moved. It was hard work. Work that most people wouldn't want. But shady people also pay well. I was in a sub-level working my way through the abandoned remains. Fuck, it was quiet there. You can only hear there shifting your own suit, in a heavy breathing, trying to work through it all without breaking an ankle or your neck or tearing the suit.

We were down there looking for things that I guess people thought were worth a lot of money, but came with a lot of risks. It might have been safer up top. Where I was? Better not to think about it. It wasn't easy to see either, so I don't exactly know how I saw it. How I saw that little black square bordered in white at my feet. Eighteen months of living, unlike anything, I didn't ever.

ever experienced before is enough to make you forget a lot. A lot. I picked up the Polaroid and turned it over. It was my old life. All smiling like the first time I saw the picture. Grins ear to ear like it's the best day of their lives. Except one thing was different. I was in the picture.

I couldn't remember ever taking a picture like that with them. But there I was in the middle. Flinked by smiling faces staring up at my face. Or what was left of it. My face in the picture looked warped and melted, covered in sores and boils. And that seemed to make them happy. I spun around to show the other guy what I found. A little too fast, as it turns out.

My suit snagged on a loose piece of rebar, and the sound of tearing fabric made my teeth hurt. I slapped my hand over the tear, but I could see the other guy's eyes go wide. He knew where we were, what even a moment of exposure could mean. I really don't have much time left. The doctors just shake their heads when I ask. I can't afford any to speak English, not that I really need to know. I know it's not good. Every day that passes, I look a little more and a little.

little more like the version of me in that last picture. And I can't help but think that somewhere, the people I left behind are smiling. And now a word from our sponsors. Welcome back. We only got time for one last caller before things wrap up here. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Caller, you're on KREP with the creep. It's time for what? You're. You're on. You're on. You're Yes, I know all too well. You haven't exactly let me forget, have you? Do it. When I'm ready...

Do it. Okay, enough of that call. I'm sorry, folks. I've been doing my best to keep things on track, but sometimes patience is a hard trait to find in others. Let's try another line. Caller, you're on KREP with the creep. What was that kid talking about?

It's a little complicated, and I don't think we have enough time for it right now. I've got time. Do you? What's that supposed to mean? I know I've said this before, and some listeners have probably been wondering about this all month. But have you called in before? Your voice sounds familiar. Well, you might have heard me before.

I work on a few podcasts. How do you like to work? I love it. My boss is really weird. but otherwise it's great, most of the time. Most of the time? Yeah, well, I mean, it's just that I... What's wrong, caller?

It's just that I have this journal, and it sounds like me, and it sounds familiar, but I can't really remember writing it. Why don't you go ahead and read it to us? Maybe something will ring a bell. Um, okay, I guess. It's titled, I'll see. I'll see you one of these nights. July 5th,

2004. I'm starting to have some problems sleeping, and I think I know why. See, I'm writing a creepy pasta-style story, and I think about it all the time now, so it's affecting my sleep. It's actually about a character who goes to New Orleans on a work trip

and has a chilling encounter that leaves him messed up, so maybe it's hitting a little too close to home. I wish I could take a break, from it, but the story is due to air in October or so. Well, if you're reading this journal entry or listening to the narration, then you probably understand what I'm talking about. Some of the classic creepypastas are in a journalistic style with updates serving as chapters. And my story shouldn't be much different. See, I'm a narrator for a podcast that features the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban

legends in the world. You may have heard of it. It's kind of a big deal. Anyway, I've always loved the horror genre. Horror is cathartic because you get to experience fear and violence and gore and the supernatural, even death, without having to go through them in real life. Go ahead and feed that little monster inside. Creepypastas are especially fun because they usually take place in the real world. They're mostly written by unknown writers and passed around copy paste ah on the internet. They have a homemade or foxy vibe, and the best ones, I mean the absolute best ones,

are super chill and believable, especially in the beginning. You totally believe that it's a real story. And slowly, the layers are peeled away, and eventually it gets so wild that the story reveals itself as fiction. But by then, you're hooked, and you can't wait to eat up another one. I've been shooting for that kind of vibe with my new story, and it's messing with my sleep. It's like I've been doing something all night in my dreams while my body stays in bed.

I'm always complaining that I'm tired. And my wife is always complaining that I'm always complaining. So, whew. My work schedule is kind of weird, so I only get to write after like 9 o'clock at night, which means that I should stop writing this and get back to my story. Wish me luck. July 22nd, 2024. Every time I convince myself to stop writing this stupid,

story, I'm driven by something to keep going. I've never had this problem before, I swear. When I write stories, they're based on true events, actual stories of stuff that's happened to me. Of course, there's been some hyperbole now and again to ramp up the supernatural elements for the sake of storytelling. Well, for example, my creepaway camp 2023 story was called Jacob's Revenge. That was about 75 to 80% true. My buddies and I really did look for wrongs hat in New Jersey. then we sort of found it and got chased through the woods, and I nearly died in a bottomless pit of mucus. Except for the silver mine, it's non-fiction.

