Creepy - Day 32 - One Finger at a Time & The Last Night in October

Episode Date: November 1, 2024

Happy Halloween!***One Finger at a Time***Written by: Allie Harrison and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***The Last Night in October***Written by: Nicola Lombardi***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.

Through? I suppose that's just about enough from me, isn't it? Phone lines are full. Well, almost. Let's see who's on hold. Hello? Hello? Hello?

Am I on my on? Hello? Hello? Yep. Phone lines are full. Just waiting on one last... Ah, there it is. Caller, you're on the air with a creep on K-R-E-P.

I'm confused. If it helps, you're not alone. Can you tell me what's going on? I plan to. But first, did you have a story to tell us? No. I mean, yes. I mean, I do. But I don't think... Tell you what.

Caller, you tell your story, and I'll explain what's going on. Deal? Yeah, sure. Deal. It's about one finger at a time. Welcome. Yes, come right over here, closer to the fire. Don't be afraid.

I won't bite you. What's your name? That's a lovely name. You can call me Abigail. You've come to ask me for something. Hmm. Let me think and see if I can figure it out before you tell me. You're not certain you believe I can do magic.

Yet, just studying you for a moment, I do know you've come for an answer to an important question. I can help provide that. You're shivering. Step closer to the fire. There's no need to stand so far away. The fire is so inviting, isn't it? I made it with wood from an apple tree and a sassafras tree.

Smells a bit like apple pie, doesn't it? I know it isn't a comfy chair, but this log I've set over here on the side isn't too uncomfortable. Have a seat. See? You seem a bit apprehensive. Relax. Please.

Enjoy some tea. Mmm. This is my favorite tea. Has a bit of chamomile and a touch of honey. Can you taste it? I get the honey from my own beehive. Bees are so important. You know, if they die, we die, right?

Are you warm enough? Close enough to the fire? We could move the log closer to the fire if you would like. You're good. Good. Oh, it's a lovely night, isn't it? Just look at all those stars. And the full moon tonight is beautiful.

I love fall, don't you? There's a crispness in the air that isn't there any other time of the year. Two weeks before Halloween, Can you believe it's rolled around again already? Do you do anything special for Halloween? Decorate? Throw a party? I plan to have a big fire, bigger than the one we have here.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, of course. Most people think that the walls between this world and the other world is thinnest on all Hallows Eve. That's Halloween in case you weren't aware. However, the wall is thinnest between the full moon of October and Halloween. So there should be no problem getting an answer to your question tonight. Your question is for your father, right? See?

I do know things without you telling me. Call it magic. Call it intuition. Call it whatever you like. When did your father pass to the other world? Oh, three months ago. I see. fairly recent.

I'm so sorry for your loss. And what's your question again? You want to know why he didn't include you in his will? Why your other two siblings inherited his wealth divided equally? And you got none? Especially when you were a good daughter. Always there with him. You even thought you were his favorite.

Hmm. That is a good question then. I think I would want to know the answer, too, if I were his daughter. But I must ask again. You've come to me to talk to your father. Are you absolutely sure that's what you want? Think carefully before you answer. There will be no turning back once we get started.

Okay. You say you're positive. Are you finished with your tea? I hope you liked it. Did you have enough? I can send some of the blend home with you when we're finished if you like. Let me take the cup from you. I would hate for you to accidentally drop it. Oh, yes, thank you. They are beautiful cups. China. Handed down through generations.

Traveled many miles from what I like to call the old country. But that's another story. I hope the tea warmed you. Are you ready to get started? Okay then. But I must ask, one last time. Are you absolutely certain, talking with your father is what you want? I can't change your mind? No. I ask then that you kind of get situated more evenly on the log.

That's it. Put your palms face down for balance. Sometimes when the magic begins to build, it can make one a little disoriented. We wouldn't want you falling backwards and hitting your head on the ground. Ready? All right. No turning back now. Look into the fire.

Keep your gaze on it. No, this isn't some silly trick. Do you want to talk with your father or not? Then you must follow my instructions precisely. Look at the fire. Listen to the crackle as the flames devour the logs. No. Don't look at me.

Just listen to my voice and don't look away from the flames. Let the energy of the flames seep into your soul. Just as the sparks and the embers rise and become part of the night, take a deep breath. Fill your lungs with the warmth, the very essence of the fire. Do you smell the apple? So do I. Do you smell the sassafras?

It's a bit stronger. Now look deep into the center of the fire. flames, as if you're trying to climb right into the heart of the fire with your soul. Don't worry, I won't let it burn you. Look deeper. Think about your father. Do you see him? He's there. Right there in the middle. He's dancing in the flames, waiting to hear your question. Call him by the name you called him in life. No, I told you. I told you. before. This isn't a trick. But it is a type of magic. Quit wasting the magic. Quit wasting time asking me questions. Call his name so he knows it's you. You called him by his given name?

Not something like dad or daddy or papa or even father. Okay, whatever. He's traveled far to hear your question. I can't hold him here all night. Now ask him. Of course he appears angry. You summoned him here to ask about money. You gave him no, I love you, or I miss you, or I hope you're okay. And there's your answer. He apparently felt he gave you your inheritance while he was still alive, giving you a house when your brother and sister worked and bought their own.

Buying you not one but two different cars. The latest, parked across the field over there where you left it to come here. It appears he has paid your bills for some time, while both your siblings went to work every day to pay their own. Yes, I am kind of laughing at you. I know how hard it is for you to go to work every day, especially after you stayed out drinking all night. There is no need for you to get angry at me.

I'm not your judge. I'm just the one with the ability to allow you to ask you, your father your question. And you don't even thank me when I gave you exactly what you wanted. I can't help you don't like the answer. I can't change it. Hells Bells. Your father can't even change it.

The real question is, now that you know the answer, what are you going to change? Anything? Oh, come on. Don't be so fast to try and leave. I could get you another cup of tea. So, you still think this was some kind of trick with smoke and mirrors.

I assure you, it wasn't. What's the matter? You can't raise your butt off the log? Do you feel like you're glued to it? You probably feel that way because you are. Stop struggling to get up. Don't try to leave. You'll only hurt yourself.

I am a real witch, a spellcasting witch. I put a binding spell on... Well, it's not on you. It's actually on the log where you sit, and it binds anyone who sits there to that log. It will remain until I release you. And I'm not going to release you just yet. After all, there's still the matter of payment.

Did you really think this would be given to you for free? Oh, I see where you might have thought that, given all your father has simply handed over to you throughout the years. But no, girl. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Everything comes with a price. No, thank you. I have no need for the $20 in your purse.

It was the reason I asked you so many times whether or not you were sure you wanted this. You should always be careful when asking for what you want, or wishing for what you want. you may just get it and it will cost you always in some way before i tell your price i want to explain a few things to you but first i have a question for you at no cost by the way how old do you think i am thanks a lot i would have thought i looked at least five years younger than that, but never mind. The truth is, I am over 300 years old. Are you familiar with the Salem Witch Trials? Well, I was there. When I say I'm a real spellcasting witch. I'm actually what you would call the original Salem Witch. I tried to share some of my magic. I tried to teach some young women my magic.

I never meant any harm to anyone. I just wanted to give some young woman a little bit of power in the world governed by men, where women were thought to be lower than pigs. And, well, things got out of control. One of the young women with whom I shared my magic tried to use it on a man's wife. She had the hots for him, if you know what I mean. And she hoped to get rid of the wife so she could take the wife's place in his bed. But things didn't turn out the way she hoped.

Yes, I have to shrug it off now. I can't change it any more than I can change your father's answer. I certainly didn't mean for that many innocents to be hanged. But it seemed as if once the ball got rolling, I couldn't stop. I wasn't that powerful. At least not yet. Not like I am now. But my power grew as I learned how to fulfill it with the essence of others.

Your essence is your life force, or the energy that you transmit, the energy that makes you the person you are. I've learned over the centuries that the essence of others is what builds my own life force and strengthens my magic. It continues to keep me alive for generations. No, I am not going to kill you and take your entire life force. I would never do anything with a purpose. price is a life. Oh, wait, now that I think about it, there was that one woman who had cancer, who asked that her children be provided for, and she asked that she die right then, instead of withering away later in pain. So I granted that. But it was a request, not the cost. I don't see

that as the same. The cost for talking to your dead father, the man you actually call Thomas and not Dad, to ask him a question you should have already known the answer to is a little finger. You can scream all you want. We are miles from anywhere, from anyone. You should know that. You drove out here, then walked all that distance across the field right there. And let me see, you are right-hand dominant. So I will take the left pinky finger.

That way you don't have to learn how to zip your fly, light your cigarettes with your left hand for a while as you heal. The essence in your pinky finger will nourish me with enough of your life energy to sustain me for another year. Not that I'm concerned at all beyond that. I'm sure there will be many others coming here for my expertise over the winter months. There always are. My, you've gone so pale.