Then in October of 2023, I wrote a narrated meat wagon. Well, much of that story was made up, to be perfectly honest. I took an educated guess that there was cannibalism going on in that town, and I didn't stay for two years. But my alternator did give out on me during a rainstorm, and I absolutely walked past an appliance graveyard into a shop that advertised tire repair and deer processing on the same sign. And inside that shop were two guys who didn't speak. They just stood there staring at television sets, some of which were broadcasting static.

Most recently, I produced Paddle Your Own Canoe for Creep Away Camp 2024. Okay, so I didn't get wasted and talk to an anthropomorphic alligator king. everything else 100% true. Point is, I know the difference between fiction and reality. I write down the true stuff, embellish it to make it fun, and fill in the rest with pure fantasy, mostly supernatural stuff with a darkly funny sheen. I take real events and turn them into fiction,

not the other way around. So I have a perfectly rational handle on what's true and what's fabricated. At least, I thought I did. Nowadays, I'm not so sure. August 15th, 2024. Ever since I started writing this particular pasta, life has been imitating art. My character creeps into people's bedrooms at night

and watches them sleep. Creepy, right? But now, I'm sleeping less in real life because I go to bed at night and I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming, but I think it's sort of a lucid dreaming situation. So in the real world, I go to bed every night like normal. Somewhere around midnight, I creep into my bedroom and slide into my side of the bed.

I fall asleep on my back and eventually begin to snore. So my wife pushes me and stage whisper yells at me to turn over for Christ's sake. So I turn on to my right side and fall back asleep. This is when shit goes a little sideways. Nearly instantly, I hear the sound of thump, thumping off in the distance, as if there's a car down the block with the stereo turned all the way up. I smell something, too, like a flower or a weed, no, incense. I know that I'm dreaming, but I swear I walk around my neighborhood,

standing outside the homes of strangers. I appear inside their houses, but I don't remember how I've gotten inside. I instinctively know where to find the bedrooms that I need to find. Why do I need to find them? I think I need them to be afraid. I gently push open the door and walk inside and watch them sleep. Any age, gender, race, and religion you can think of, I just stare at them a while.

The feeling is only slightly sinister, and no, it's never been romantic or sexy. but it is intimate, that's for sure. I'm gazing at adults, children, senior citizens, and everyone in between. I haven't figured out exactly why I'm there yet. I guess I'll have to keep writing to find the answer. August 29th, 2024.

Hey, happy birthday to me. I'm 50. What do you think about that shit? Half a century old and sometimes, you know what, I feel every one of those 26,2,28,000,000,000,000,000. thousand seconds. In addition to writing my own episode, I'm still narrating stories for the podcast and I know that they're fictional. I've been reading horror stories and speaking them into existence for years now. But lately, I feel like I'm living out the stories in my waking moments.

They're starting to run together and crawl off the page into my real life. At night, I'm sleep watching other people, like the character in my story, always with that loud thumping sound in the background. Oh, and I think it's a flower I smell. Chrysanthemums? But now sometimes I see things during the day. Scenes from other stories I've narrated, right in the middle of a thousand-yard stare, memory's so lifelike, and I started to act them out. Here are some examples. My dad isn't in the hospital. He passed away several years ago, and my mom couldn't hurt a fly. And yet, I tore my house apart the other day, looking for photographs of kids who had been captured and killed in our basement during the 80s. Spoiler alert, this is the plot of pumpkin pie by Cindy Gradle. And also,

no, I don't live in a post-apocalyptic neighborhood that sacrifices people and things to a giant pit in the center of town. That's actually the pit by Andrew Cosma. So why did I nearly pass out on a family walk a few weeks ago as we passed by the edge of a quarry? I haven't traveled time and space through a mysterious box in search of a lost love. No, that would be Granger's Engine by J. Anthony Hartley. And yet, just last week, I found myself hypnotized by my kid's tooth fairy box. My surroundings disappear into a mist, and the faintest floral aroma fills my nostrils. My dog's name is not Sandy.