Your face is almost glowing in the moonlight. Don't worry. This is just a little knife. Did you think I was going to use an axe? While I am very proficient with an axe, this little knife is so sharp, and I've gotten so good with removing fingers. You may not even feel any pain for a few seconds. And of course, the extra potion I put in your tea will help too. I really don't mean to cause you further pain, but I do need your finger.

Despite my skill, I would not want you to move in any way. Whereas I might injure another finger, or some other part of your hand should you pull away. That would not be acceptable. And so I've made the log binding spell so strong. It'll keep your hands and fingers glued right where they are. This will all be over in a few seconds, I promise. See there? You hardly even felt that, I bet.

I suggest you take off that got on your middle finger, as soon as I free you from your bond to the log. Your hand is liable to start swelling any minute. A ring like that might cut off the circulation in that finger and cause it to go dead. That would mean another amputation. That would be horrific, I'm sure. I'm going to unbind your hands from the log, but your butt is staying right where it is until I'm done with you.

And I know you paid a pretty penny of your father's money on the shirt you're wearing. But if I were you, as soon as your hands are free, I'd use it to bind your wound tightly and keep your hand elevated above your heart as much as possible. I would hate for you to pass out while driving yourself to the hospital. Now slow down, move slower. If you get your heart racing, your hand will bleed faster. Put pressure on it, hold it up, just like I told you.

That's good. Your little finger is already cold. But then it's easy to see what a cold person you are, and your essence is bitter. It's a good thing I don't need much, thank the stars. Oh, I see the hate in your eyes. I see that you want to hurt me, just like so many others who came needing something that only I can provide. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking as soon as you get your hand patched up, you'll come back out here, maybe in the middle of the night when you think I might be snoozing, and stick a knife in my back, just like I used a knife to take your

finger. Let me tell you about another spell. This one is not on a log, and not in the tea you drink, that'll pass through and leave you, but a spell I placed on you right as you walked through that field to get here. Your memory of me in this place will fade as you walk through that field again, going in the opposite direction. With each step, as the distance between here and you grows greater. Your memory of me, my home, this field, and this fire. We'll be lost in the fog of your mind by the time you reach wherever it is you choose to go. Your father's house, the hospital, the police station, or your sister's house.

The same sister who told you yesterday to never come back. Yes, I know about that too. Being the strong witch I am, I can see every dark, horrid thought in your mind, Sarah. People call me a witch. And yet, it is you who has a wretched soul, a mean spirit. Before the next hour is past, you'll land somewhere, and you'll have no idea what the hell happened to your finger. You will, however, remember your father's answer. The last thing I need is for you to come back out here searching for an answer

to that magic wasting stupid question. What I'd really like to do is put a spell on you so you get a job, stick with it for longer than two weeks, pay your own damn bills, and be an asset to society instead of the bitter leech you are. But that would take more magic

than which I've just sucked out of your finger. Unless, of course, you're willing to give up another one or two. Yeah. I didn't think so. Did you want any of my tea blend to take home? It would help you sleep tonight. I'd give it to you free of charge.

No? You don't believe me. You seem to really like it when we were first getting acquainted. Oh well. More for me to keep and share with others. And I need for you to do something more for me. There's a certain police detective. His name is Detective Grayland.

Malik, when you get to the hospital, I want you to ask for him by name. He's taken a very special interest in the number of people showing up with missing body parts, when they can't remember how those parts became missing. I want you to tell him the only thing you remember is the name of my road, Raven Lane. I'll lead him the rest of the way here, and I'll have a pot of tea brewing. I'm going to release you now, and you're going to stumble your way back to your car, and although I'm not putting a spell on you to straighten out your life, I better not ever make my way into town to find you mooching off anyone else. Oops, careful there. I always warn everyone that I'm releasing them, and still, they slide right off that log landing hard on their butts.

I wonder if that's something I'm missing in the binding spell. Can I help you up? Okay, okay, never mind. I won't touch you. Don't stumble into the fire on your way past. You're probably a little dizzy about now. Almost everyone is at this point. Move slowly. It's better for you.

Elevate your hand. You don't have to listen to me. But when you fall like you just did and catch yourself with your hands, I'm sure that has to hurt like you. hell. Not that I've ever actually been to hell to know for sure. You should stop looking at me with so much hate, Sarah, and save your energy for reaching your car and reaching the hospital. Otherwise, I might change my mind about letting you walk out of here. I might decide to keep you, like a pet. Your entire life force, as nasty tasting as it is, could nourish me for decades.