It's Molly. She's still alive and has never led me to a crematorium. That disappearing act by Robert Clover. So my commute home from work the other night shouldn't have taken an extra 45 minutes, but I only realized this when I pulled into the parking lot of a crematorium somewhere in South Jersey. And get this! I woke up the other day, and on my kitchen table was a job application. For the shitty little 24-hour gas station at the end.

edge of town. Some folks would say that just reading this type of story, a creepy pasta or an urban legend, is actually opening oneself up to the darkness that lurks within those stories. Collecting scary books or downloading frightening podcasts could be the equivalent of owning a Ouija board. That lifting the veil to sneak a peek at the other side could let something through. What does that say to someone who writes? this stuff. Surely, we aren't in any danger, are we? I mean, now I'm writing my own story that's

blurring the lines. This whole situation is kind of meta, I know, but the story I had intended to write as a self-contained tale is becoming a little too real, messing with my sleep because I'm lingering around other people's bedrooms, pop, pop, pop, pop in my ears and boom, boom, boom, in my gut. And in the daytime, I'm experiencing creepy pasta shit as if it's happening to me and it's bugging me out. September 2nd, 2024. I've been trying to pinpoint when this madness started. Things began to change for me after I got home from New Orleans. The creepy team had a meeting down there in the Crescent City, a way to discuss the state of the podcast and get together, many of us meeting each other for the first time in real life.

Just about the entire production team was there, poured one out for the homies who couldn't make it. It was a great event. We met in a secret room of a vampire-owned establishment. We gathered around a large table and shared our innermost thoughts. We had a feast and drank bags of blood. You know, come to think of it, I'm not entirely certain it wasn't a ritual we used.

attended. I don't want to use the word lured, as in John lured us to New Orleans to perform a dark ceremony, but I can tell you this. I either left a part of myself down there in the bayou or something came home with me. One thing that I experienced on that trip that truly changed my entire being was the sound of the drums. In the early mornings before opening, Shop owners were sweeping or hosing down the sidewalk in front of their storefronts. But as soon as eateries began opening up and lines started to form around 11 or so, the music began blaring, and soon enough after that, kids were out there pounding on buckets, busking for money,

playing for tourists who strolled the street. Slow and fast, loud and louder, the drums beat well into the night. Hell, one night a bunch of us were out for some drinks, As we headed back to the hotel around midnight, we stopped dead in our tracks to watch a fully equipped marching band right there in the middle of Bourbon Street. The beating, the pulsing, the pounding. They get to you.

The sound bangs around in your head, but booms in your gut, and it enters you, becomes part of you. Now, this is a crazy story, but it's 100% true. Ask Michelle. On the last night of the trip, she was awoken in the middle of the night slash early morning

by the sound of drumming coming from she didn't know where. Not the window, not Bourbon Street or the hotel bar. Next morning, we figured out that it was me. I'd woken up out of a cold, dead slumber

and found myself drumming in the middle of the night, drumming on a trash can or a piece of luggage or something in my room. See, my hotel room was directly above Michelle's room, and the sound traveled straight downwards, apparently, so it sounded like phantom percussion to Michelle. It stopped as suddenly as it had started

when I realized what I was doing and stopped the drumming. I sort of woke up out of a trance and didn't realize that I was hammering away. Ask her, 100% true. Actually, I have proof. Being a sound nerd, I brought a recorder with me just in case. Just in case we wanted to record some shit. I don't know. Here, just listen. I must have turned it on to capture my solo. But anyway, I wasn't hearing plastic buckets in my head as I wailed away on some random stuff in my hotel room. No, I was playing an instrument much older and darker,

made of animal hide, sinew, wood, and bone. Not going to lie, I'm a little afraid my drumming connected our world to some kind of shadow realm. What if I accidentally let something through? What if that's what has a hold on me now? I can't sleep through the night because I'm called to do something else. Be something else.

September 25th, 2024. I'm almost finished with the story. It's hard to get any writing done when you're falling asleep at the keyboard. I'm so freaking exhausted because I haven't slept properly in a long time. I'm still trying to function properly at work as well as get my kids where they need to go

and get some laundry done. But I still see scenes play out from the stories I've narrated for the podcast. Thanks, John. Not only that, but I'm up all night. As soon as I fall asleep, boom, the music is back. only closer.

The drums are clearer, and I feel them deeper inside. And that's definitely incense I smell. I go to fewer houses now because I spend more time with each person. Not only do I trespass into their homes and enter the safe space of their sleeping quarters. I don't just watch them anymore.

Now I've started to crawl onto the beds and perch myself atop their sleeping bodies. I sit on their torsos and wait for the moment that they attempt to wake up from a nightmare. Try as they might. They cannot move. I hold them down and breathe in their fear. October 1st, 2024.

Okay, so I might as well include the entire story as I've written it. Here you go. I like to apologize to my friends and family. I know I haven't been around lately, and whenever I think I can make it to hang around, I'm just too exhausted to be any fun. But don't worry, I'll see you one of these nights.