One finger at a time. And now a word from our... Hey, I thought you said you were going to tell me what's going on. I am, but priorities. Gotta keep the fires burning. And now a word from our sponsors. We're back on KREP and... Are you going to tell us what we're doing here or what?

Oops, looks like I kept the phone lines open. Oh well, I suppose it's for the best. The best what? Wasting our time? I wouldn't call this a waste. Then what would you call it? Maybe it'll make more sense if I tell you another story. Come on. It's my job.

What is your job? All of this. Let me explain. I just want to tell you about the last night of October. It was horrible. and at the same time sublime, to admire the infernal paradise stage by autumn outside of the dingy, dirty glass. Martino seated immobile in front of the window, was staring from within the endless silence lingering in his room. And he was thinking, after all, there was nothing left for him to do, and thinking offered him a mixture of anguish and exhilaration.

The dry leaves, whipped up by the wind, soared like drunken gray bats colliding against each other as they followed the sudden breezy swirling of the air. The sky, towards the west, was the wonderful color of cinders, cinders beneath which a bed of bloody and trembling embers were dying. With a gradual shifting of his eyes towards east, the inevitable creeping advance. of the night, already about to swallow the world, could instead be viewed. The lights going on in the houses were tiny rectangles, steeped in a poignant serenity, brilliant hearths of redemption, peace, warps. Martino had only the candle with its sickly flame, wavering and sputtering, shaken by fiery convulsions. For the rest, the house had fallen into shadow, as always.

The shadow that saturated the walls, that breathed, that gripped the heart, the shadow of his mother lost in some other room. The shadow of his wheelchair from which Martino would never again arise. Outside, in the meantime, the first ghosts began to streak past. in the distance, as if emerging from a daydream. And there were also skeletons, witches, the cadaverous walking dead with their outstretched arms and uncertain steps. They appeared and disappeared in small groups,

through alleyways and yards, and from time to time they stopped a ring at the door, looking forward to getting a treat. Martino would have given anything, at least in the past to be with them, to be one of them, to collect caramels or chocolates or candied fruits, and then return home to taste the euphoria following those abundant Halloween raids. But he had never put on a disguise, nor worn the makeup of a monster.

Nor, after all, had he ever been invited or sought out. His mother would not have allowed it anyway. His mother. She came into the room just at the very instant he was thinking about her. Martino remained motionless as he listened to the creaking of the door behind him, opening so slowly and enclosing with that slack clicking he would have recognized anywhere. The light steps, shuffling a little, crossed through the stale, dusty half-light to approach him by the window. The woman did not say a word.

only a hand on her son's shoulder, and she stood, stunned as she viewed the agony of the day glowing beyond her own face reflected in the glass. What terrible eyes she had. Martino had always thought they were the unkindest eyes in the world, but with the passing of the years he came to understand that they were only pained eyes, distant. hers was the look of a stranger, the wrong person. She was as sick in her head as he was in his body, and their life together had always been a sleepy siphoning of anxiety, solitude, and especially silence. His mother, she had never accepted help from anyone.

It would have been an insult. The two of them were enough for each other. In a head muffled by despair, there had never been room for anything else, but herself and a poor son, unable to keep close always, always protected, always a prisoner. All about love, naturally. Poor Mama. A volley of shrill, childish, giggling arose from somewhere, sailing in with the warm wind. The flame of the candle twisted, bending beneath the burden of the thoughts now permeating Martino's room. It was the last night of October, and also the first of a new life for him.

All in all had been easier than expected. He was afraid his mother would not have gone along with him. Instead, among tears, sighs, and prayers muttered to invoke the forgiveness of what God lay hidden among the creases of her troubled mind. She had done everything he had asked of her. You'll see Mama, he had told her. You'll give me the greatest satisfaction in the world. And all those out there, all those who hate us,

they won't be laughing at us anymore. And so the day had, little by little, like a page covered with red scribbling near fire, crumpled into itself, slowly, hour after hour, the shadows had crept, trembling, into the interior of the house to observe the work of the mother and her son, both hopelessly lost among the webs of a mournful silence. Thank you, Mama, thought Martino. This was a strange kind of vengeance, in the face of all the friends he had never had,

against the life that never had made much sense. if it ever had any at all. Maybe the shadows reveling disdainfully in his mother's brain had also infected him over time. It would not have been very surprising. And besides, it didn't matter to him at all. He felt it had been the right choice. The little monsters arrived, cackling in small, scant groups.

But just as they came up to Martino's house, they instinctively lowered their voices, peering at the front door with their eyes, circled in black, or sunken behind heavy paper-mach masks. Martino knew that they would have wanted to ring the doorbell, but they were struggling with her fear, fear of his mother. They had always called her without giving it a thought, that crazy woman. Yet he had stopped being troubled by that. He probably would have acted in the same way,

if he had been one of them. But he had never been one of them, nor would he ever become one, nor was there any way to turn back. Now he was there, and for always, on the side of the night. He watched those little kids

with a contempt delayed by just a hint of compassion. His mother withdrew into the shadow, dead quiet, a moment before the little monsters raised her eyes towards that window. Martino sensed her bringing her hands to her face, shriveling to stifle her sobbing.

Don't worry, Mama. He would have liked to tell her, I'm fine now. I've never been happier than this. But by then, he could no longer say a word. His mother's feet, falling back, bumped against the thick, heavy ladle lying on the floor.

almost covered with the red and grayish pulp spilling over and spackling the dust. A sticky, metallic noise rebounded from one wall to the next, like the clinging of a rusted cowbell. The hacksaw, too, lost in the darkness, was probably not far away. Don't worry, Mama. I wanted you to do it. And I'm grateful that you did it. And when the little kid saw him, finally, they began to scream. The flame inside Martino's empty head suddenly swayed lightly back and forth, as if the children's cries from the street had touched it. Through the hollow eye sockets, the light still wavered just a little, emitting a pair of faint, restless beams cast out to probe the night.

Martino felt himself shaking with the thrill of exultion. His mother was now laughing and crying. Soon people would certainly be coming, and they would be taking them both away. It didn't matter. Regardless, Martino would still be in that house, for always, inescapably. He had forced his entry by then into the minds of those little kids running away as the most terrible of dreams, nightmares that could not be forgotten. His image seated by the window, his skull opened up, and the little candle plunged inside his head, hollowed out like a pumpkin. With its insane glow glimmering there where his eyes should have been, would never, ever be erased from their souls.

His mother had been perfect. In her entire life, she never would have had the chance to carry out a more glorious, memorable and merciful act. Whatever happened to her then would not have meant anything. A few dead leaves, like severed and withered hands, slapped against the glass, almost as if intending to drive away the madness settled in that room, maliciously poised at the window. And Martino knew he already belonged to the night.

To that night, an eternally damned spectre, living forever, brilliant, and terrible. Three, four, five doors swung open along the street, and people with alarmed and confused faces responded to the children's cries. Everyone looked toward the house of the crazies, as it was known, and it began to approach, running, ready to invite the horror in, to poison their dreams for the rest

of their lives. And that's all we have time for. Thanks for listening tonight, dear... What the fuck? I'm sorry? You should be. What was the point of all that? Did you listen to the story?

Of course we did. What else were we going to do besides sit here and listen? Good point. Speaking of that, was there a point to the story? They don't get it Things aren't always as they appear

You all are like the other neighborhood children in that story Looking in, thinking you know what's happening When really you have no idea And that makes you What? The mother controlling all this? No, I'm the sun Sitting at the window

Looking out at all you looking back at me Then who's the mom? Who's controlling all this? That weird little girl that keeps calling in to prank the show? She likes the thing she does. But no. That's just my daughter. Does anyone on the line have any idea what's going on?

You all just won't let go, will you? This used to be so much easier. People used to accept their lot and move on. Now everyone demands. answers. It's so petty and selfish. I was really hoping to spare you all getting hit with reality. Seems like insult injury, but you're here for a reason. You don't remember calling the show before, do you? No, call the show before? Not really, no. I don't know. I don't know. I think so. I don't remember that. And some of the stories of the stories.

that you've told feel detached. Others feel more personal, right? You're here because of the stories, because of the things you've done. Just like why I'm here to do what I do. And my daughter is here to remind me of why I'm here. But it's not really my daughter. It's my own stories slipping through.

It does that from time to time. Some of you are starting to remember. I can tell from your silence. You're starting to feel something that doesn't make sense. It's scary, isn't it? Knowing that you don't know what comes next but can't stop it. Like one of our stories said earlier this month, try to take some solace in knowing that where you're going...

You won't be alone. And that's the 31 days of horror. for this year, everyone. From everyone involved, happy Halloween. This is the creep and you're listening to KREP today, tomorrow

and forever. 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 comments 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.