It all started when I went down to New Orleans for a work trip. I'd never been to Nola before. The food was fabulous and the music was everywhere. It's mostly loud cover bands playing to scant audiences, but the drums were always fascinating to me. The boss had arranged a dinner that was a themed function in a vampire cafe that served themed meals and beverages, including blood. We ate and drank and had a great team-building experience. We had some time to explore on our own, so I hit the bars to see what I could see. At a dark little club, I met a gorgeous woman dressed in purple.

Not crazy over-the-top purple, but much more regal looking. Dark and rich fabric with elegant designs. The woman was way out of my league, but she talked to me just the same. Eventually, I began to feel comfortable with her, confident even. With no ill intentions, but certainly an open mind, I followed her on a brief walking tour through the French Quarter. She took me on a private tour of some of the most allegedly haunted locations in town. Espionage, murder, betrayal, lust, eternity.

Deliciously sorted tales for a breathless evening. The Violet Lady guided me to a dark and quiet place, a curio shop that appeared to be closed, but the door was unlocked. The items for sale appeared to be for authentic practitioners of the Magist. arts. There were no trinkets for tourists. We went through the shop and picked up some mugwort incense and candles along with small bags of herbs that were meant for tea. It helps us dream, she said. The woman opened the window and the faintest sounds of the city were drifting around in the air. As we drank the tea, I could tell I was being seduced and was perfectly okay with that.

The woman walked over to a cabinet that was set in an alcove of the room. There were candles and statues placed around an antique phonograph machine. She gently placed an old, scratchy vinyl record onto the turntable, and a deep voice briefly introduced the piece. The music sounded like a drum circle. The rhythm was hypnotic, and the deep bass drums were much more alive than I would have expected from such an old system. maybe was routed out to a sweet high-fi with a sub-wover.

My head started to feel strange, but I wasn't high or drunk, just expanded as if I could feel the world around me, splinter into its component parts, and move in slow motion. Each puzzle piece of reality humming warmly, atoms ablaze with life force. Then she opened a book and showed me the artwork.

It appeared to be textured in Alto Relievo, giving it the effect of some sort of pop-up book grimoire. I saw the sad and frightening tales of our ghost tour played out in this fanciful, yet grisly, tone. She turned the pages until the book opened upon an illuminated page that felt less animated and more alive with energy. Two lovers were in bed together. a male figure lying on his back with the woman astride him,

hunching down to kiss the man on the mouth. The drums got louder, and the room got hotter, then cooler as we undressed. I found myself inside the pages of that book, lying on my back with the gorgeous violet lady leaning down to kiss me. Good God, it was no kiss. The beautiful lady had changed in the blink of an eye, transmuted into an old hag. I couldn't move, not a muscle. Frozen in a nightmare state,

I managed to roll my eyes around the room and in a side-long glance caught a glimpse of the mirror on the far wall. There was no one on top of me. Yet I couldn't move an inch. I looked up again into the eyes of the old hag who sat on my torso. She was leaning in all right, but with intentions much darker than I could have imagined. She began to inhale the breath right out of my chest. I was out of oxygen, couldn't breathe, the life ebbing out of my body. The only thing left was pure fear.

Fear of dying, of never seeing my friends or family again, fear of what lay on the other side. As the old crone inhaled the last of my fright, she looked much younger and more beautiful to my eyes. as if she had been rejuvenated by the doom I had seen for myself. She then looked at me lovingly, longingly, gratefully. With a tear in her eye, she took my face in her hand and said, Thank you, I knew that things were about to change, and not for the better.

That was the last night I've ever slept. Now I navigate the darkness in search of those people who are just about to wake up from a nightmare. I will feed on their fear until I find the right quarry, a victim who will take this burden from me. Sleep well. I'll see you one of these nights. October 31st, 2024. Happy Halloween.

So that's it. I wrote a story about a guy who unwittingly completes an arcane ceremony and ends up trading places with a sleep paralysis demon. And it's got me wondering, did I unwittingly complete an occult ritual when I went to New Orleans? Why are these fictional stories playing themselves out in my real life? And all the nights I swear I spend siphoning the fear from innocent people who are just trying to release themselves from the cold grasp of a nightmare. Are these just my own bad dreams? Or have I written myself into a ghoulish fantasy hellscape?

Whether this story actually happened? more as simply fabrication, is for you to decide. Thanks for that caller. What do you think, dear listeners? Something for us to dig into or just another story? You never really know, do you? That's really part of why I love this job so much. The only thing that makes me sad about it is,

well, when it's over. And looking at the calendar and the clock, I'm sad to say that that time is quickly approaching. Our time for tonight, everyone. Things don't always end like you think they should. That might be the one truth we have. You just never know. From everyone here at the station, I just want to say thank you for listening.

So for one last time this year, this is the creep. And you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow, 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 common share-a-like 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.